For a time late this afternoon, the hospital room was silent except for the hum of the building's heating system, and the hiss of oxygen gas being released into the air. Cianna was taking a well-earned nap from the struggles of the day. It was in these quiet moments that Amy, my mom and I sat thinking about what it means for Cianna now that she has been diagnosed with epilepsy. She'll have to take medication twice a day for at least the next two years, and likely for the rest of her life in the hopes that, like many, she'll be able to completely control the beast. Hopefully, she'll be able to drive a car one day.

For the days and weeks to come, she'll continue having seizures until we arrive at the correct composition and dosage of medication. I cradled her tonight for two of her sets of seizures, one time in bed, and the other in the pediatric ward playroom where she slumped forward to the floor while pushing a toy. Each attack was a punch in my stomach that pushed tears up into my eyes.

But Super Girl is pushing back on the lapses of consciousness. In the playroom, she started a heaving cry of frustration in between the seizures as if she was trying to push them away. I think this otherwise life-loving girl doesn't want to be cheated out of even some tens of seconds of life experience. There are too many flowers to smell, books to read, balls to toss, hugs to give, spoonfulls of ice cream to eat.

I've only had an hour of sleep in the last two days, so I'm signing off...

- mike lee - wheaton, md