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He remembers his parents coming into his room. Remembers his dad kneeling next to him, his mom telling him what the doctors said. What it all meant. He remembers the sluggish realization of what she was saying. He remembers breaking down sobbing in her arms.
The one thing he doesn’t remember is the seizures.
The first one. He remembers feeling. . . off. But with everything going on between Alex and Cole, not to mention Skylar and himself, it seemed reasonable. He was exhausted. He was suspended, he was grounded for a month. His headaches had been bothering him.
Then, he remembers feeling anxious. But that made sense, right? Because Alex and Cole were fighting – again. Then, that all faded away, and- nothing.
Alex confessed into the quiet of the night he came home that it was terrifying. Seeing him convulse on the floor. Hearing him make some whimpering noise. Nathan believes him. It sounds awful, but he doesn’t remember anything,
He has vague memories of waking up in the hospital. He thinks he woke up in the ambulance, but he’s not sure. All he knows for sure is that when he woke up in the hospital he was exhausted, and the most sore he’s ever been in his life. Everything ached, and the slightest movement left him worn out. He remembers seeing his parents, and nearly crying from relief. Soon after that, the majority of his brothers (though technically, Lee and Isaac are his cousins). But more than anything, he remembers feeling hopelessly confused. Nothing made any sense, and he had no idea why he was there.
He doesn’t remember anything about the second seizure.
He recalls the nurses putting on the equipment, remembers how weird it felt, and nothing after that. Not till he woke up, soreness reinvigorated.
He remembers the numbness he felt on the way home. It wasn’t physical, he was just. . . in shock. But his problems faded away when he was enveloped in a group hug. He didn’t have to worry about the future in that moment – he could just enjoy spending time with his family.
He remembers how tightly even Cole hugged him. He remembers the tears in his own eyes, and the ones in a few others’. He remembers a very tasty dinner.
He remembers Skylar.
His fourth ever kiss.
That one he doesn’t mind remembering.
He also remembers several members of his family teasing him the second Skylar left. That memory was a little more eyeroll inducing. But nothing could’ve wiped the grin off of his face.
He remembers the first appointment with the neurologist, two days later. How he had to face it again. Remembers being prescribed medicine, two pills a day forever. Or, at least, the foreseeable future. He remembers going to the pharmacy. He remembers looking up how to pronounce the name.
Levetiracetam.
Leh-vuh-tuh-ra-suh-tam.
He thinks.
One memory he really hates is that evening, when his parents sat everyone down to go over the new rules. No movies with flashing lights when he’s around, no keeping him up late, no messing with his meds. If he seizes, to put something soft under his head, put his head to the side, and have someone get Mom or Dad – but never leave him alone while seizing.
He really hates that memory.
His guitar sits dormant in his lap. His hands rest on it, completely still as he’s been caught up in his head. At least they’re not convulsing. He sighs, coming back to the present, and sets his guitar to the side, flopping back on his bed. He wants to groan, but that doesn’t even begin to express his emotions. More than anything, he wants to write, and play, and sing, and do something with all the feelings whirling around in his gut, but he can’t seem to focus. Everything comes back to that inevitable thought.
I have epilepsy.
Epilepsy doesn’t go away. Nathan was still tired and confused and in shock when his mom first told him, but he’s pretty sure of that part. His life is going to be filled with medicine and doctors appointments and despite all that, probably seizing. He hasn’t seized since the hospital – the meds seem to be working, at least. But then again, he’d never seized before that day in the dining room either. Maybe his brain’s just biding its time. Maybe he’s going to seize at the worst moment and then keep seizing and never stop.
Nathan sucks in a shakey breath.
What if the medication does work, but he loses it, or takes too much? Or- the doctor mentioned a medical alert bracelet. Permanent jewelry. How fun. That wasn’t at all a stressful concept.
He blows out a breath heavily, shakey again.
And he knows this can’t be cheap. He knows his parents can’t pay for all these doctor’s appointments, knows that he’s too expensive.
Tears are welling up in his eyes.
