My Children Should Know
But When?
by Lynn Tasker
The vow I made to be open with my children was a simple one to keep. I was determined to become one of the 'open' mothers of today's society and not let them be caught unaware. A spade would be a spade, the 'curse' would be menstruation, and a doo-hickey would be (of course) the p-p-penis.
Telling my four young boys that I had epilepsy seemed somehow different. I was having one tonic clonic (or grand mal) seizure about every three or four years. The odds of my children witnessing a convulsion in the near future seemed very remote, yet I knew they had to be told. I didn't want to scare them but I couldn't over-simplify things either. Teaching my boys of their upcoming sexuality seemed like a breeze compared to the horrific job of explaining a convulsion.
I had procrastinated for six years before Ryan, my six-year-old and eldest child, was shaken by a convulsion that had caught me unaware. It lasted about 60 seconds, but when I regained consciousness I saw my small blonde child hunched over me crying and calling "mommy, mommy," over and over again. I looked into his tear-filled eyes and saw a frightened little boy who wanted his mommy to stop acting so scary. In my groggy state, I reassured him that I was fine and held him tight. I sobbed into his small neck, accepting the guilt that was the penalty for my inexcusable carelessness.
 Ryan seemed totally disinterested when I tried to explain about what he had just seen until, about a week later, the questions started to come:
"What if you fall down and hurt yourself?"
"What if you fall when you're eating?"
I explained to Ryan that I had something called 'epilepsy' and that not everyone has it, in fact, most people don't. told him that if I should ever have a convulsion in front of him again, that he was to hold my head (right from the start) and say "it's okay mommy, you are having a seizure," over and over again. When I stop moving, he was to keep holding me and not stop talking until I opened my eyes and spoke to him.
"Is that all?" he asked.
"That's it, Ry. Nothing to it, huh?" This was a snap! Why did I wait so long to tell him?
"After I wake up you can call daddy's office, and tell him what happened. I'll leave the phone number by the telephone, just in case you forget it. If you're really scared, phone 911."
"After I called daddy, then could I just talk to you for a while?" he asked.
"Great idea! We could watch TV together or something!"
"Okay, mommy", he said "but don't have another seizure." Then, deciding we were finished, he ran outside to ride his bike.
I wasn't sure how our conversation went, when about a week later:
"What do I do if you have a seizure at a store?"
"You do exactly what I said, hold me and talk to me."
"What if people tell me to get away from you?"
"You tell them that I'm your mommy, that I have epilepsy and I'm having a seizure." The rest, I knew, would fall into place.
"Oh," came the quiet reply. I had to install as much confidence in my son as possible. I hoped I was giving him the right answers. Sometimes it's so hard to tell.
"What if you have a seizure while you're driving the car?" he asked uncertainly.
I was a controlled epileptic. I took my medication religiously. I hadn't had a seizure in years and wanted to let Ryan know that the odds were a zillion to one. Just like the diabetics that had fainted in the past, or the heart patients that had bouts of dizziness. A zillion to one - could a kid of six understand that? Could I?
"It won't happen," I firmly stated.
"But what if." he insisted.
"It just won't, sweetie."
Unfortunately, I had no answer for him. Just like the questions that arose in my own mind twenty-two years ago when I first discovered that I had epilepsy. What if I'm in a pool? Riding my bike? Crossing a busy road? Climbing a tree? These questions never had any answers for me when I was ten years old, and now that I am an adult they still remain unanswered.
A year and a half had passed and Ryan needed to talk less and less about the possibility of my having a convulsion.
Tim and the other three boys were asleep while Ryan and I were about to enjoy an early breakfast together. I was just sitting down at the table when I went into a dramatic convulsion, knocking my juice to the floor and smashing the glass in the process. Ryan instantly took over and held my head while calmly saying over and over again: "it's okay mommy, you're having a seizure," until I regained consciousness. After he saw that I was awake he raced upstairs to tell Tim. Tim came right down to take over and to praise Ryan for remembering what to do when something like this happened.
All during the next week we spoke of my seizure and what a wonderful job Ryan did. The pride in his face was visible but there was also concern.
"Mommy, maybe you should teach David and Robbie what to do, too. I might be at school next time."
Leave it to the young and innocent! Yes, Ryan, they should! They should know what to do! I'll drill them about seizures, and even act one out. I'll teach them what to do if their mother should have a convulsion-- but it won't be tomorrow, it'll be today-- the same day I teach all of you what doo-hickey means.
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