The Goblin has had seizures all her life, but none like today's. Most of hers only last for 15 minutes, but tonight's dragged on for what felt like a century. Two hours. Very traumatic; very unusual.
Every time she wakes she becomes panicked and disorientated, also unlike any postictal state she's ever been in.
Now she sleeps, deeply and soundly, while EEG leads stream away from her head, monitoring her quietly and preparing a story for the doctors to tell to us later this morning.
I came prepared to read to her while we waited for doctors to tend her. I came prepared to kill time as we waited to be released. The Goblin always recovers quickly. She is not supposed to require IVs and EEG leads and sedatives and anti-seizure medication. She's supposed to wake from her postictal slumber refreshed with her broad smile, ready to play hard again. She's not supposed to wake up groggy and take six hours to finally recognize me.
So I sit by her bedside as sentry for every errant beep, every smacking lip, every sign of danger. She doesn't know I am here, but I remain all the same.
One of the greatest obstacles in my Splintered Books Project is family. It occupies number five on the discouraging list. I have been grumpy of late, resenting my family's intrusion on my goals. I had fully intended to have a first draft completed of my middle grade novel by Monday. There is little chance of seeing that goal attained now. I have simply not been up to the task of managing my ADHD and family.
Watching that precious li'l Goblin finally breathe steadily, unassisted and with resounding health to her soul, I care not for missed goals and personal weaknesses. My greatest task is before me. May God preserve her and grant me wisdom to improve her life.
