As a marathoner I was always counting: mileage, pace, time.
It was constant.
Toward the end of a marathon, or any race for that matter, I would distract myself from the pain in my legs and lungs by constantly running the numbers of how far I had gone; how many miles were left; what my current time and pace were and what I needed to do over the remaining distance to achieve the time I wanted. With every step the variables would change, so I would run the numbers again and again and again.
It got to the point that I would find myself doing similar things when driving long distances.
Lately, the numbers game in my head has changed. I haven’t run as much in recent years, and it has been over three years since my last marathon. Recent changes to our landscape however, have forced me to have a different kind of math running through my head…and this math is ever-present. Today the number that is constantly going through my head is 300. Over and over again my brain begins a simple countdown starting at 300.
But I never let myself get to zero.
Wherever I go with Brooke – to the market, to a restaurant, even a short, five minute walk with the dogs – I carry her diastat (her rescue medicine) with me in a small backpack. It is the the emergency medicine we administer to her if she does not come out of a seizure within five minutes. That’s 300 seconds. 300 seconds during which the body is not breathing. I can barely hold my breath for 90 seconds. Multiply that by 3 1/3.
As short as 5 minutes is, 300 seconds is a painfully long time-especially if you are watching a loved one go through a grand mal seizure.
300 seconds is an eternity.
We have a monitor in her room now, but she likes to move about. Whenever she walk out of view of the monitor, or goes to another room, or if I have to shower, or she goes to the kitchen to get herself a drink, the timer in my head starts.
300, 299, 298, 297, 296, 295, 294, 293…
Even with the monitor, one has to stay vigilant. If I’m studying, grading, reading, watching a show, I still have to check the monitor. What good is a monitor if you aren’t using it?
…292, 291, 290, 289, 288, 287, 286, 285…
To be honest, I never get past 2 minutes without…
“Brooke, you alright?”
“Yup.”
I imagine she gets tired of the constant check ins. Sometimes I change it up…
“Brooke?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I will tell you this, the girl knows her daddy loves her.
***
But the counting is constant.
The counting doesn’t stop.
Lord knows that if at some point I call out to her and she doesn’t answer because of a seizure, I have to know potentially how long she has been seizing.
The counting is constant.
The counting doesn’t stop.
I count ourselves fortunate in that we have had to use “the rescue” only once.
The counting is constant.
The counting doesn’t stop.
***
As I work my way back into running, I know I will pick up my old math habits again-the habits that eventually went away.
I wonder if I will ever stop counting the 300.
***
If you are so inclined, I would be grateful for your support as I raise fund for the Epilepsy Foundation. You can visit my fund raising page —> here <—. As of this writing, you have helped me raise over $9,500. My current goal of $10,000 will need to be adjusted. The New York City Marathon team as a whole is trying to raise $49,000. We are just over $20,000 at this point, in no small part due to your tremendous generosity. I am grateful for your continued support of our family and of the causes we champion.
You and your family are amazing. At 12 I saw my grandmother have a gran mal seizure. I was fortunate enough to know CPR and administrated it until the paramedics got there. Though that was almost 30 years ago I still get extremely anxious whenever I see someone “shaking” in that way. Bless you all.
You touch my heart Luau! Hopefully we’ll find answers for this!
Love you,
Mom