My pen hovers over the check box on the yellow card, the ubiquitous yellow health card that I've had to fill out every year my kids have been in school. The yellow card they haven't updated in decades except to squeeze in a tiny spot for parents to write their email addresses provided their email addresses are not more than four letters long.
Check if your child has a health concern that may require attention during the day.
I set my pen down and rub my temples. This is the third and last little yellow card I've filled out today. Along with Internet usage agreements, free & reduced lunch forms, insurance cards, and a paper I had to sign promising the school that my children won't be bullies.
I've checked this box for seven years in a row, usually in a dark, black marker, with an additional sheet stapled to the back. And a note asking to sit down with the school nurse at her earliest convenience. But this year…
Kathryn's last visit to the neurologist was just that: her last visit to the neurologist. Her last. Two years seizure free, two years with clean EEGs. Her neurologist shook our hands at the end of the appointment and told us that she didn't see any reason for us to schedule a return visit. Kathryn didn't say anything, but that's her way. The neurologist wanted more. "Aren't you excited?" she asked. Kathryn said yeah, her gaze unable to choose between the floor, me, or her doctor, so she just kind of spun her head around for a moment.
And that was it. We were done.
Except as we walked out of the examination room, the doctor took my arm. "Before you go, let me give you a prescription for Diastat." I knew Diastat. It's a powerful sedative, one you keep in reserve for the big seizures. One you can administer to a seizing patient without her participation or consent.
"But…" I said.
"I know, I know," she said, taking out her prescription pad. "It's just in case. You don't even have to fill it if you don't want to. But please do. Fill it. For me. I'll feel better."
Kathryn was already down the hall. She heard none of this. The doctor signed the script and pushed it into my hand.
Check if your child has a health concern that may require attention during the day.
I check the box. Underneath I write "Seisure disorder. Diagnosed 2007."
Maybe next year I'll leave it blank.