|Sunrise, this morning|
|Sunset, a few weeks ago|
I'm a bit obsessed these days with Los Angeles winter sunsets and rises. I'm wondering about the edges of days and nights, why they come in with such glory and go out the same. There's something significant about day disappearing with such drama and then appearing again, aflame, here on the edge of the continent.
I was up off and on all night with Sophie as she struggled with seizures, with agitation, with who knows what. Was it a cold coming on? Was it the weird weather? Withdrawal effects? Was it the fracture in our family? CBD saturation? Something wrong with the new bottle? A stroke? A brain tumor? A virus? In the morning, she had four tonic-clonic seizures within forty-five minutes, broken only by bouts of collapse/sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her. I put it off and finally caved to Diastat, an emergency medication that I haven't used for nearly two years. Making the call to use Diastat is always difficult because while it has an immediate and blessed effect, it's also in and then out of the system in a matter of days, and that is a type withdrawal for Sophie. She'll be sluggish, maybe irritable, maybe jumpy from residuals. At no time did I consider calling The Neurologist or any doctor, for that matter, other than the one who helps us with all things cannabis-related. I didn't panic beyond the questions I listed above, the questions that have no answer. We live the questions, here on the edge. Nor did I think that something was going to happen and that something would be really bad if I didn't get "help." It crossed my mind that something could happen, but I felt no urgency. I didn't pray for mercy like I might have done in olden times, although the word mercy crossed my mind, was on my lips with please and please stop and guide me. I'm not sure how to get across these edges of things, this feeling that I have after "dealing" for over twenty years, this sort of existential dread that there's no one to consult. This edge, with one side resignation and the other acceptance. Perhaps you think me jaded, over-confident. Or you know exactly what I'm talking about because you, too, have done and thought the same with your own child or young adult. Do you have a way to describe it beyond that?
This morning, Oliver asked, worried, What's happening with Sophie? Is she going to be all right? I told him that she was having a rough spot, that she'd be ok. A few minutes later, he exclaimed over the sunrise, ran outside and took the photo above. It's only for a few minutes that the sky is on fire, before the edges of clouds bleed into blue. Sophie seems none the worse for the wear given the last twelve hours. She's resting, a little congested, but eating and drinking and sitting up, looking around. My edges feel blurred. I'm tired.