Friday's event included a blood-stained sheet presumably from C.'s bitten tongue.
I concede that there is no rhyme or reason to this, but these near-status epilepticus episodes cause me to melt down. My ever-calm and rational Hubby points out that after nineteen years of this I should be able to keep my cool. I wholeheartedly agree with him. I should. But I can't.
And in addition to the emotional toll it takes, these episodes - which we haven't had for several years - clearly enhance my already ample array of wrinkles as you can see in this self portrait.
We're still hoping that all this is a side effect of C.'s being entirely off her benzodiazepine.