For the last two years, two months, and nine days, the first and most important task we have had to accomplish before our now-eight-year-old son Edgar started his day, indeed before we started ours, was to ensure his anti-seizure medicine–and, for a long time, medicines–had been administered. It was a daily and vital ritual comprised of equal parts science and faith–that the process, these at times varying and ever-evolving concoctions, would stop his seizures, would relegate epilepsy to something merely in the background.
But this morning, as my small warrior sleeps, I find myself thinking about the profundity of this moment–how, when he wakes up during this Christmas vacation, he can play unencumbered and without interruption. I don’t need to find him among a tangle of stuffed animals or follow him as he navigates his playroom to ensure he takes every last bit of his medicine. Instead he can do simply and justly what eight-year-old children should be doing on a treasured day off from school–follow his bliss, wherever it takes him.
And for me, today, the first day without the layer of protection I have relied upon since the moment his neurologist told us he had epilepsy, I am going to watch him spend his day medication-free.
The science supports this move; but, today, for me, it’s much more about the faith.