Thank you to everyone for your hugs and love over the past few days. They’re both needed and appreciated.
We’ve been watching V like a hawk the past few days.
Super vigilant and on high alert. The ultimate helicopter parents.
It’s hard not to be.
Luckily though, it seems like the after effects from V’s seizure are mild.
She was a bit unsteady on her feet Sunday morning, but that has corrected itself, and we haven’t seen any other physical issues.
There doesn’t seem to be any behavioral issues from the seizure, either (everyone cheer!!).
It looks like this seziure went after her language center instead.
She’s had seizures in the past where she lost words, and when as a toddler you only have a few words to begin with, it meant she lost her ability to speak.
Thankfully, this isn’t the case this time.
But it’s the weird things that you take for granted that hits you like a punch in the gut when you least expect it.
Last night V wanted to dress up as a kitty cat. She loves to dress up as a cat with a nose and whiskers painted on her face using my eyeliner. A couple of weeks ago, I ordered a cat costume for her off Etsy. Just a little set of ears and a tail. And so last night when she wanted to dress up, I mentioned that we’d have to wait for the costume to come in the mail.
“Mail?” she said. “You mean like press send?”
“No sweetie,” I replied. “Not email. Mail. It will come to the mailbox and then we can go get it.”
“Mailbox?” she looked at me confused. “What’s mailbox?”
“You know… a mailbox… don’t you remember how we walk to the mailbox to get the mail?”
A memory. A word. Something simple, and really, without a lot of meaning. But *poof*, it was gone. She had no idea what I was talking about.
I saw it again this morning. She wanted to dress up in one of her play silks.
“Can you tie it around my elbow?”
I looked at her, “Where do you want me to tie it?”
She pointed at her shoulder “My elbow.”
I sat next to her and gently said, “That’s your shoulder, not your elbow. Where’s your elbow?”
She again pointed to her shoulder.
We proceeded to do a body inventory. Body parts she’s known and been able to name for years.
She knew where her knee was, but the word ankle was also missing for her again.
Silly simple words. Word I know will come back. Words I know we can easily correct and reteach her if we need to.
But, oh those words.
Their absence says so much.