Page 43 of Dr. Brandt

“I’m good,” Jackson said, rubbing his hands together.

“I’ll bet you are,” Jessa said with a knowing grin. “Let’s eat before your neighbor decides to introduce herself to my son. I had no idea people who lived in homes like these would act like that.”

I motioned toward the direction of the steps that led up to my balcony, “Don’t ever assume how people might act after drinking vodka tonics from their ocean-view terrace all day.”

“Nice surfboards. Are these all yours?” Jackson asked as he pointed under the deck where eight boards were neatly stacked.

“Three of them are,” I answered, walking over to my favorite one. It was a Rip Curl shortboard that I hadn’t gotten out in too long. “The rest of them are my buddies’ boards.”

“How long have you surfed?” Jackson asked.

“Since I was a bit younger than you. I practically grew up out here with a surfboard in my hands,” I answered.

“So surfing is sort of like your sport, then?”

I grinned. “It’s not really my sport, more like a favorite hobby. In fact, I was a lot like you when I was younger. I was blessed with pretty damn good genetics and played football, basketball, and baseball. Surfing was more of an outlet from feeling too much pressure from the other sports. I was always expected to perform at the highest level of competition, and surfing was always a nice break from all that.”

“Which sport was your favorite?” he asked.

“Easy,” I smiled and slipped my hands into my pockets, “football. There was just something about throwing a spiral down the line and nailing my receiver in the numbers.”

I watched Jackson’s eyes light up, and I realized everything had faded around me as we talked. I saw my father in him but even more of myself. I’d been referring to him mentally, possibly outwardly, as the boy. I’d been trying to compartmentalize things to keep him as a patient in my mind. I needed that so I could function with precision while performing his surgery. I couldn’t attach emotionally to him, or the surgery could become extremely risky, knowing I held my son’s brain in my hands.

Even so, I wouldn’t allow anything, not even the surgeon’s mindset in me, to take this moment away from me. I was intrigued, proud, and honored beyond words to stand here and, at this moment, begin forming a bond with my son.

“So, you were quarterback too?” he questioned with some giddiness, prompting me to laugh.

“All-star, just like you are.”

“Were,” Jessa said.

She’d killed this moment the instant she referred to Jackson’s athletic accomplishments in the past tense.

I glanced at her, confused and half annoyed that she would interject such a negative point into the conversation. Then it hit me, and I was brought back to my surgeon’s mindset, reminded of why I pressed the two to come to my place for dinner tonight. These were the questions they wanted answers to. Their fears stemmed from the uncertainty of Jackson’s future and ability to accomplish his goals. They needed reassurance.

Before I could respond, I saw Jackson’s eyes roll back in his head, and I lunged to catch him before he fell back against the surfboards he’d been looking at moments ago.

I squatted down, holding Jackson and guiding his convulsing body into a safe position while he fell under the control of the seizure.

Though scary to those unfamiliar with seizures, the most essential part was watching to ensure he didn’t asphyxiate while convulsing. I turned Jackson’s tightened body onto his side while he jerked and convulsed to allow him to breathe easier, and Jessa spoke calmly as she told him he was going to be okay.

It took just under a minute before Jackson’s brain quieted, and the electrical storm had passed, which allowed him to pull through the last of the seizure.

“He’s probably going to want to sleep for a while,” Jessa said, informing me as if I were a stranger helping her boy. “Would you mind giving us a ride back to our place?”

I saw the remorse in Jackson’s eyes. “No, I wouldn’t mind at all, but it looks like Jackson’s pissed about having to leave already,” I said in a teasing tone, trying to feel him out and assess how he was functioning after the seizure.

“Jacks, we should probably get you home and to bed. Are you thirsty?”

Jessa was an amazing mother, and that went without saying. However, unless Jackson needed to be spoken to as if he were a two-year-old, I would have to help break her from this. She might’ve been uncomfortable having this happen in a strange place, especially after she made a point to refer to Jackson’s sports accomplishments in the past tense.

“You cool with resting on my couch, kid?” I asked, trying to feel the boy out. I wanted him comfortable, and comfort for a patient with epilepsy was also being aware that their seizure didn’t inconvenience anyone or serve to embarrass themselves in one way or another.

“I’m cool with that,” Jackson said, his speech a bit slow but steady enough not to raise alarms with me.

“What about you, Mom?” I said, looking back at Jessa, her eyes glossy. I could tell she was holding back tears.

“We may need a ride home later,” she said with a smile at Jackson, “he’s usually pretty weak after one of these things.”

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