Stop Waiting for Normal

Living Through My Son’s Seizures and Mental Health Crashes

Jeremy’s back in a mental health hospital. Again. I’ve lost count of how many times this has happened since his first break from reality—the month before he turned 21. He’s 38 now. It feels like a never-ending struggle.

Did he take his meds? Did he take them on time? He overslept by 28 minutes—was that enough of a delay to throw everything off?

He also has seizures and has never had a driver’s license because he’s never been seizure-free for the required six consecutive months. Every time he has another round of seizures, it scrambles his brain again. He’ll walk the house, pacing, not recognizing anyone, not knowing what he’s doing or why. Then he crashes, sleeps for hours, wakes up with a pounding headache, and takes a day or two to settle back into himself.

We’ve learned the hard way how delicate the balance is. One missed dose or a slight change in routine can set off a chain reaction—and we never know how bad it’s going to get.

Normally, Jeremy can take care of himself, even stay solo for weekends. He feeds the dogs, cleans the kitchen, waters the flowers, does his own laundry. Lately, he’s even taken on the role of our every-other-week housekeeper to earn extra money—and he does a good job. He plays video games, reads books, talks with his friends. He’s a regular guy.

He’ll come into the room smiling, excited to tell me about a fun discussion he just had with his online friends, or that he leveled up in a game he’s been grinding on for days. That part of him—curious, trying, present—is so deeply him.

But today, he couldn’t do any of that.

Three days ago, he had four seizures before 7:45 a.m. We called an ambulance. The hospital kept him overnight to sort it out, but while in the ER he missed his morning and afternoon meds. On the ward, they gave him all his meds again—including the psych meds—but still, those two missed doses didn’t help. The hospital wasn’t a psych facility, and when they released him, the nurse said he still didn’t seem “right.” We figured the meds just needed time to catch up. It’s normal for him to be out of it after seizures—and four of them would take a toll on anyone.

Yesterday, he was home all day and started complaining about not being able to see. He could see—he was walking around just fine, looking at people while he talked. But he wasn’t seeing things the way he thought he should. Still, we hoped his meds would kick in. Isn’t that all they really do in the psych hospitals anyway—give them their meds and talk to them?

But this morning, he wasn’t speaking. He was rocking, nodding, tapping his fingers and heels. He needed firm direction just to get dressed and brush his teeth. He couldn’t get ready on his own.

It’s such a pain to get him to a psych ward. We live far from any kind of help—we left the house before 8:30 a.m. and didn’t arrive until a little after 10. Once we got there, the paperwork process dragged on. They put you in a small room with a camera in the corner, so it feels like you’re being watched, assessed. Then the admitting person leaves. You wait. A long time. She comes back, asks a few more questions or goes over forms, then leaves again. More waiting. This happens multiple times. Eventually, she gives an update—Jeremy’s admitted, and a floor nurse will be down soon. But that last wait? Somehow even longer. It was after 2 p.m. before my husband and I were finally able to leave.

So you can see why we tried to wait. Why we hoped we wouldn’t have to go.

With all these issues he has, I keep wondering if I’m somehow to blame. Did I do something wrong? I did push for him to be born two weeks early because his due date didn’t fit my work schedule. Did those two weeks make the difference? Was my job more important than my baby’s health? I’ve always been a workaholic. Did my need to work make my baby sick?

I’ve gone down that rabbit hole, looking for answers. The research is clear: those two weeks didn’t cause this. He was born at a healthy weight—bigger than my other two full-term babies, actually. And 38 weeks is often when doctors plan C-sections if needed.

But facts don’t always quiet the guilt. Every parent wants to know: why?

He started having grand mal seizures at thirteen. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop him from smoking pot with his friends. I knew it was happening. I talked to him about how it interferes with his seizure meds. I even spoke to his friends—told them I didn’t care what they did, but please, don’t pass it to Jeremy. It was bad for his seizures. None of it made a difference. He kept getting high.

People think pot is harmless because it’s natural. Well, so is belladonna. Doesn’t mean it won’t kill you. Natural doesn’t equal safe. Marijuana can affect brain development—especially during adolescence. The damage is real.

From what I’ve learned, Jeremy’s psychiatric issues are a mix of genetics, the seizures, years of marijuana use, and just plain bad luck.

But still, I feel guilty every time he has to go into the hospital. I keep thinking someone’s going to say I’m not fit to be his guardian. Is that normal? Apparently, yes. Parents carry the guilt. We just do.

Right now, I’m not so sure about therapy. At least, not today. It was easier when I shut off my emotions and kept moving forward. This reflecting and wondering? It’s painful. (Hope my therapist doesn’t read this—definitely not a five-star review of her profession, haha.)

I could use a good cry right about now.