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STATUS EPILEPTICUS |
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| ”It’s true.
Dogs are used for all sorts of things these days. There’s virtually nothing
you can’t use them for. You know, there’s so much we humans can’t…perceive.
But dogs can.” “Ok, ok, I’ll try it out, just spare me all that new age crap.” That’s how I got Ciceron. Ciceron was two and a half, and had a thick brown fur with black spots. Initially, I was very skeptical towards the entire idea of having a pet, let alone one that would monitor my health. But I had tried so much, so much that had only made my condition worse; carbamazepine, clorazepate, clonazepam, ethosuximide, concotions whose mere names could overwhelm even the most seasoned linguist, and add to that a fair amount of naturopathic drugs, herbs, spices, teas and oil massages, even those needles the Chinese are so fond of pricking each other with. The seizures came on a monthly basis, but not regularly down to the minute, which meant I could never be perfectly prepared, I just had this hunch, an ominous voice in the back of my head whispering that it was soon time, but the whispers could last for hours or days, and even come and go, and the only thing I knew for sure was that when the attack came, it would take me by surprise. You could say I was quite desperate. When Ciceron first entered my studio apartment he didn’t look quite as suspicious of it as I had first anticipated, which was rather reassuring. He rummaged about the narrow space, curiously sniffing over the boxes of lights and lenses, slinking through the legs of the many tripods scattered around the place. He would only smell things, never touch them, and his care not to disturb what little order I had in my home was quite warming. The trainer had mentioned the animal was a mixed breed, but of what had soon escaped me. He looked a bit like a German shepherd, but then again I am far from an expert. The first few days together weren’t too bad. Ciceron appeared comfortable in his new home. I had got both food and equipment from the programme, and for a pet he was extremely easy to maintain. I could leave him unattended most of the time and focus on my work. One Friday night I started to sense those foreboding tickles along my spine that told me a fit was inbound. All weekend I was expecting an attack. I mostly sat by my computer, setting up a series of shots I was to deliver the next week. Ciceron kept near, lying on the rug I got from my ex years and years ago, his large eyes seldom abandoning me for longer periods. Saturday came and I stayed home all day. It was my solitude that warranted the assistance of this four-legged oracle in the first place. Loneliness is dangerous for epileptics. It was four and I had just sat down with a cup of tea when the warning came. Ciceron arose from his position on the rug, approached my chair hurriedly and stood up on his hind legs, placed his front paws on my knees and started sniffing urgently at my face and head. Then he barked resolutely three times. I reacted just as I had been instructed; I put down the tea and went to the couch where I lay down. Soon thereafter I lost consciousness, as per usual, and woke up with a start some minutes later, all sweaty and short-breathed from the seizures. But undoubtedly, the worst danger had been averted – that of falling and hitting my head. So many times had I resurfaced from the depths of my epileptic sleep with bruises and wounds on my forehead, or elsewhere, from hard surfaces or pointed corners. Once I even dropped a glass bowl in the fall, crushing it under me and incurring several deep cuts on myself. But those miserable days were now no more. Needless to say I was already immensely thankful to Ciceron. The reservations I had had at first were gone. The dog could indeed sense my seizures before they took place. I marvelled at the thought of how much we humans miss out on, how many signals that pass over our heads, smells and signs so subtle but yet so crucial. What is the world like for a dog? Brand new channels of information we can never tap into. The most minute particles, the slightest shifts in light and colours, nothing is too vague for him. And at the same time, the true nature of what I did was no interest to Ciceron. Which, of course, was the very reason human company had never been an option for me. Ciceron’s eyes were indifferent to the motifs of my images. To be sure, there were times when I couldn’t help but experience an eerie feeling of being watched and judged, especially when I was editing the most gruesome pictures, those that the rest of my society had learnt to hate so deeply. In my opinion, I was just giving people what they wanted. If there is an audience, and God knows there is one, who am I to deny them what I’m so good at delivering to them? I am merely a caterer. But this is a digression. Three weeks later it was time for a new assault. I had just had a model over and was editing the piece – an unusually pretty one if I may say so myself – and Ciceron had been sitting on the couch, watching me work. When he rushed to me I knew instantly what it was about. He didn’t even need to bark. I quickly walked over to the couch and stretched out comfortably. You’re a rare gem, my canine friend, I thought. The fit came and went. Afterwards I was torn and shaken, as always, like a scarecrow after a tornado, but not wounded. Some people can be embarrassed in front of their dogs, like when they’re undressing or just visiting the bathroom. Heck, I’ve even heard obese people talk about receiving judgmental looks from their pets when grabbing a snickers, but such notions were foreign to me. Ciceron was mine, he was my assistant, my ally, my brother in arms, and whenever I would indulge in activities most members of my own species would resent and condemn, he would understand. One unusually beautiful November morning I had just finished editing a movie clip, a stunning piece if you ask me – in few other works has the pristine exquisiteness of youth been so deftly captured, the dexterity and nimbleness of pre-adolescence so competently portrayed, the unravished softness of previously untouched skin so sensitively rendered, and with a warm sense of pride in my heart I prepared to send the film to my employer. It was at this point I heard Ciceron jolt behind me. He walked over to my desk and gave me a long look. “What’s up, boy? Hungry?” I said cherfully and scratched his head. Then Ciceron barked three times. I was quite astounded, as it wasn’t any ordinary barking, but his very special epilepsy-alarm. But a fit wasn’t due for several weeks. Could he have been mistaken? Is it canine to err? “Silly boy, that’s not right!” I exclaimed and scoffed, returning to my computer. But Ciceron had not committed any mistake. The next second my neurological disorder reared its hideous head and struck me like thunder. It was the worst attack so far. The epileptic pulses shook my poor body to the core, sending me to the shores of hell and back, and after what seemed like a day-long sleep of dreadful dreams I woke up, feeling more dead than alive. This is how a survivor of the electrical chair must feel, I thought. I found myself on the floor, bruised and broken like a ship that had just been spat out by a maelstrom. Ciceron stood beside me, gazing at me fixedly. “What is happening to your poor master, my boy?” I gasped. With great effort I managed to stand up, leaning on the desk, breathing as heavily as a stranded whale. Then Ciceron barked again. Three distinct growls. I stared at him with an expression of utter desparation. “No, no, it’s not…” I started, but at that point I was once again beset by infernal fits, bolts of electricity that abruptly dispatched me to a comatic slumber. * I don’t know how much time has passed. There is no time or space to feel hunger or thirst. I’m often on the floor. I can discern the outlines of my room, the computer with the last magnificent frame of my movie, my unborn child, the masterpiece still waiting to be sent to its eager audience, but between me and that image is Ciceron’s head, his high, proud head, and sometimes he lets me wake up and breathe for some seconds, live until I’m alive enough to feel the omnipresent pain, the soreness of a million bruises, the ache in my bones, and then he barks, three apocalyptic blasts that are now all the sound I know. B Child 2010
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