Seizure

I awoke with a sense of foreboding, pecking at my mind like a woodpecker. I came home from work and saw that my husband was still not feeling well. As soon as I walk in the door, I reach for the mute button on the remote to escape the predictably depressing tone of the evening news. There is still a trace scent of the chicken noodle soup Jesse must have managed to cook. I walk over to the couch and see Jesse’s big brown eyes are half mass. I was just about to ask how he was feeling, when I was interrupted by an eerie whimpering sound. In a scratchy and whiny voice, he told me that his head was throbbing immensely. I was a bit taken back as his eyes swelled up with tears. I situated myself behind his head on the cushy arm of the couch. He was lying on his back with his legs stretched out. I started massaging his temples when all of a sudden his arm jerked to the right, knocking over his water glass. Before I could react to the water cascading down the rocky tiles of the coffee table, his legs and torso folded up and he began convulsing. I struggled to lift his trembling torso so I could slide underneath him. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what was happening. I felt helpless and frustrated. The one person I could count on for anything was lying in my arms, growing paler by the second. His convulsing increased rapidly as the whites of his eyes danced back and forth in their sockets. His teeth were chattering as white frothy foam bubbled out of his mouth like a rabid dog. All I could do was scream his name. He began choking on the foam, so I did the best I could to turn him on his side. What was probably only a few minutes felt like hours. I finally felt the presence of mind to take action. I reached across his shaking body to grab the phone. It was soaking wet from the water spill, so I gave it a quick wipe with my shirt. I took a deep breath and dialed 911. I felt like I was watching someone else experience this. After hearing the operator’s voice, I was quickly brought back to reality. I was unable to cry until uttering the words, “Please help me, I think my husband is dying!” The operator perfunctorily instructed me to calm down and take a deep breath. I did my best to comply. “Does your husband have a pulse' Is he breathing'” “Yes. Yes he is.” “What is he doing right now'” “Uh, well, now he’s just lying on his side, but he was shaking and choking and foaming at the mouth.” “Okay, ma’am, just keep him on his side and his mouth free of debris.” The paramedics are on their way. “Are you able to unlock the front door'” “I’ll try.” Jesse’s body was scarily still. Thirty minutes had passed since the onset of this nightmare. I carefully got up from the couch and pushed the coffee table against it so that he would not fall. Then I darted toward the front door and cracked it open a few inches. Still perched on the couch with Jesse’s head in my lap, I watched for the ambulance. Seven minutes later, there were bright red lights beaming through my living room. Five tall men in uniform came barreling through my door. Jesse finally came to. His yellow t-shirt was drenched in sweat. He sat up on the couch furrowing his brows at the stocky strangers surrounding him. I assured him with a mustered up smile of confidence. He was gauging the severity on my every move. He tilted his head back and pursed his lips as the gurney was laid beside him. I was forced to forgo my belongings, as the paramedics were anxious for transport. I followed him down the stairs to the ambulance. Vacillating between hope and fear, I vaulted myself into the cab of the ambulance. I sat vicariously perched with my eyes glued intently on the 8x10 window between my husband and myself. The ambulance sped out of our apartment complex with the sirens blaring and the red lights flashing. In less than 5 minutes, we were in front of the emergency room doors. The medics flanged open the ambulance doors and sprang into action. They carried Jesse off to the ER. With a lump in my throat and my heart beating out of my chest, I followed the gurney. Patients’ cries and overlapping chatter bombarded my eardrums. With an air of benevolence, the doctor entered the room. He was tall, with dark skin and kind bright blue eyes. Dr. Burgess studied the chart and inquired about Jesse’s medical history. “Well, your husband must know a few angels up above.” “With his blood sugar level dropping to a 26, he should be in a coma as we speak.” “It sounds like he had a grand mal seizure.” A seizure. Hm. I’ve heard of this, but never imagined I’d be struck with its ferocity. The word “seizure” sounded so violent to me. “After we draw a few tubes of blood, I’m sending him over to radiology for an MRI.” I thanked Dr. Burgess and remained by Jesse’s bedside. After a couple of needle sticks and scans, he was released. The drive home was unnerving. I noticed I was startled easily. Every noise made me jump. I must have chewed off all my nails. I had no idea if this seizure thing was here to stay. With our arms intertwined, Jesse and I sauntered up the stairs. I had forgotten to lock the door, but I was unmoved. My husband did not die, and at that moment, that was all that mattered.