We spent the other night in the ER with Simon, learning about febrile seizures the hard way. Simon is fine now, a little lethargic, but I’m still kicking myself over it. He’d had a fever since the previous night. I gave him children’s Tylenol once during the day but I hadn’t been monitoring the fever very closely and I hadn’t been consistent in giving him medicine. I keep thinking that if I’d done those things, we could have saved ourselves the drama of a 911 call, an ambulance ride, a wait in a crowded ER, the pain of finding out he was up to 105 degrees, and the embarrassment of thinking that if we had been more diligent, it might not have happened.
It’s possible his temperature would have spiked anyway, that the Tylenol itself wouldn’t have been very effective, that there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. The seizure was relatively harmless (for him if not for us); Simon is fine and he should have no lasting effects or be in any danger of suffering more seizures. But I can’t stop thinking that it’s so hard to know what to do sometimes. He’d had a fever a few weeks ago and we took him to the doctor — he had a bit of an ear infection, but the doctor said he would be fine, that kids bounce back from these things quickly, and so I didn’t think another comparable fever was a big deal. On top of that, I’m the kind of mom who is hesitant to give medicine too quickly or too frequently.
I’m trying to chalk it up to experience and hope that next time I’ll be more prepared. I’m trying to tell myself that these things happen — to anyone, to everyone. Still, I can’t help but blame myself and wonder what would have happened if the seizure hadn’t stepped in to wake me up to the seriousness of the situation.