Gilly’s epilepsy returned with a thunderous shock. As with Hurricane Hermine, it proved deceptively powerful.

For the first time in over a decade, a hurricane made landfall on Florida. A year ago today, another storm rolled into my family’s life, though not one of fierce rain and tidal surges. My daughter’s epilepsy, previously well managed, returned with a thunderous shock. As with Hurricane Hermine, it proved deceptively powerful.
The hurricane flooded coastal homes. Many had to find new shelter. One friend posted photos of her flooded home on Facebook. She commented how sad it made her to look at her stripped-down house of ruined furniture, carpet and heirlooms.
“It will never be the same,” she commented next to a picture of her living room that now looked like a swimming pool.
Gilly welcomed her freshman year of college with the typical enthusiasm of a young adult entering an exciting new world. She had good reason. Gilly loved all that college gave her: new friends, interesting and diverse classes, and a bookstore/coffee shop she instantly claimed as her own. Her health condition had been managed for over two years without a seizure. In fact, her doctors considered weaning her from her anti-epileptic medicines.
Life was good.
And then it wasn’t.
One evening, I had just turned off my computer when Gilly called me, crying, telling me she was napping in her dorm alone then awoke on the floor, bruised, bloodied and confused. The next nine weeks were a squall of one grand mal after the next. Six total. In December, Gilly’s hospital stay revealed a new diagnosis and treatment.
This came on the heels of other crises we had faced in the past eight years: a life-altering condition for my son, professional transition for my husband and me, and far-too-frequent moves from one rental to the next, a side effect of the Great Recession. There were times I wanted to scream, “Enough! I think we’ve met our quota!”
But that’s not how it works. Adversity can be relentless, like the 2004 four-hurricanes-in-six-weeks that impacted Florida. Like my family’s hard times. I’ve learned from both.
Lesson No. 1: Preparation is helpful, but so is endurance and acceptance.
It’s a good idea to be ready before a storm hits. Stock up on supplies, have an emergency plan. Then, brace yourself for the long haul. Hurricane Hermine was swift and strong. It could have hung around longer, knocking the state off balance. So can a personal crisis. Not only did I come to appreciate the value of emotionally pacing myself for the unknowns in my daughter’s future, I also recognized the raw beauty of just living in the now. No matter how many precautions we took, we didn’t know when another seizure would strike. So Gilly and I made a promise to each other: We’d take the right precautions then go about living our lives the best way we could.
Lesson No. 2: Rely on your instincts when the power goes out.
Man-made illumination comes in handy when you’re in the dark. But that doesn’t mean you fall asleep to burning candles. Common sense tells you otherwise. I’ve experienced the ink-black darkness of despair. If you’re not careful, desperation can make you impetuous, leading you to grab the first option available to get the heck out of permanent midnight. Yet that is often the dead last way to respond. Often, I had to sit in the dark for a while. The abyss of quiet and calm gave me a chance to clear my head and heart. I was still. And I didn’t hurt myself as much bumping into things.
Lesson No. 3: When you’re drowning, accept the life preserver.
I am a big proponent of the airplane oxygen mask theory: You can’t save anyone else if you don’t first save yourself. Take the cannula. Caregiving for others isn’t just a full time job, it’s a lifestyle. If you’re lucky, you have friends and family who sign up to carry you when you need it and even when you don’t think you do. It was hard for me to accept a month of meals made by others who delivered them to my door. But, oh how it saved me. And nourished my family in rich and true ways.
A friend gave Gilly a plaque with a quote by “Little Women” author Louisa May Alcott: “I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.”
On a rare occasion, I will look at photos of my family taken before our lives were upheaved by circumstance. For a moment, I get sad, realizing life will never be the same. Then I think of how grateful I am we are all alive, still breathing, still fighting away the fear and swimming toward the light.
Storms will come into our lives. How we manage them is up to us.