If they can’t pay for it, what will they do? Will he stop taking his medication? Will he seize all the time? Will he smack his limbs on something, or hit his head and-
He registers the tears drip down the sides of his face.
He’s so scared.
Nathan turns his head to the side, ignoring the tear now running across his nose, ignoring the thought of one of his siblings having to do it for him, and stares at his guitar. Flicks his eyes up to the posters on his wall.
He never really let himself indulge in the fantasy of becoming a musician. Maybe a music teacher, or something else more attainable than an actual, full time songwriter. But now there’s somehow even less hope. How would he be able to hold down any job, let alone something that would involve performing, with the risk of seizing?
Logically, he knows that’s stupid. He’s googled enough about epilepsy to know plenty of people live fairly normal lives with it. But he just can’t quite believe it right now.
Logically, he shouldn’t be this emotional over it. It could be worse. He’s probably imagining things that will never happen. But he can’t help the fear that grips his chest, chokes his breath, stutters his tears.
He gasps in a breath, following it with a shuddering sob of an exhale.
He curls up into himself, rolling onto his side, and lets himself cry for a minute. Or several. But eventually he starts to feel an itching in his skin, an anger , because he wants so badly to just be able to sing and write and play-
He throws himself up and grabs his guitar, fingers immediately moving into position. And finally, he starts to strum.
There’s not much to it. No words, no discernable pattern, but the grip around his lungs is loosening. The instrument breathes in between strums, and breathes out his anger. His fear. His sadness, and all the other confusing, unlable-able emotions swirling around in every inch of his body.
There’s still a sobbing aspect to his breathing, but it feels like one of relief. One of finally finding something, something, something. Vaguely, he realizes his fingers have started to hurt, but he doesn’t care. The strings of his guitar cut into his skin more than usual, with how hard he’s strumming, but the music finally means he feels like he can feel these emotions- well, manageably. Pours enough of them out than he can focus on whatever’s left.
What’s left still isn’t pretty. But it’s something he can feel, something he can process.
Slowly, he starts to feel like it’s okay to be scared. Thinks a little more rationally about the hypotheticals of what he’s lost, and the sadness and anger lessen a bit now. What’s left feels. . . accurate. Fair. Right. He can feel that, he’s allowed to feel that.
It’s not lame that I like you.
It’s not. And it’s not lame that he wants to scream about all of this either.
His fingers stop strumming, and he feels exhausted. Drained, but more settled than any time in the last few days. Even when he was with his family, or Skylar, it was simmering under his skin.
He blows out a breath. Feels like sharp pain in his fingertips, so much better than the all encompassing ache of after a seizure.
He sets his guitar down, next to his bed, and turns his hands over, examining them. There’s one small scratch, a drop or two of blood sitting on it, from where a string hit the top of his finger. It was far from the worst scrape he’d gotten playing, but he sighs and stands anyway.
Nathan makes his way to the bathroom (which is luckily open) and tears open a bandaid for the scrape. It stings just barely as he wraps the bandaid around his finger, but he barely notices. It feels like he can breathe again, through all of the muck inside of his head. A tiny scratch is an easy trade for that.
Slowly, Nathan walks back to his room. There’s nothing he can do about any of this, and that’s terrifying. But he feels relieved anyway. He carefully begins to put his guitar away. As he opens the case, a paper tucked inside catches his eye. Nathan pulls it out, immediately recognizing the notes and chords that run across the page. Scrawled at the top is “ Skylar’s Song ”. It’s one of his early drafts, but far enough in that he gave it some kind of a name.
He feels a connection to it, even though the song changed a lot after that. There was just something so raw, so right about the whole thing.
Nathan glances at the paper on his desk.
Maybe there is something he can do.
He quickly slides the paper back inside the case, but leaves his guitar out. He scooches into his desk chair, grabs a pencil, and a piece of paper.
It’s not going to change anything. He still has epilepsy, which almost makes him sick to his stomach to think. But this gave him peace before, and it just might do it again.
His mind finally a little clearer, Nathan begins to write.