It’s Sunday night. Joey’s having a bath during halftime of the Super Bowl. The TV’s flipped to Animal Planet’s Puppy Bowl because most NFL halftime shows reek, although I (Tim) thought Prince put on a good one in 2007.
From the bathroom comes the telltale gasping, groaning and thumping of Joey in a seizure. So we storm in there, control his head and just try to be calm until it passes. This is a longish one for him, maybe 2 minutes worth.
He goes into deep breathing, almost snoring, after these episodes. We wrap a bulky towel around his head and neck like a travel pillow, drain the tub, and put a large beach towel over him so he won’t get cold. Then we just wait until he is able to get up, accept our spotting against falls, slide into some night clothes, and bundle into bed.
We take turns on watch in the bathroom. The game’s back on the TV, and the announcers are revved up about a power failure of some kind at the Super Dome. The second half might be delayed by another 15 minutes, if you can imagine a national catastrophe of that magnitude.
This will sound petty, but another stinky aspect of care giving is that you can’t allow yourself beer buzzes and junk food stupors, even on Super Sunday. You become a perpetual designated driver.
We’re just breathing deep and letting our adrenalin, like the water in Joey’s tub, drain away as we recover from our latest household excitement.