Mason, we’ve learned, has a condition called Benign Rolandic Epilepsy, though his case is in several ways atypical—that is to say, more severe but not malignant. In early August he had an early-morning tonic-clonic (also known as “grand mal”) seizure that lasted about eight minutes—probably longer, since we slept through the beginning of it. What followed was predictably terrifying: I stammered my way through the 911 call while Nicole held Mason and talked to him—and then he stopped breathing, and everything thereafter seems, in memory, panicked and absurd. Oddly, Nicole carried him to the bathroom. Oddly, I kept going up and down the stairs, looking out the door for the ambulance, then checking to see whether he’d started breathing again—which he soon did. Oddly, when the ambulance carried him away, I expected to find him back inside, still asleep.

Of the hospital visit that day, I’ll only say that the nurses and doctors in the emergency room were kind, and a number of tests ruled out any brain abnormalities, and he stayed overnight for observation, where more kind nurses and doctors checked in on him. I felt rather useless, guilty for having not responded better in the moment of crisis.

The neurologist ordered an MRI, and in the weeks between his first episode and the MRI appointment, Mason experienced more seizures—one tonic-clonic, several partial. The MRI, when he finally had it, looked good, which was a relief, but the seizures were still occurring, and their pattern was unusual, so this week Mason was given a 48-hour at-home EEG, which is what you see in the photo above: many electrodes on his head, some on his chest, all feeding into wires that run beneath his mesh cap and into a backpack where a machine recorded his brain activity. I pretended, when Nicole brought him home from the neurologist’s office, that he was outfitted for space exploration, and Mason and Eleanor and I made a game of going from room to room, unholstering weapons and firing upon hostile aliens—and this was a necessary game to play, at least at first, because the alternative was to dwell on what the apparatus of the EEG, as visible as his brain’s electric pulses were invisible, might reveal.

The first day of the EEG was uneventful, but last night Mason had a partial seizure; and this morning he had a third tonic-clonic seizure, ten minutes long, followed by several hours of nausea and lethargy. What can I say about these episodes? By now Nicole and I know how to check each other’s responses; we communicate calmly, almost telepathically, which redeems the clumsiness of that early August day when this all started. The seizures themselves are bad, but I think the aftermath is worse: he’s weak, frustrated by the weakness, too claustrophobic to be held by both of his parents at once, afraid to be alone. Sometimes he remembers what happened; most of the time he doesn’t. This morning, Nicole and I knew, even before the afternoon’s consultation, that whatever had been happening to Mason wouldn’t be anomalous: this is part of life in our family now, and will be for a while.

Mason’s neurologist told us this afternoon that the EEG indicates Benign Rolandic Epilepsy, with the qualification that Mason’s seizures are more varied, intense, and frequent than most children with BRE. He’s likely to outgrow it in his teens, but will have to be managed medically until then. His first dose of medication was a few hours ago. We’ll be watching to see if the common side effects show up—mainly, a ten-to-twenty percent chance of behavioral changes: aggression, grumpiness, drowsiness. A vitamin supplement is supposed to mitigate the possibility of behavior change.

These events don’t tally into narrative—which is to say, this is just life. People become unhealthy, they develop conditions, they manage and recover. Or not. All told, epilepsy, and especially his kind of epilepsy, is something with which one can live. Meanwhile, I admire Mason’s way of handling his own fragility. He never cried before a CAT scan or MRI, didn’t flinch at the IV needle, never complained about the wires on his head, even when it was obvious that they itched. He is better composed than his father. His is a good way to keep going.

Maddie tried to get this one to climb onto a stick, but it curled up and refused to move.