I have a 10-year old now. One who reads over my shoulder as I’m texting one of my epilepsy friends, and says, “You’re writing about seizures,” very matter-of-factly.

“Honey, you know what a seizure is, right?” I ask my daughter.

Does she know?? She claims to “know” so much, half of which I blow off or ignore, much to my chagrin at the moment.

“Yes, I know,” she say, her standard response for anything other than “What do you want for dinner?” or “What should I wear today?” She sounds almost annoyed.

She proceeds to tell me a seizure is one of those funny brain things I had up until my surgery three and a half years ago. “I saw you have one and it wasn’t that scary,” she says, sounding very matter-of-fact, which both comforts and terrifies me.

Her ongoing description is one of Mommy having a seizure in the night when she’d come up to our room in the night, and Daddy was “screaming” as I slowly came out of my groggy state.

“Screaming?” I ask, feeling my shoulders tense.

“Well, you know, he was upset. And he told me it would be alright and I needed to give you a few minutes.” She looks at me, perplexed.

“And you know I was always protected, right, sweetie?” I am choked up now, trying to keep it together. “You know you and I were safe, I came through it okay, I had your daddy and by the grace of God and I was safe,” I am not hiding the tears now.

“I know, Mommy,” she says. “Don’t cry please.”

What can I say? The ache still sits close to the surface for me.

“I just…I love you so much,” I tell her.

“I love you and Daddy. And I love Oreo,” she says, referring to her new pet kitten. And then she tells me that she KNOWS that if there is an emergency she should always call 911 for help.

I could tell her more. About the way my seizures started, or more of the journey leading me to brain surgery. But for now, I think what she knows is enough.

And what I KNOW is this: I’ll never stop talking about it, never stop sharing, never stop thanking God for my brain health, my wellness, and for my daughter.