dream seizure

I woke myself up in a worried sweat calling out Michael's name. He didn't hear me. I'd been dreaming about Calvin who was strapped into his industrial johnny-jump-up spinning to his heart's content as he often does. Suddenly, my boy's brain got caught in a snare, his soft body going rigid and steely, then racked with tremors. Calvin's convulsions were so violent, his body so twisted in contortion, that I couldn't release him from his jumper. It held him fast as if he were bound to it. I called to Michael for help as my son jerked and frothed and began turning blue ... and in doing so I woke myself up.

Our bedroom was quiet and lit only by a bit of moon that shown through the trees. I listened intently to the baby monitor. All was still. I got up to go to the bathroom and on my way back grabbed the tiny flashlight and shone it through the netted canopy over Calvin's bed. There he lay, still as a stone and as beautiful as the moon itself. I flashed the light on his ears to ensure my boy was pink. He was.

My dream had not come true, as it has in the past. It was simply a dream seizure, which I hope some day will be the only kind we must endure.

photo by Michael Kolster

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