I can tell she doesn’t like my nickname. When I was little and not strong enough yet to get my words to come out right, I couldn’t say my own name. “Lily” came out “Ellie.” It stuck. I’m not going to explain it to her.

“Ellie, I’ve been reviewing your charts and the most recent EEG.”

The EEG is a readout of brain waves, and if you squint at it, it looks just like the ocean with peaks and dips. I glance over at Mom, and she’s holding her purse tight to her chest like a little old lady on the bus. These appointments wind her up. She always thinks they’re going to be doom and gloom. Storms at sea. And this one is the big reevaluation, the chance to see if I’m still as seizure-y as I used to be. I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little wound up about it myself. I wish I had something to do with my hands, something to hug, like my old stuffed bear I used to take to all the doctor visits when I was little. We named him Carl, after the main character from the movie Up, because by the time I had learned to speak, I’d already rubbed his ears bald. He looked exactly like a little old man.

“And it looks like there’s been no abnormal activity in…” Long pause as the doctor flips through pages and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Almost six years.” Five years, two hundred and seven days, I think, but who’s counting?

Mom lets out a long sigh and slumps down a little in her chair. I kind of sag forward too and prop my elbows on my armrests. It’s like the good news chased out the worry that was keeping me upright. I can see Mom remembering the fevers and the shakes and the ambulance rides from the seizures. That part’s all a big blur to me. But the fear, like listening for the storm you know is coming, that I remember. I rock back and forth on my wheels, ready to get this show on the road. I’ve been telling Mom for years she doesn’t have to baby me, and now I have proof.

“I think we’re safe to discontinue all medication at this point, Lily—sorry—Ellie. It seems you have outgrown the seizures, as we’d hoped.” The doctor waits for… what? Smiles maybe? Claps on the back like it’s a job well done? I’m not sure, but when neither Mom nor I say anything, she stands and opens the door. Awkward. She doesn’t understand that there’s been mostly sickness and pain for us in this place. We don’t know what to do with happy news in this setting.