Monday, January 11, 2016

The Edge

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.

16 comments:

  1. Oh god, Elizabeth. I hope things have settled down for Sophie and that you are getting some rest. Sending love.

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  2. I know exactly what you are talking about. My husband called me over to his side the other night because his daughter was seizing in a way he had never seen before, even after 23 years "on the job". There was no call to a doctor, no panic, just calling me over to witness and I did.

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  3. I hope with all of my heart that tonight is a better night with peace and rest.
    I adore Oliver for taking that beautiful picture.

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  4. I am so sorry Elizabeth. I can imagine you are so tired. I wish all things good for Sophie.

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  5. Dearest Elizabeth.
    You described the dread so perfectly. I've been saying over and over to myself the past couple of months that I'm "on edge", "on the edge". On the edge of what? The photo is beautiful. The same sky was outside my bedroom window this morning as I wept silently and hoped it would be a better day. Here's to a new beginning tomorrow- for us and all our precious children.

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  6. I think you put this so perfectly it leaves a sore spot.
    Love to you and Sophie.

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  7. I don't think you over-confident at all. I am seeing a woman past broken that keeps going because there is no other option. And then there is the whole 'fractured family' as you call it. No matter who started the process or why it brings most of us to our knees. And it takes a long fucking time to get up. Sometimes it is almost nice down there on our knees where we don't have to try so damn hard holding it (though what it is I do not know) all together.
    Just be gentle with yourself.

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  8. Well, I don't know exactly what you're talking about but I have a good idea from the way you have shared and articulated your life over all these years. I so wish it was different.
    I hope tonight and tomorrow will be a lot easier, for Sophie, for you and your wonderful boys. Sleep, relief and a lighter heart.

    So wonderful of Oliver to amaze at the sunrise.

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  9. Yeah, I was in the Noonetoconsult space last weekend with Miel, holding her as her eyes closed and her lips turned pale with pain. Second by second, then minute by minute, then hour by hour we somehow, by grace, by luck, by trying with every molecule of awareness tuned, got through. But there's no triumph, no confidence, no thinking, "Now I know what to do" afterwards. I'm brought to my knees again and again.

    I'm glad Oliver took that picture.

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  10. This is hard, lonely work. I hope tonight is better, and that you and Sophie can rest. Sending love.

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  11. I hope things get better. Who knows why these episodes occur -- the lack of a reason must be thoroughly bewildering and frustrating. I'm so glad Oliver pointed out the brilliant, glowing sunrise.

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  12. I haven't been keeping up with my blogging friends, and I'm sorry for that. This is achingly poignant. So much love and pain and yes, also mercy and light, in your words. Sending love.

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  13. I have absolutely no idea what it's like to feel that over your own child, but I do know something about the noonetoconsult feeling in other realms and it's a lonely and existential sort of feeling. I'm glad that, currently, the situation here has eased a bit. Those pictures are glorious.

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  14. "...this sort of existential dread that there's no one to consult."

    That's the pit of it, yes? That this is all there is. That your have only yourself, and that damn well better be enough. Because, because, well, because that's it.

    A harsh truth to have to live by, but there you have it.

    Sending love, and rain, from Seattle.



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  15. There's no one to consult. But I do, later. I didn't use to but now, I wait and discuss, make some changes and back to the beginning and start all over. This morning is familiar to me.

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  16. "We live the questions..." Yes. This. I will hold space for them and you. There is something glorious about the slide from day to night and night to day. If only we could see all of our transitions in technicolor.

    Love.

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