I looked down, swallowing again. “Fact is, though, you don’t even really know what happened up in Quarry Argent. Do you?”
“No, we don’t. The episode shared some commonalities with seizures triggered by high fever, or heat-stroke.”
(The Regenmöhme, with her heat)
“And then I had another one, down here. How long did that last?”
“Less than two minutes—ninety seconds, at most. The first one went on for more than twenty, though you were only convulsing for the first five, and talking to your friend while doing it. After that you were in a trance, eyes open, unresponsive. The pattern with your second incident was very similar.”
“No idea what caused it, though, even after all these tests. Either of them.” He shook his head. “Okay, fine. Do I have to worry about it happening again?”
“If it was epileptic in nature, possibly. But there’s no way of knowing until we figure out the variables, the inciting factors.”
“Until I have another one, you mean.”
“. . . Basically, yes.”
“Excellent. Well, I’m not staying here any longer than I have to, so—what’s the out-care plan?”
Dr. Harrison glanced over at Mom, who raised her eyebrows fearsomely at him in return, perhaps attempting the international gesture of tell her she has to stay, tell her you’ll commit her, whatever it takes to make her do what we want her to. But he wasn’t dumb—none of us were—and seemed to know as well as I did that there was exactly zero point, nothing to be done in that regard. I was a legal adult with all the normal rights and privileges, perfectly free to check myself out, go home, and die on my own terms if I wanted to.
Not that I actually believed that was a possibility, then.
“Well, there’s no real migraine prevention medication, but since you’re depressed already, my instinct is to put you on a course of beta blockers known to act as anti-seizure medications and see what happens. However, I also think you need to taper off—do a sort of general system flush, preparatory to rebooting your regimen. So I’m suggesting you add Feverfew to your basic prescriptions, which may help, and I’d also recommend you continue using Melatonin as a sleep aid but commit yourself to having a full sleep clinic evaluation, sooner rather than later.”
“After this project I’m working on is done with, sure.”
“During that, if possible, which I don’t see why it wouldn’t be—just find some time, get it done, move on.” I shrugged. “And limit your exposure to seizure precursors: flickering lights, flashing patterns, TV, computers.”
“Oh wow, that’s only everything I work with. Should I wear sunglasses at night, too?”
“More often, certainly.”
“Kind of feel bound to point out, I had ’em on when this shit all happened.”
“Nonetheless.”
His frustratingly good poker face finally became enough to make me laugh again, this time for real. Tension thus dissipated, I took one more second before asking,
“Any side effects to the Feverfew, doc?”
“Well, it does tend to make you sleepy. But in your case that’s good, yes?”
An hour later, I was all processed and back up to speed, Mom pushing me down the hall toward the exit in the traditional wheelchair. “In case you’re wondering, I’m against this,” she informed me.
“Duly noted,” I replied. “Take it you probably tried to tell Clark what happened. How’d that go?”
“Not as well as I’d have liked.” She rolled the chair to a stop, right across from the sliding door onto Queen Street, and slid one arm under mine, helping me up. “He was . . . um, unresponsive, I guess. Lots of singing, lots of bouncing; zero real comprehension, so far as I could tell.” She sighed. “Probably better we didn’t try bringing him to see you, considering last time.”
“Yeah, good call,” I agreed. Remembering lying there with bandages all over my chest, watching Clark ricochet from one side of the room to the next—this tiny holding space they’d parked me in, just big enough to hold two beds separated by a curtain—while Simon chased after him, struggling to keep him away from the hall and safely out of the path of any passing medical personnel. Even in my woozy, post-anaesthetic state, it’d been obvious he didn’t get much of what was going on, but what he did get he didn’t like; he was bouncy and nuts, gamboling all over, and I found myself subconsciously cringing away from him, afraid he’d grab my wounds without meaning to. Bad sounds, bad smells, too much echo—all anathema for little autistic boys.
We were out on the street itself, turning east. “You’re very blithe about it,” Mom said.
I snorted. “Less ‘blithe’ than ‘resigned,’” I replied. “But seriously, Mom, c’mon . . . you know Clark, at least as well as I do. What did you think was going to happen?”
“I hoped—”
“Yeah, exactly, and that’s great—Simon and I do it too, every once in a while. Push him a little bit out of his comfort zone; gamble that maybe this time, things might turn out a little bit different. And sometimes it even pays off, believe it or not. . . .”