August 28th was my oldest daughter's birthday. It's also the feast of St. Augustine, which probably doesn't seem very important, but for me, that fact holds special significance. My childhood parish was named for St. Augustine. It was where I worshipped, received education, took part in youth group activities, and played guitar in the Folk Masses of the early 70's. I was confirmed and later, married at St. Augustine's. Since John and I had been married in this church bearing his name, the fact that our first child was born on his feast day made me feel as though he was still a special patron to me. For those unfamiliar with Augustine, he lived quite the wild life until age 33, when he accepted the faith of his mother, Monica, who prayed for him constantly. We mothers do that. We pray for our children.

Attending Mass with my mother was not an unusual occurrence, but there is one visit to church that stands out in my memory. I can recall my mother and I kneeling down and praying side by side. Mama leaned over to me and asked that I say a prayer of thanks that my epilepsy had "been cured." She was speaking of my Petit-Mal (Absence) seizures, which had first presented at about age 5. It was at that moment that I first realized my mother had been praying for my "episodes" to go away. I was never aware of experiencing them, so I really hadn't realized that I'd not been having any. Quite frankly, beyond being asked, "Do you remember anything? " , by those around me, I never had any awareness of seizure activity. Was this something to be concerned about? Like any child, I happily accepted the word of my mother, who had some tears of joy in her eyes.

I believe that my mother's faith was sorely tested, if not changed forever, on the day of my first Grand Mal seizure. I was 12 years old and in 7th grade. I hadn't a clue as to what happened to me, other than the fact that I was sitting in study hall one moment and laying down in the nurse's office the next. Mama arrived in the teal Dodge Dart, and drove me home from school. I didn't feel strange or ill, just tired. My mother, on the other hand, seemed nervous and fretful.

From my bedroom, I could hear Mama speaking on the telephone in hushed tones to my father at work, and then to a doctor I'd never heard of before. After she hung up the phone, I listened to the sound of her footsteps draw closer to my doorway. When she entered, she looked at me and asked if anything upsetting had happened at school.

"Yes", I answered.

"What was it?", she inquired.

I hung my head.

"I went from an A to a C in English on my report card and I don't understand why."

It was true. I remember the dismay I felt when Miss Burkenholder entered the unexpected grade onto the report card grid. I loved English class and had no idea my average would be so low.

"OK, Don't worry about that. Just don't worry about that", my mother instructed. I might not have understood much of what was going on at that moment, but I knew that the tears welling up in her eyes were not tears of joy. She left the room and I remember softly crying and feeling confused.

I've written in an earlier entry of my parents' marvelous unconditional love and support. There is no question that my late parents were terrific in the way they raised me. As I grew into adulthood, saw my seizures more greatly controlled, married and began my own life , it seemed as though any real worry about epilepsy on my parents' part surely must have been long gone.

After 3 years of marriage, John and I learned that we were expecting a baby sometime in August. We were thrilled! Like any young woman, I could not wait to share my joyous news with my mother. I wanted to see the look in her eyes, the happiness in her face, and have her squeal in delight with me as we would chatter about baby names. The happily anticipated scene played itself over and over in my mind as we drove to tell her.

The news, however, had the opposite effect. I remember the crushing disappointment of my mother turning toward me with a look of shock on her face. Her response to the news that she was going to have her first grandchild was:

"What if you have a seizure while you're holding the baby?"

I was stunned. In my wildest dreams I never could have imagined this. Her words and actions appeared contrary to everything positive she'd tried to instill in me regarding my epilepsy. My eyes followed her as she moved around the kitchen verbalizing every fear about how my epilepsy could present a danger to a child. On top of everything else, she revealed that she felt I couldn't handle all the unexpected complexities that life would surely throw at me. She even asked me if John and I had consulted a genetic counselor. I couldn't believe my ears! All I could do was try to reassure her that everything was going to be all right.

"Don't worry about that.", I told her. Just don't worry about that."

Things had come full circle. Mama used to tell me not to worry. Now I was trying to tell her the same. How could I possibly persuade my mother, the knower of all things for me from childhood, that she was being unnecessarily fearful? My joy was turning to dejection. It was John who would now tell me, all would be well.

Celeste was born at 11:33am 26 years ago. Sarah followed three years later and James two years after that. I've prayed like all mothers, with or without epilepsy, that my children be safe. The odd twist for those of us with epilepsy, is that we may offer a prayer that our children be safe from harm should we be near them during a seizure. Even when experiencing perfect control with medication, the flashes of concern never stopped during their early years. The "What if.." scenarios were plentiful and bombarded the consciousness with unexpected frequency during every possible activity. However,in the face of all that worry, we've been able to push the negative aside and focus on what we recognized as the positive. When I think of how quickly they have grown, I am reminded of a writing of St. Augustine's. In it, he speaks of how, in the time it takes to reflect upon the future moment, it has already passed into the present and became the past. Moral of the story: Don't waste time being fearful. It goes all too quickly. Don't let the fears stop you from living.

This week unfolded in a way that none of us expected. On Monday morning, my husband, John had emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix. A sepsis infection would keep him in hospital and he would need antibiotics and painkillers. I returned to teaching on Tuesday, with all the time consuming obligations that accompany the beginning of a school year. Our oldest daughter, Celeste, went into labor on Wednesday, which means my husband and my daughter were both in the same hospital! Yesterday morning you would have found me driving to work with my grandson Max securely fastened into his car seat. Though only 3 and a half, he would be spending the day with me in my second grade classroom while his mother and father were busy on the maternity ward and Grandpa was on the surgical care floor. It was on the way to the school that the phone call came: Baby Emma Grace was born sometime before 8am.

My first baby daughter, has given birth to her first baby daughter. Later that afternoon the surgeon calls. John can finally come home.

I offer up prayers of thanks.