Chapter
21
“Hurry,
Conner. We’ll be late!” I leaned against the railing downstairs.
It was two days since his convulsion. Today was his first day back to school. I
barely heard any sounds and murmurings from the street or even from inside my
own house as I inventoried my challenges—our family’s growing problems. It was
obvious that things had not been easier since Sam came home.
Conner
hopped two-footed down the stairs. “Okay, Mom! I’m ready. I can’t wait to tell
everybody what happened!” He stopped on the bottom step and looked at me. “Mom?
Mommy? I’m ready. Let’s go!”
Echoes
and then words crept in. Uh-oh. “Okay. You want to tell everyone about the…the
seizure? Really?” I pushed my body away from the railing. He didn’t seem to be
tired or to have any of the side effects Dr. Choy had mentioned. Conner even
took the Dilantin with the whipped cream without any fuss this morning.
“Oh
yeah! I had a CT scan. Boy. Wait ’til I tell everybody. They’ll think it’s so
cool!”
His
grin and his twitchy eyebrows compelled me to return his smile. I sighed and
followed him into the garage. “’Bye Sam. ’Bye Madison. I’ll see you later.”
***
Prior
to today, my mind had barely registered this short drive to his school despite
having done it so often. Now, something compelled me to see every detail that
had formerly been only vague and familiar. I wanted the past to regain me, to
go back to that time before Conner’s convulsion had forced its ugliness into
our lives. This feeling—illogical and an impossible attempt, I knew, to make
these past few days disappear—reminded me of that passage from Fitzgerald. How
long ago was it? My college roommate, Kathy, and I read and re-read and talked
about Fitzgerald’s last lines in The
Great Gatsby. Something about how we were all constantly going against
currents yet still getting swept back into our pasts. That was exactly how I
felt now, what I wanted now. And these streets—dependable sights of my former
world—were my anchor to that past: the scooters and bikes that were in
driveways and that laid on lawns. And that large yellow dog, with its long pink
tongue that dangled from the side of its mouth as it watched from a front stoop
most mornings, a fashionable brown-and-blue-striped handkerchief tied around
its neck like a cravat. That sight always made me smile. He was obviously a
member of some warm family. A calico cat perched atop a brick pillar; mothers
chatted and pushed covered strollers that enclosed infants and toddlers bundled
up against the crisp early-March air.
But
today I would tell the school about Conner’s…Conner’s trouble. I swallowed
hard.
“Mom,
why are you going here? We should have turned back there!” Conner’s yell
pierced me from the back seat.
I
had missed our turn. “Oh, wow, I’m sorry. I was just in my own little world,
honey.” Several minutes later, we coasted to a stop. The crossing-guard—a bald,
older man with white stubble on his chin and a paunch protruding comfortably
through his open, luminous lime-trimmed vest—stood in the middle of the
crosswalk. He smiled in recognition and held up the red stop sign.
I
stared. He looked suddenly decrepit and frail. I made myself smile back before
I turned my head to watch the boys and girls crossing in front of me. Their
sweet, clear-eyed, cheery faces chattered away as they passed in front of my
SUV. I drummed my thumbs on the steering wheel. How many of these youngsters
had seizures? One in a hundred, Dr. Choy had said. Had any of them gone through
that tortured jerking and groaning and biting and wetting and…?
The
guard walked back to the curb and waved us on.
I
raised my hand in acknowledgment and then pulled into the school parking lot
around the corner. “Okay, we’re here. I’ll go in with you. I need to talk with
Mrs. Dorsey.”
“What
for, Mom?” Conner unclipped his seat belt and climbed out of the SUV.
He
had become very conscious of referring to me as “Mom” instead of “Mommy.” I had
pangs of regret every time he used that more mature moniker, but he still
called Sam “Daddy.” That was sweet.
“I
told you. Dr. Choy said that I should tell Mrs. Dorsey about—about what
happened a couple nights ago. Hey! Don’t forget your backpack!”
He
reached for his pack. “Who is Dr. Choy?”
“He’s
the doctor at the hospital who took care of—”
Conner
was no longer listening. He had spotted two of his friends standing by the
flagpole and had run to join them.
I
sighed. Sparrows flew off branches above me in a dark, chirping wave when I
slammed the door. I trudged after several groups of chatting, laughing children
heading into the school. I smiled when I spotted my son with his friends; then
they disappeared into their classroom. The corridor was empty. I stood and
stared where he had just been.
I
turned around and was confronted by a collection of staff photos that was
displayed on the wall. All of those smiling expressions assaulted my emotions
and exaggerated my insecurity. I recognized several faces from that SST
conference months back. The reflection in the glass showed tired and puffy
eyes. My short, auburn hair hung limp around my neck.
I
squared my shoulders and approached the administration desk. A secretary with
too-black hair and who appeared to be in her mid-fifties was rifling through a
drawer in a filing cabinet behind a desk. She turned and looked at me. Our eyes
met before her attention returned to the cabinet. The other secretary sat at
her desk. She was younger and pretty, with a mane of flowing red hair. A small
diamond ring sparkled on her left hand.
