and the lightening strikes

Rushing out of one appointment and late to another, I discover the text:

Riley had a seizure.

And in one second flat, I feel as though some vile bully just ran by and pushed me off my careful balance, and that even with my angry, road-scratched palms, I am somehow responsible for the world.  Alone.  The lie cracks, like lightening.  Here I stumble, with time eating away the shiny finish on everything, rubbing things down to the vulnerable core; it seems ludicrous to believe that I could ever manage.  Even the purse strap sliding down my arm, upbraiding my wrist and slashing it red, looks eaten away at the center.  Things begin to fall out of my arms—my planner, with it’s loose strings slipping from the stitching; the empty box I mean to recycle; the water bottle I carefully tucked in order to check my messages.  Flinging open the car door, I lean in and slowly let go.  I watch life fall heavily on the seat and then the floorboard, with a bounce.

Getting into the car, I connect the phone and call the teacher, who says that on the other side of the seizure, Riley has a migraine and pupils as wide as saucers.

“How long has this been?” I ask, doing up the math.   This is the first time, at least for Riley, that the residual effects of a seizure have outlasted the actual event.  They always have for me.  Every time Riley has a seizure the bottom drops out on my energy stores, and I am left empty and reeling.  But since this time is different for her, I feel like an ill-equipped expedition leader suddenly surprised by uncharted territory.  But then, that’s motherhood.

“I’ll call the doctor and then call you back,” I say, wavering.  I’m driving now in the direction I thought the day would take me, nursing a subconscious determination to restore some semblance of order, all the while wondering if I should drive immediately to school to pick Riley up or if I will be meeting an ambulance at the hospital.  Riley hates when her challenges take her away from the parts of life she enjoys most.  In fact, we have spent months battling anxiety born of just that deep dread.

So I sit now on a short, brick wall outside my next appointment, waving apologetically through the glass, pointing enigmatically at the phone.  In foreign lands, I lose all ability to pretend to be unruffled.  I shoot like a pinball, bumping into things, distracted all the more by the resulting sirens.  I want to ask everyone what to do next, even though, ridiculously, it seems expected that I should know.

“Should I be alarmed?” I ask the nurse, who seems invisibly intent on jotting down the facts.  Please, Lord, just please, I pray, dipping my head, holding the phone against my ear.  I can think of nothing eloquent to say right now, nothing more powerful than please.

“Well, I’m a little concerned about the dilated pupils,” the nurse says carefully.  Me too, I think.  I imagine her thoughtfully tapping the pen against her lips.  “Let me talk to the doctor, and I’ll call you back,” she says.

So for the next hour, I feel like a split woman–one half waiting, waiting, waiting; the other half desperately trying to be present and whole.   Finally, the nurse calls back, says not to worry, this will pass.  “Right now the doctor has no further instructions.  He says not to worry, that her eyes can be dilated for hours, even days.”  I exhale, suddenly aware that I’ve been holding my breath.  I am like a voyager tottering in a storm-soaked boat just as the seas go still.  Slowly, I release my grip on the sides.

I think of Riley, blinking those saucer eyes, trying to see.  It will be days for me too.

I go home and take a walk with God.  “I just need to be with you,” I tell Him, gulping the crisp breeze, watching the vibrant, wandering leaves.  I have no words, just really a song that I can’t even now remember, something honest and clinging and raw.  I let it come in phrases, silently offered.  Somewhere along the way, as I cross the street and follow a curve, the Spirit lays truth across my broken heart.  This truth, it’s soft and light and also strong like a sheet of armor across my chest:  Even when you feel out of sorts, God is sovereign.

After all this time, it’s not that I know what to do, but that I know where to find refuge.  Every thunderous clash between so much responsibility and so much weakness tells the story of His undeniable strength.