One of my favorite running shirts has hung in my closet, unworn, for close to a year now. The last time I plucked it off a hanger and put it on, preparing for a few Saturday miles, was March 17, 2018.
It’s what I was wearing moments later when I heard a strange, loud, guttural sound coming from my son Charlie’s bedroom and rushed in to find him under the covers, stiff and unresponsive.
It’s what I was wearing during tests to confirm Charlie had indeed had a seizure; what I used to absorb wayward tears when the tissue box was out of reach. It's what I took off that evening and hung in my closet, really not thinking about when I'd next put it on. An hour seemed a lifetime away; I couldn't even think about a year passing.
And 365 days later, it's still hanging there. I may brush against it as I pull out a different long-sleeved shirt to wear; may swipe it to the side as I opt for another.
The shirt (and, admittedly, a quarter-size spot of dried blood on the wall by the front door which Charlie insists on not painting over) are the only tangible memories of those four scary and ultimately life-affirming days.
There are, of course, plenty of mindful memories, which have been flooding my heart this past week. They tend to be of utmost gratitude -- first and foremost, that Charlie is healthy and has had no repercussions nor needed any medications. They're also for my family; for friends and strangers who prayed for him; for the staff at Methodist Richardson who made us feel like he was the only patient they were taking care of.
Still, as this auspicious and joyful anniversary approaches, I confess to mornings when I surreptitiously peek at Charlie while he's sleeping to make sure he's...well, you know. Breathing.
I also confess to following -- in my heart at least -- my sweet son's shadow, so close to him that I almost step on the back of his workout shoes; so close I'd collide with him were he to stop short, turn around and see me there.
My family and I (Charlie was out of it much of the time) will never forget those moments, those hours, those days of uncertainty and ultimately of exhilaration. We have learned that life really can change in -- feel free to mouth the cliches with me -- the blink of an eye, the snap of two fingers, the switch of a light. And for us, in an electrical current gone crazy in a healthy young brain.
Six weeks after his three nights in the ICU, Charlie went back to Colorado. He worked there for eight months, hiking hundreds of miles, lifting weights, spending time with friends. And, I'll venture to guess, not thinking for a moment about the seizure.
I don't harp on it at all, really. Still, I do think the whole experience has given me the gift of perspective; it's helped me keep to a minimum any angst about money or losing my job or wondering what the future holds.
For that odd little gift and for oh so much more, I am grateful.
The Mother's Day after Charlie had his seizure, I wrote an essay about our experience for The Dallas Morning News. In it, I recounted a conversation I'd had with his neurologist, Ronald J. Bell, MD, who is on the medical staff at Methodist Richardson. Charlie had a follow-up appointment, and as we left Dr. Bell's office, almost as an afterthought, I asked this question:
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| Charlie with Dr. Ronald Bell, his much beloved neurologist |
"Did you pretty much know when you first saw Charlie in the ER that he'd be OK?"
His answer surprised me. "Not at all," he said. "I don't know the punch line. All I know is to take the next step."
Which is why, next time I run, I'll reach into my closet and, without even thinking about it, take my brown shirt from the hanger. I'll put it on for the first time since March 17 a year ago and then head out.
Oh who am I kidding? Of course I'll think about it. And with each step, my heart will beat out a thank you. Over and over and over again.
