It was a rough weekend for Schuyler. The monster that has been plaguing her lately was as hungry as ever. More complex partial seizures, more storms in her head, leaving her exhausted, sad, confused.
The worst of them hit her in a toy store, sapping her energy and her interest. One minute we were wandering the aisles of Toys-R-Us, dueling with Nerf swords and contemplating the purchase of a very cool dinosaur to add to her collection. The next, she stood in place as if she had no idea how she got there, face flush and eyes blank. We went next door to a pet store, and there was a group there adopting out puppies. There were puppies to play with, but not for her, not this time.
"Can we go home?" she asked quietly.
Later, as we drove to pick up Julie from work, Schuyler and I discussed her seizures. I explained again what was happening, and what we were might do to bring them under control.
"We're going to figure out how to make your brain stop getting mad at you," I told her. "We're going to try our very, very best to make things better, I promise."
She thought this over and nodded. She wasn't sad, exactly. More like... resigned. Without looking at me, she pointed to her throat.
"I want to talk like everyone else," she said.
I'm not sure what it says about me as a parent or a person, but all I could say to her was, "I know, sweetheart. I know. And I'm sorry I can't give that to you."
It says everything about Schuyler that she seemed entirely satisfied with that response.