full moons, fevers, fits and fairs

The whiff of sour on my baby’s breath and the tug of a full moon weren’t omens enough to shake me into thinking the fit would come so soon, on day five. But it seems the moon, with its mastery over the ocean’s tides and supple bodies like mine, took hold and roped my boy’s brain into momentary chaos.

In the waxing days, a fever smoldered on Calvin’s brow like white-hot embers without a flame—perhaps a sign of illness, though more likely another side effect of withdrawal, just as the countless nights he now sits awake in his bed for hours, wired and restless, cackling and panting.

As the fit took hold I cracked the plastic cap off of the vial, pulled down his diaper and inserted the tip into his rectum, then releasing a stream of mind-numbing gel. Within minutes the seizure had stopped and my boy was fast asleep, his brain bathed in a benzodiazepine meant to quell a cluster of fits.

Calvin slept soundly throughout the night and woke on time to get more meds. He seemed calm and content, likely the result of the extra benzodiazepine on board a craving brain in active and prolonged withdrawal; in essence, he got his fix.

By late morning he seemed well enough to go on a trip (we're wary of the tendency to stick too close to home, our kind of lives too easily lead by fear of the unknown) so I packed extra clothes, diapers and wipes, took his temp, which thankfully had cooled, brought along the thermometer and fever meds, his diced fruit and cuke, sandwich and yogurt, extra water and a syringe of batch #9 THCA cannabis oil in case we got delayed. Destination: Windsor Fair.

Most of the way north Calvin’s scrawny arms held me in a headlock in-between feeding him bites of food like the little birdie he is. A slight breeze gifted the first day of the fair, though my boy still waned and wilted in Michael's care under the heat of a relentless sun. I was taking a photo of the two, wondering if Calvin was having a partial seizure judging by the pale, blank expression on his face, when I noticed her. Though perhaps a couple of years older, she could have been Calvin's twin—tall, thin and pigeon-toed with spastic arms which, when gravitating to her mother’s face, were lightly batted away. She walked precariously between solemn parents, her mother’s arm around the girl’s narrow shoulders, which were brushed by a swaying ponytail.

“I bet she also has epilepsy,” I said to Michael, wondering what kinds of drugs the poor girl has to endure, wondering, too, and hoping they'd discovered cannabis oil.

As we sat in the shade of a ring from which young goats bleated and cried like human babies—like Calvin—several other disabled people crossed our path, one clutching a shiny plastic toy and mouthing a Mylar balloon, others walking gingerly next to their parents and still others rolling by seated in wheelchairs—all of them children, though some of them grown.

Later, a young father of three spry tots, upon seeing us escorting our curious boy, nodded and smiled—a rare validation—and when he did I was especially glad I’d come to the fair. It's where all types convene, where kids get in free, animals are revered, camaraderie comes in all forms and where full moons, fits and fevers are forgotten, at least for a good while.

1 comment:

  1. Love that pic of Calvin enjoying a summer day at the fair!