It's Launch Time
Endings & Beginnings are the Hardest Part
Well before London passed, when we knew her specific epileptic condition of cluster seizures would eventually take her from us, my family and I dedicated ourselves to learning about epilepsy in dogs and spreading awareness & support. The only problem with this shared ambition was when. Before London passed, we were managing her disease, and after she was gone, the grief and trauma of her disease and passing prevented us from broaching the subject.
When is probably the most suspenseful part of epilepsy. The family members of dogs who suffer from seizures experience a constant feeling of helplessness from the disease. It’s almost as though the family, not just the dog, has been diagnosed. We develop superstitions and rituals and try to mask the steady feeling of never-ending fear that pervades every waking and sleeping moment.
Living in fear is certainly an awful way to live. Until recently, I’ve been living in grief, and it is equally awful in its own way. So how do we manage our own symptoms of our dogs’ conditions?
We all only have the power to do what we can.
The best comfort I found in confronting the fear of the next seizure was realizing that in actuality, we were the most helpful persons when seizures struck. We kept London safe, provided medical intervention, took notes, videoed, and handled emergency procedures. After the seizures, we were the only ones familiar with her to help her return to her normal habits.
At the next vet appointment, the team of neurologists were always grateful of our detailed logs. Epilepsy is very different in every patient. In a way, the data we recorded helped more than just our London. Those notes and the choice to continue fighting with our furry friends: we’re also aiding the dogs of tomorrow born with this disease.
Processing grief is quite a bit different, I’ve learned thanks to therapy. (Highly recommend, 10/10.) Grief doesn’t have a end goal or a higher cause. The first thing you need to do is to actually process through the grief. It’s hard. It hurts. It’s unfair. Unlike humans with epilepsy, we can’t explain anything to our four-legged best friends.
This blog and fundraising effort to raise money for the Texas A&M Veterinary Neurology Fund is part of my grief processing. Getting here has been a long road. It’s 2022. Nearly 3 years. But I’m here. And I’m asking you to join me: Read about canine epilepsy and the ongoing studies, share this blog, and if you can, donate to the cause.
Epilepsy is a disease that teaches those who confront it the power of the present moment. In this moment, I have the presence of mind to lend my creative talents to this cause. Even if all you do is take the time to read, it’s a start. Thank you for being here.