Mrs. Curtis read the 1956 March issue of Time Magazine on her brown sofa, while sipping a cup of iced lemonade. Despite the frost glistening on the tips of grass and the winter's brisk air, a sheen of sweat covered her forehead, cheeks, and neck. It was noon. Only minutes prior, Mrs. Curtis finished doing laundry, tidying the living room, making all the beds, and feeding her three sons: Darry, Sodapop, and Ponyboy.
Darry, her oldest, left to a friend's house. And, her middle son, Sodapop, and youngest, Ponyboy, played in their shared room. With her sons preoccupied, she finally had time to relax.
Her eyes darted to the clock on the wall above their family's black and white television set. It ticked too slowly for her liking. She wanted five o'clock to come already. Her husband would come home from work, kiss her forehead, and their family would eat dinner on the old, oak kitchen table. It was unfortunate that her husband had to work Saturdays; but with money tight, they had no other option.
A scream tore through the air. Heart thudding heavily in her chest, Mrs. Curtis tossed the magazine aside. She ran to her sons' room and slammed the door open. Snot and tears smeared Ponyboy's plump face. He cradled his right hand and rocked back and forth on the floor. Next to him stood Sodapop-his blue eyes wide with shock and concern. Leaping over the toys that littered the room, Mrs. Curtis crouched before Ponyboy and pulled him into a hug.
"Let me see your hand," she said.
Prying his hands a part, Mrs. Curtis found his right index finger streaked with blood. She brought it closer to her face. A cut marred the tip of his finger and bubbled with blood. When Ponyboy's cries escalated, she rushed him to the bathroom. Setting him on the counter, Mrs. Curtis fetched a cloth and wetted it. She wrapped it snugly around the finger.
"What happened, sweetie?" Mrs. Curtis asked, brushing his light brown bangs out of his eyes.
"Smushed," he moaned. "Smushed."
"He caught it in the dresser drawer," Sodapop said from the doorway.
A minute later, Mrs. Curtis peeled the cloth away. The cut stopped bleeding, but it gaped open. Red outlines of the blood that trailed down the skin still remained. She gently wiped the finger clean before retrieving a Band-Aid from a tin box underneath the sink. Telling him to hold his hand still, Mrs. Curtis dressed his cut and kissed it once she finished.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Mrs. Curtis smiled at him.
Ponyboy continued to sniff, but he nodded his head. He raised his arms up, wanting to be held. Mrs. Curtis obliged. She held him tightly, resting her cheek on the top of his head. Even Sodapop came over and hugged his brother. An idea popped into Mrs. Curtis mind to cheer up her sons.
"How about we have some ice cream?" Mrs. Curtis said.
Both boys shouted 'yeah'. Sodapop zoomed to the kitchen, and Ponyboy squirmed in Mrs. Curtis' arms. Plopping him on the ground, he soon ran after his brother. Mrs. Curtis sighed and leaned her hip against the counter. Her youngest son often overreacted when receiving the simplest of injuries. Yet, no matter how many times she heard his scream, it rattled her being. The worst moments of her life were when her sons were hurting.
Mrs. Curtis made her way to the kitchen. Her sons already waited for her at the table, bowls in front of them. She opened the ice chest and grabbed a small tub of vanilla ice cream. She filled each of their bowls with three scoops. The kitchen was soon filled with talks of eating contests and bets on how much ice cream they could eat if their mother allowed.
Ten minutes passed, and the boys dropped their bowls in the sink. Mrs. Curtis instructed them to play in the living room. She returned to her spot on the couch and resumed reading her magazine.
The first incident occurred around 1:20.
"Mommy, why'd I have Band-Aid?" Ponyboy asked, picking at his finger.
"Don't mess with that," she warned him.
Sodapop shoved several cards into his brother's hand, drawing his attention from his cut. They tried to mimic their father's poker games, making up strange rules. Mrs. Curtis chuckled when Sodapop announced a rule that would favor him over his brother. Her husband might have commented on Sodapop playing unfairly; however, Mrs. Curtis knew 'boys would be boys' and left them be.
Ponyboy dropped his cards, suddenly, and began swatting at his head. Sodapop complained about him showing his cards, but the younger brother ignored him and continued to flail his arms.
"What are you doing?" laughed Mrs. Curtis.
"Skeetoes," Ponyboy said.
"Skeetoes?" Mrs. Curtis' face scrunched in thought. "You mean mosquitoes?"
He nodded.
"Pony, there are no mosquitoes."
He stopped. A harsh breath escaped his lips. He blinked rapidly, and his mouth opened and closed. Before Mrs. Curtis could ask what was wrong, Ponyboy fell onto his side. Legs jerked. Arms shook. Fists clenching.
"PONY!" Mrs. Curtis dove for her son. Her hands hovered his convulsing body, unaware if her touch would harm him or not.
Ponyboy's fit continued for a few more moments, coming slowly to a stop. Only when his breath evened out did Mrs. Curtis lay her hand on his back. She begged for him to say something. Yet, he remain still-eyes half lidded and mouth open.
A seizure. Though she never saw one before, Mrs. Curtis remembered the signs from her high school health class many years ago. Never had she contemplated one of her sons having one.
She told Sodapop to stay with his brother while she rushed to call her husband. She cried over the phone, told him to hurry, and returned to Ponyboy. Mrs. Curtis pulled her unresponsive son onto her lap and hugged him tightly. Sodapop clung to the sleeve of her shirt.
