The other morning I was shocked awake, sweating and in a panic. In my dream, while my back was turned, Calvin had slid off of a table and wedged himself between the table and the couch. I hadn’t noticed at first, since he was silent. I turned around to realize what had happened; Calvin was being strangled with some sort of strap on the back of the couch. He was suspended, his face the color of blueberries, his eyes deadened as bubbles gurgled from his lips. This was no dream, this was a nightmare—a recurring one—and, like in all the others, he started to seize. I woke myself straining, but failing, to utter the words, “someone call 911.”

Of course, I was relieved that it was only a dream, but the truth of the matter is that the dreams are a shadow of my reality.  When your child has a seizure it is distressing and heartbreaking. You learn to handle them better over time but you never get used to them. The feelings of helplessness and anguish never diminish. Hopefully, one day, Calvin's seizures will stop, but I will probably continue to be plagued by the nightmares.

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