Today brought a glimmer of hope for Cam. After days of monitoring, anxiety, and sleepless nights, the results of his 24-hour EEG finally came in—and there were no seizures. Not one.
The relief that washed over me was indescribable. For weeks, every twitch, every flutter of his eyelids, every little movement had been examined under a microscope, each one making my heart skip a beat. But today, for the first time in a long time, I could breathe.
Cam’s MRI, however, brought mixed emotions. The radiologist’s words were careful: “Subdural hygromas are still present and have grown since the last scan (largest 1.7 cm, right side). They cause only minimal pressure on the brain.” Minimal pressure, they said.
Yet, hearing that his brain still harbored fluid collections, and that they had grown, even slightly, tightened a knot in my chest. I spoke with neurosurgery immediately. Their response was calm and measured—they weren’t too concerned.
They didn’t believe the eye deviations Cam had been showing were related to what the MRI revealed. Still, they wanted to repeat the MRI tomorrow, just to be thorough and ensure that nothing was getting worse.
In the meantime, I consulted an ophthalmologist. Every nerve in his eyes was examined, and everything came back clear. No damage, no cause for alarm. It felt like a tiny victory in a long battle. Every time a doctor confirmed that a piece of his body was working as it should, it was like a beam of sunlight cutting through storm clouds.
Cam’s neurology team also made adjustments to his medication. His dose of lacosamide, the drug used to control seizures, was lowered from 8 mL to 6 mL. Over the past few days, we noticed a pattern: after taking the medication, Cam’s eyes would deviate upward for a few minutes.
Today, however, something remarkable happened. About five to ten minutes after taking the med, his eyes did drift upward—but within an hour, he began to blink and bring them back down himself. For weeks, he hadn’t done that. He hadn’t shown that kind of self-correction. It was a small gesture, barely noticeable to an untrained eye, but to me, it was monumental.
We are hopeful that lowering the dose will continue to bring more gains. Every minor improvement feels like a giant leap forward. Every moment that Cam regains control over his body, even in the smallest ways, feels like a victory over months, maybe years, of struggle.
The road hasn’t been easy. The days are long, filled with appointments, medications, observations, and questions that never seem to end. But moments like this—the small wins—are what carry us forward.
I can’t describe the gratitude I feel for the doctors, nurses, and specialists who care for Cam. Their dedication, their calm reassurance, and their willingness to listen to every concern we have makes this journey a little less daunting.
And I can’t describe the gratitude I feel for friends, family, and even strangers who
Cam’s journey is one of resilience, patience, and hope. His eyes may wander, his body may struggle, but his spirit is unwavering.
Today, he blinked to bring his eyes back down, showing us that even small improvements matter. They matter because they are signs of recovery, signs that his body is learning to cooperate, signs that his brain and nerves are still capable of healing and growth.
Tomorrow’s MRI will tell us more, but for tonight, I am choosing to celebrate the victories we have. I am choosing to hold onto hope, to cherish the moment when Cam’s eyes corrected themselves, to rejoice in the fact that there were no seizures today, and to believe that each day, each adjustment, each prayer, and each small gain brings us closer to more recovery.
Thank you to everyone who has prayed, sent messages of support, and loved us through this journey. Your encouragement and faith fuel our perseverance. Cam is showing us, day by day, that healing can come in subtle ways, that progress can be slow but steady, and that love, patience, and hope can turn the smallest moments into monumental victories.