The
younger woman looked up. I cleared my throat. “I’m Sandra Golden, Conner
Golden’s mother. I’m here to meet with Mrs. Dorsey.”
“Do
you have an appointment?”
Her
manner unsettled me. She barely smiled and her eyes were unreadable. “Uh, yes,
I do. I know I am early. I just dropped my child off. She’s expecting me. She
said that she’d meet with me after her first-period class.”
The
redhead handed me a stick-on “visitor” tag. “Please sign the visitor book. You
can wait right over there.”
I
took a seat in the reception area and placed my purse next to my feet. I smiled
when I saw a two-year-old issue of Junior
Scholastic on the table. I flicked through it. I remembered the
subscription I had during junior high. The next thing I knew, Conner’s teacher
was behind me telling the secretaries that she would be in the conference room
with the parent of one of her students.
I
sat up, rubbed my eyes and rose to greet her. “Oh, Mrs. Dorsey, I must have
dozed off.”
We
shook hands. She gave me a strained smile. I glanced down at my soft, brown
leather jacket over my pink blouse, tan slacks and brown slip-on shoes. I felt
a little haggard; she must have seen that. I pulled in my stomach.
“Let’s
go where we can talk. Mr. Backus, our art teacher, is taking over my class this
period. How are you? I was wondering what was up when I got your message. It
sounded important.” We walked through the administration area to the conference
room.
The
teacher opened the door. A set of fluorescent bulbs automatically flickered on
and flooded the room with cold-blue light. I recognized it as the room in which
I had met the Student Study Team.
Mrs.
Dorsey closed the door behind us and pulled out two chairs. We sat next to each
other at the corner of the conference table.
I
shivered and rubbed my hands together. I was glad I had worn my jacket.
“I’m
sorry that the room is so cool, Mrs. Golden. It’s like this when no one has
used it for a while.”
I
nodded and smiled. I leaned forward and blinked rapidly as I began to tell Mrs.
Dorsey why Conner wasn’t in school yesterday. My voice was low and tremulous as
I described his convulsion, the E.R. visit and his anti-seizure medication.
I
registered the genuine shock in Mrs. Dorsey’s voice when she finally spoke.
“Mrs. Golden, I’m so sorry! Certainly, I will keep an eye on Conner. Our school
nurse will, too. It’s really good that you let us know,” she gushed. We
appreciate it. I mean, I have taught other children with epilepsy before, and
we—”
“Conner
does not have epilepsy, Mrs. Dorsey. No one said that he has epilepsy! He had
a seizure. That is all! The doctor
said that it’s not epilepsy.” My stomach churned; I tasted sour coffee in the
back of my throat. I glared into her green eyes. How dare she say that Conner
had epilepsy! I couldn’t let Conner get that label: “epileptic.” I would not
let anyone even think it. It had come to this.
I
was suffering and, oddly, it was a shameful feeling. I shouldn’t have sunk to
such depths. I couldn’t help how I felt then—illogical, but it was the truth.
Illness had come to my family. It was going to be up to me to be strong and to
support my son.
Mrs.
Dorsey touched my arm and lowered her head. She said in a near-whisper, “No, of
course not, Mrs. Golden. I’m not—I’m not a doctor. I am sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I
exhaled, suddenly embarrassed and guilty for my outburst. She truly was sweet.
“No, no, I’m sorry Mrs. Dorsey. You
did not deserve that. I’m not—I shouldn’t have—it’s just—” I bent my head into
my cupped hands as uncontrollable sobs racked my body.
Mrs.
Dorsey put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure everything will turn out all
right for Conner. Please don’t cry. Please, Mrs. Golden. You’ll see.” I looked
up and saw tears welling in her eyes. Dark spots appeared on the emerald-green
scarf around her neck.
Mrs.
Dorsey grabbed a wad of tissues from a pink box on the table. She gave some to
me and kept the rest. We blew our noses, leaned back in our chairs and looked
at one another. Then we laughed, both dabbing our eyes and cheeks. For these
moments, the shared emotions melded us.
I
said softly, “Look at us! Thank you, Mrs. Dorsey. I am so sorry. I have to go,
now. I’ll talk to you later. Thank you for your concern about Conner.” I stood
up. I had to get out of there and be alone.
The
teacher reached over and placed her palm over my hand. “No apology necessary. I
understand. Again, I appreciate your telling me what happened to Conner,” she
added as she looked up at me. We’ll keep an eye on him.” Then she stood.
I
grabbed my purse and hurried out of the room.
Lance Fogan, M.D. is Clinical Professor of Neurology at the David Geffen School of Medicine at UCLA. “DINGS” is his first novel. It is a mother’s dramatic story that teaches epilepsy, now available in eBook, audiobook and soft cover editions.
