You can read part one of this story here.
As a matter of sanity, we’ve accepted that perhaps Cami will not be long for this world. If no one knows what’s wrong with her, then what’s wrong with her could be far worse (or far better) than any of us know. The joke has always been that Cami is just aging slowly—that she’s like some throwback to early Biblical times and this is just what a super long life looks like at the beginning of it. But, if thats’ not the casse, then where does that leave her? How long can a person whose body develops so little and has her attendant complications expect to live? No one knows.
Erin jumped into the ambulance with Cami and I headed back into the house. Elora was on the phone, but handed it over quickly. Erin’s friend Kristie had been driving home and followed the ambulance down the street. She called as soon as she could after seeing it stop at our house and graciously offered her services. I thanked her and asked her to come by and grab Elora.
Elora, bored with listening to one side of a conversation she cared little about in the first place, was now on the computer playing a game. After getting off the phone with Kristie, I scolded her.
“Elora! Now…now is not the time to be playing on the computer!”
“What? Mommy said I should!”
“S-she did?” Of course she did. That’s because your mother is a genius.
By the time Kristie had gotten to our house I had called both grandmas. My mom volunteered to have Elora stay with her, and Kristie was tasked with taking her over there. I knelt down beside Elora before she left to reassure her that Cami would be okay (as if I knew any such thing) and that she hadn’t done anything wrong by laughing at her. There was no way she could understand what was happening.
The first time this happened Elora was already in Los Angeles ahead of us and spent much of that night sobbing. Now, seeing it firsthand, it was different for her. We said everything was going to be fine and she believed us. I was grateful for that.
By the time I got to the hospital, the ambulance had already arrived, but only just. My Mother-in-Law, Lynn, was there too. We embraced and waited for our chance to go back into the ER to be with Cami and Erin. When we finally got to them, Erin, her face red with the trauma of the past hour, was laying on her back on the bed and Cami was lying face down on top of her.
Cami still moaned, softly. The seizure had taken her normal behavior and thrown it back about three years. There was a time when she was just a lump. A cute lump, but still a lump that didn’t do much other than sleep and stare. The pain was forcing her back into that. That’s what I told myself. It was just the pain.
After the doctor and nurses got the I.V. in her (and after a lot of screaming, of course) the lump insisted on sitting up and rising back to life. I pulled out my iPod, treating her to a silent home movie I had edited together in which she is the star. She also got to play as much Awesome Ball as she wanted. With strength that had been beyond her reach just an hour earlier, she shook the virtual ball as hard as she could, laughing as she sent it careening around the virtual room. For some reason, bouncing balls are hilarious to Cami, real or unreal.
“Hi,” she turned to me and said.
“Hi,” I said back.
* * *
Cami has had other seizures since, but the last one was a year ago. Near as anyone can tell, they’re not damaging her in any permanent way.