Meg was in her robe, but she ran in front of me while I carried Sarah. I sat in the backseat of Meg’s car, holding our daughter firmly, fearing her coming to from the seizure. That return started with a small start, a kick of her leg. She closed then opened her eyes, tried to figure out where she was. She looked at my face, and I thought I detected a flash of recognition, but then she caught sight of the blood-soaked towel wrapped around her hand. Whether it was the sight or the sensation of pain that found its way to her I didn’t know, but she issued the first breath of a scream before passing out. Perhaps she passed out because of a loss of blood. I didn’t know, and it was all so terrifying. Meg ran red lights, leaned forward toward the steering wheel, but said nothing. We arrived at the Huntington Hospital emergency room and I carried Sarah in. The sight of the unconscious child and the copious amount of blood prompted swift attention. If we attracted reproving glances, I was unaware of them. The doctors set to work on Sarah’s hand. We answered all health questions and described the incident. Only then did a nurse raise an eyebrow, but another nurse heard the word Batten and erased the concern of child abuse from the room.

While we waited, Meg in her robe, I in blood, we somehow managed a call to Gurewich, and, to our surprise, she was there in short order. She made clear that there was nothing she could do, but she wanted to be there for us. I amused myself with the thought that people often make a point of declaring their uselessness in order to be helpful. I can’t change anything, but I’m here for you. Still, her presence provided some kind of comfort.

Meg described everything to Gurewich.

“It will not get better,” the doctor said. “It is possible that there will be moments of lucidity. Dementia is a mystery, and it manifests very differently in people, especially in children. I know that this was terrifying for you.”

“That’s an understatement,” I said. I reached over and put my hand on Meg’s. “What do we do? The paranoia is too much.”

It was clear that what Gurewich was going to say next was difficult for her. “You need to consider placing Sarah in a care facility.” That had of course crossed my mind, but I couldn’t maintain the thought, and I certainly hadn’t shared it with Meg. I appreciated that Gurewich had used my daughter’s name, that she had not reduced Sarah to a mere pronoun.

transit lux, umbra permanet