I knew–way back in 1988–that my forty-page paper on and the accompanying analysis of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” would eventually come in handy.
Since 11 October 2011, we have been living Prufrock’s inimitable words and, like him, “have measured out [our lives] with coffee spoons.”
From that fateful Tuesday forward, when people have asked, “How are things?” I could no longer answer perfunctorily with a sweeping “Good” or “Fine, thanks.” Responses were more in the vein of “Today is a good day,” or “This morning so far has been uneventful.”
Every moment has been studied, recorded, called in to the doctor as necessary.
Epilepsy when it’s intractable, when the seizures are not yet under control, demands your attention–day and night, at home and when you’re out. And it doesn’t especially care whether you’re at work or sleeping or have plans.
But for the last eight days–with the exception of a very short and comparatively uneventful seizure–Edgar has been seizure-free.
And while I am hesitant to put my coffee spoons away just yet, I am putting them off to the side tonight and celebrating the beauty of this milestone, the beauty of this face.