The burning fire of attention-Epilepsy and the origin of fear.

I steal the briefest moment to glance up at the family rooted some twenty feet from the convulsing body of my eight year old boy. His limbs lock out and his eyes roll up into his head,air straining from his lungs in a low groan. Its these little details I’m glad they cant see. Its over exactly eleven seconds later, the time and seizure type logged on an app as I help him to his feet . In the faltering steps of an old man he groggly makes his way over to the football he’d been kicking around the park just moments before. Its only then i notice the young boy of the family being hugged by his father in a familiar embrace that hides both tears and light. The sight of my son’s seizure has clearly shaken him. I know a seizure could be fatal, I know i too should be feeling fear or at at least introspective concern but its too far in. It would take time to dig through the memory and examine the implications. I watch the family walk away and consider my lack of emotional response. I remember not so very long ago a seizure like this would bind my thoughts and actions as my mind raced through the blackest of possibilities. Tears might follow, silent detailed replays certainly would. The reason, I’ve concluded, is not the absence of fear but rather the capacity to contain it. As I subconconciously take in each immeasurable instance of his seizure my attention burns like fire the possibilities at the periphery. Alternative realities might pull me downward like a heavily clothed swimmer if i let them, self consuming. Fear it seems is housed in possibilities, futures unrealised and is never satiated. I wordlessly consider this with every seizure I deal with: whats the origin of my fear? And am invariably answered with the same empirical truth of action- the origin is simply my own thought, the imagined creation of outcomes that allow fear to grow and consume at an exponential rate. Focus on what ” is ” . The child like simplicity of those words contain oceanic power, resting on the surface of memory like a delicate foam.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s