Thanks. Meh. We got her home and I put her to bed. She'll be fine. She might even be well enough to go out to evening events. I hope so; there's a "Furry Night" at a local gay bar, and this is like my one chance this year to go there. (Yes, the mate knows all about everything; her only complaint is how much room all my toys take in the storage compartment under the bed.)
The child and I have a joke: "We must look like the
worst people ever." Because whenever my mate has a seizure at home, she has just enough warning to get on the floor, which she does. One of us grabs a pillow and shoves it under her head and then... we wait. She thrashes and shudders a lot. It's pretty horrible to watch. Her face gets covered in spit and if she's unlucky she bites her lip or tongue and blood joins it. Then she falls still, except for this rhythmic, deep-sea breathing sound from all the saliva she's aspirated, like a horse that can't get enough air.
And the child and I don't do a thing. We sit there on one of the couches, and we glance up from our book or tablet or drawing pad or whatever once in a while to make sure she's okay, but we don't do a thing.
Because there's nothing to do. There's nothing that
can be done. The only thing to do is wait until her brain finishes rebooting, which takes about twenty minutes, and then put her to bed. At most, if she ends up on her back, I manhandle her into the
recovery position (that's a link) so she stops aspirating spit.
After 25 years of taking care of her, I'm okay with the occasional disruption, but, yeah, why today of all days
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