Ten minutes later, an old pick-up truck-the only source of transportation for the Curtis family-sped into their driveway. The front door barged open, and Mr. Curtis joined his family in the middle of the living room. By then, Ponyboy broke from his trance and replied lethargically to Mrs. Curtis' questions. They hoisted Ponyboy up and carried him to the truck.
"What about Darry?" Mrs. Curtis asked as she scooted into the passenger seat, Ponyboy in her lap. "He's at Tom's house."
"You have their number, don't ya?" her husband helped Sodapop into the cramped back seat, next to the tool boxes and dirty work vests. "We'll call 'em when we get to the hospital."
Mr. Curtis hopped into the car and shoved his keys into the ignition. Soon, they were on the road and heading to the hospital.
"Ponyboy Michael Curtis. Born on July 22, 1952. Suffered from seizure around 1:30-1:40 pm," a bulky man, with a gray and black peppered beard and a white lab coat over a blue dress shirt and black slacks, muttered to himself.
Dr. Moon glanced over his notes on the three-year-old boy. For the past couple of hours, he had performed numerous tests on the child. Now, he sat in front of Mr. and Mrs. Curtis and their second son, deciding on how to break the news. Huffing, he folded his hands over his notes and stared at the young couple. Mr. Curtis weaved an arm around his wife's waist, both waiting with red-rimmed eyes trained on him.
"I have some concerning news," Dr. Moon said. He licked his lips. "During one of our tests, Ponyboy suffered another seizure."
Mrs. Curtis brought her hands up to cover her mouth. Her husband gripped her tightly, and their son looked between the two. Wringing his hands together, Dr. Moon continued.
"Ponyboy may be suffering from a multiple seizure disorder called epilepsy. We are running one more test this afternoon. He will need to stay overnight for observations and may need a few more tests tomorrow. We are going to try and figure out why this is happening. What I need from you two is a detailed description of the events that led up to his seizure."
Mrs. Curtis straightened her posture. She retold their entire morning-from the moment Mr. Curtis left for work, to Ponyboy's injured finger, and to when her son complained about mosquitoes. Scribbling the story down, Dr. Moon paused when she mentioned the ice cream she fed them.
"I doubt it was triggered by the finger injury," Dr. Moon said. "However, the sugar may have. Can you tell me about his regular sleeping, eating, and playing habits?"
Dr. Moon spent the next twenty minutes learning about his young patient. He probed them about other family members that may have had epilepsy. He asked them about Mrs. Curtis pregnancy, Ponyboy's exposure to nicotine smoke or any kinds of drugs, and whether or not there was head trauma in Ponyboy's past. From what Mr. and Mrs. Curtis told him, Ponyboy's case was one that required an intensive investigation on the cause for the disorder.
"Thank you," Dr. Moon said when they finished. "I have some homework for you two. This disorder is quite serious, and there are things you can do to help prevent seizures-it won't cure him, but it will help." He bent over and sifted through his leather messenger bag that leaned against his leg. Finding a blue folder, he eased it out and handed it to the couple.
"That there has everything you need to understand epilepsy and what you need to do to accommodate your son. This is a lifestyle change, and if Ponyboy's is going to get through this, then you will need to make changes to his and your entire family's daily routine," he said. "I will go over all of it now, but I want you to read everything in there. Keep it in a place that you can easily access."
Scooting his chair so that he was next to Mrs. Curtis, Dr. Moon warned them about excessive sugar consumption, the importance of sleep, and the possibility of drug therapy. He went over basic first aid, including CPR in case Ponyboy ever stopped breathing. He also discussed what would happen if his epilepsy continued into his school years-how they would tell his teachers and the emotional strain students might put on their son. It was nearly 5:30 when they finished.
"Can you do all of that for me?" Dr. Moon asked, packing his bag up.
"Of course!" Mrs. Curtis exclaimed. "When can we see him?"
"A nurse will take you to his room," Dr. Moon made to leave the room. "My contact information is in the folder. You may call me if anything happens or if you just have questions."
Mrs. Curtis nodded her head, clutching the folder close to her chest.
One month passed since Ponyboy was diagnosed with epilepsy. Mrs. Curtis stirred a vegetable and chicken soup in a big pot. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Sodapop and Ponyboy playing a card game in the living room. Her husband and her oldest son watched television on the couch. Since the incident, and the hospital bills adding up, Mr. Curtis ended up having to work on Sundays as well. Evenings were the only times that the Curtis family could be together. It was tough, but Ponyboy's health was worth it.
Yet, no matter what they did or how well they followed Dr. Moon's pamphlet guides, seizures ailed her son on a weekly basis.
Turning the stove off, Mrs. Curtis brought the pot of soup to the already-set kitchen table. She stood back, marveled at her hard work, and called the boys in for dinner. Thunderous footsteps echoed the house. Her sons clambered into their seats, while her husband took a seat at the head of the table.
Mrs. Curtis ladled their bowls with soup and passed out slices of roasted garlic bread. They said grace. They dug in. After several mouthfuls, her husband complimented her cooking. She smiled and rewarded him with a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Bed time is in an hour," Mrs. Curtis said, towards the end of dinner.
All three boys groaned.
"No exceptions!" Mr. Curtis said. "Darry, you will help your brothers get ready."
Darry huffed, but he did as he was told. Dropping their dirty dishes in the sink, he ushered his younger brothers to their bedrooms. Mrs. Curtis stood and made to clear the table, but her husband's strong hands caught her wrist. He tugged her into a tight hug.
"We'll make it through this," he said.
Mrs. Curtis smiled.
A/N: This is my first fanfiction. Sorry if it sucks. I may write more for this story. But for now, I am going to keep it as a one-shot.