My Nemesis

If you have seen my son Chase, you know that he's going to be tall.  When he was born, several nurses gasped at the sight of his feet; they're enormous and always have been.  Seriously.  He's like a puppy in that sense.  Chase is four and a half and wearing size 1 shoes...for about 4 months.  He's the size of a first grader, basically.  This past fall he played Kinderkick soccer, and while he barely made the cutoff date with his age and ended up being the youngest child on the team, he towered over everybody.  He has bright blond hair, and essentially you just can't miss Chase when he's amongst his peers.  He shines like a light.  A giant, fluorescent white light. 

I was the same way (minus the shining).  I'll never forget the very first day of 8th grade.  I started a new school and I was (literally) 5'9. My first period class was PE, and they measured us that day.  I took my shoes off, tried to slouch and when they announced that I was 69  and 1/4 inches tall, I thought I would die from embarrassment right there. (Because clearly nobody knew how tall I was until they said the number, right?  Love middle school logic.)  I stood in that gym and quietly swore that I would never grow again.  NEVER.  Hear that God?  This is freakishly tall enough!

And I never grew again. 

And then I kinda thought I was magic.  (Middle school logic again.)

And I've always sort of held on to that belief, odd as it is, that I could really change whatever I want if I wanted it bad enough.  It seems to work a lot, so rarely am I confronted with the concept that I've got no control over anything.  It happens more often with more children, but when it comes to my own body, that moment in the gym sticks out in my brain.  I mean, for Pete's sake.  I stopped myself from growing, did I not?  How many people can say that? 

So then I got hit by a semi-truck on the freeway in May 2003 and slowly, over the course of several years, the magic has stopped working.  I injured my brain that day, and now I have a seizure disorder.  It started out very quietly.  Moments of time would happen where I would feel strange with an intense sensation of deja vu.  Over the course of years, the moments intensified and other symptoms developed.  It really kicked it up a notch last summer when I got disoriented in the shower, smelled burning and essentially passed out in my bed thinking it was all a dream until I woke up with shaving cream all over my legs. 

The doctors are clear; take medication, or watch the seizure episodes kindle until a fire erupts and you have a grand-mal.  (I've never had one of those.)  Well, instead of taking medications, I got pregnant and meds were off the table.  As soon as Adelai was born, I started "taking" medications.  I put that in quotations because "taking" is really not the term for it.  It's more like I started battling the medications. I started arguing with the meds and breaking up with them every two weeks.  I would take them, forget them, wonder if I really needed them since I wasn't having any seizures, stop taking them officially and then have a seizure.

I smell burning every time now.  Not good. 

Anyway, I don't really have a point.  Or maybe I do.  I think what I'm trying to say is that being out of control really sucks.  Wanting to have control over stuff and realizing that it's all a sham is really a let down.  I was going to accomplish all this stuff this morning, and instead I ended up sleeping a couple of hours to recover from the seizure I had.  I tell all my clients "take the medication, even when you don't have symptoms.  That means the medication is working!" And then I watch myself go home and do the same exact thing as I think out loud "why do I have to take it?  I haven't had any seizures.  They must have the diagnosis wrong.  I think I'm fine."

Seizures are my nemesis.

So I was going to have this lovely day with my family and my plans didn't matter.  I do love the part where my nemesis leads me directly to God though.  With Justin's febrile seizure, I found God waiting for me patiently.  With my own seizure disorder, the lack of control brings me right back to the place where I just know I'm not in control of anything, my plans are irrelevant and ultimately I have faith that this a good thing. 

Because frankly, if I were in control, I'd be 5'6 with freakishly straight hair that oddly grows with natural blond highlights.  I'd never know problems, I'd never know struggle, I'd never experience stress and I'd never seek God. 

I guess I'll just take the medication and teach my kids that, truly, Mommy can't escape the need for God every day.  And in retrospect, I would never want to try.