And so I tell her. I let all my worries and fears come tumbling out. By the time I’ve finished, my voice is wobbly with emotion. “And even if I don’t have a major seizure, I know I still have partials from time to time. I only lose consciousness for a few seconds, but anything could happen in that time, couldn’t it? It only takes a few seconds for something bad to happen.”

I stare at my knees. It only takes a few seconds for someone to die. The image of a denim sleeve caught up in a bush flashes into my mind and I have to concentrate really hard to make it go away. Sometimes the image is so real it’s as though it’s right here in front of me.

Catherine does her best to ease my fears. She doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know, or haven’t read for myself on the internet, but somehow it helps, hearing her say the words out loud.

“You need to develop coping strategies,” she says, and for the next ten minutes, she goes over all the things I need to do to keep myself and my baby safe. Setting the alarm on my phone to remind me to take my tablets; sleeping when the baby sleeps; making sure I’ve got lots of quick and easy meals in the house, so I don’t get hungry or have to spend too much time preparing something to eat; setting up a nappy-changing place both upstairs and downstairs, so I don’t have to use the stairs if the baby needs changing; sitting on the floor with my back supported when feeding her, so if the worst happens and I do have a seizure, she won’t have far to fall; using a car seat to carry her around the house and up and down the stairs; and, of course, making sure someone phones me at regular intervals throughout the day, to check that I’m okay, preferably someone with a key. Like Ross, or a friend or neighbor.

Not for the first time, I can’t help feeling resentful that epilepsy still features so largely in my life, that I’ll never be free of it. It’s like a specter, waiting in the shadows. The fear of its sudden ambush never entirely goes away.

Catherine starts arranging the books into a pile on the table. I move to help her, but she’s already scooped them up and is out of her seat.

“I’ll put these back on the shelves,” she says.