And yet again I’m given a new understanding of helplessness

Every so often a moment comes along and redefines the word “helpless” for me, in my role of parent. Today brought me one of those moments.

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I have a child, an eighteen year-old son named Sam, who has a seizure disorder. His seizures begin without warning, no aura or sign beforehand, and no time or way to call out in advance for help. They happen whenever and wherever they will—a morbid and constant Russian roulette of loss of consciousness and control.

Sam’s had seizures while lying in bed, watching TV, waiting for and riding on the school bus, studying at school, eating dinner at a restaurant, riding in the car, taking a shower, and even riding on a tilt-a-whirl at an amusement park. He’s had seizures at three different swimming pools: one while swimming in the local community center’s lazy river, one while preparing to go off a low dive, and one while halfway up the ladder to go off a high dive. They happen indiscriminately: without pattern, provocation, and always without any time to prepare.

This morning, shortly after we’d all had breakfast, my wife and I heard an unfortunately familiar thud in Sam’s room: the sound characteristic of the falling of a human body. I ran towards Sam’s room; my wife—who’s recovering from surgery—could not.

The door was shut to Sam’s room—he likes it shut 99.9% of the time—and there was no light coming from underneath it: Sam had fallen against the door—the door that opens to the inside of his room.

I called out to him and tried to gently open the door. Because his 6’ 2″ and 220 lb body was on the floor against it, the door would only open about an inch or two. The seizure was in progress and I had no way of knowing whether or not my son was hurt from the fall, or whether or not pushing on the door would result in injuring him. I could only see his feet through the cracked door: I couldn’t tell where his arms, hands, and face were.

I apologized over and over to him from my side of the door—telling him I was there and how sorry I was that I couldn’t help him. In frustration, I also smacked the door frame with the palm of my hand. Both actions were futile. It seemed that all I could do while my child was in distress was to stand there totally helpless.

I kept a slight pressure on the door with a foot and hand. I noticed that the door would give a little when he convulsed, and if I pushed a little during the give, I could gain ground on opening the door further.

After what seemed an eternity of moving the door an inch at a time, there was just enough space to get my body through the door. I squeezed through and went to my son.

Although his head was wedged into the corner, he appeared to be unhurt. But he was still seizing and the left side of his head was less than an inch underneath the lower door hinge. I did what I could to drag him back far enough that he wouldn’t hit his head during the seizure, or after it ended and he attempted to get off the floor.

I knelt over Sam and projected his head as best I could. The seizure came to an end shortly.

As he began to recover, I was able to check him for injury. Fortunately, there appeared to be none: by some miracle Sam had fallen perfectly so as to not hit his head, and there appeared to be no injury to his hands or fingers from the door as I forced it open.

In about an hour, Sam had recovered completely and we went on with our day. Another day of attempting to be a good parent—being there for your child when they need you—but once again reminded of how quickly a parent, despite best efforts, can be rendered totally helpless.