I don't know how to explain it, O Best Beloved, the feeling that comes over you. I've seen plenty of seizures, kids in status epilepticus, don't bat an eye. But when it's my own daughter...
I got her on her side on the couch and tried - however futilely - to snap her out of it. I debated what to do, screamed her name, blew in her face. She just kept seizing, and about the time she turned blue I called 911.
I'm terribly embarrassed to admit how completely I panicked, but that's exactly what happened. I was amazed at how calm I sounded, how reasonable. "My 16 month old just had a febrile seizure. No, she's not still seizing, I don't think." I pried her eyes open, peered at her pupils. Reactive. "No, she's postictal. Not responding. Yes, she's breathing. Yes, regular." The whole thing was two minutes or so, just long enough to take ten years off my life.
We rode the ambulance to the ER because I didn't know if I could drive. I called ahead, told the ER doc we were coming, picked up my wallet and my laptop and got in the ambulance.
I haven't stopped worrying yet. I know she's fine - blood count was normal, she was back to normal before we left - but I don't think I'll ever forget that scene.
It's one thing to watch Someone Else's Baby gurgling and shaking and choking...it's a whole different thing when it's your own.
One of my darkest fears has always been that if something bad happened to my child that I wouldn't be appropriately concerned about her, that my medical background would preclude me from a mother's instincts. It seems that isn't so.
She's fully recovered and back up to snuff now. And if she lets me I'll tell you later about this summer's public service announcement, punctuated by miracles.