There is something wrong with my daughter, and I'm very, very worried

When I worry I write, so as I wait for her blood results, I wrote the following...

At first we thought she was just sleeping with her eyes open. For a moment my wife thought she was dead.

My daughter is only a year old, and very petite. She's a also a spitfire, always wearing a big, whacky smile and unleashing a belly laugh whenever I make silly faces.

She is also a part of my soul. Hell, she might be the reason I have one in the first place. Also, there are no such things as souls. No more on that later.

My wife thought she was dead.

She was sitting in her carseat and staring into space, only she was completely non-responsive. Michelle pulled over and ran around the vehicle, opened Elizabeth's door and put her hand against her cheek. Elizabeth was cold, clammy and still not responding. Then, after ten seconds or so she bounced back to life. Michelle wept and kissed her daughter. Her tears fell onto Elizabeth's face as if they were being beckoned back to the source. Later Michelle told me what happened. Then it happened again. And then again.

Our family doctor said it was a few possibilities, but all I heard him say was 'seizures'. I just stopped on that word and heard nothing else. This was yesterday. This morning the doctor called Michelle and said Elizabeth has to come back to the doctor first thing Monday morning to discuss the blood results. They never call when it is good news, so now I know they found something.

Your mind betrays you. I can see mine betray me as it is happening. In one corner of my mind I can see a bright sky. This is the only part of my mind I should l visit when faced with an unknown problem. But I always look towards the other corner. That corner is chaotic, messy, and dark. When I visit that corner I feel anxious. I gravitate towards the worst case scenario and fulfill my own fears by openly pontificating about how bad the news could be. It's all I know.

I said something morbid to a friend once. He told me about some awful story where people died tragically and I quipped "those tragedies are good for writing." From there on whenever something truly horrific happens, one of us will say "good for writing." Writing loves your despair. Every writer understands where their best work often comes from. Even as I write this very sentence I am acutely aware of the fanged butterflies inside me, gnawing away and fuelling each syllable. I am rotting with worry, and I can't stop typing.

Elizabeth is comprised of equal parts, delicateness and moxie. People can't get over how happy she is. She's a little doll, they tell me. Naw, I think...she's a pixie. She's a year old and just thirteen pounds. She hasn't started to crawl. She won't scoot either. But she walks while holding my fingers, and I love how many parents reading this immediately thought of lower back pain. I see you guys.

But she is a pixie, through and through. Like someone sprinkled her with magic, she brightens. People stop us all the time just to stare at her. Also, I am now in the 'good for writing' stage where the shmaltz starts flying. Bear with me as I qualify my worry by praising the unparalleled, the other worldly, Elizabeth. I'm actually serious. She's on a whole other level of precious. My Facebook Likes told me so.

In roughly 48 hours I will know what's wrong with Elizabeth. And no matter the results, I will find myself coming back to this keyboard to splurge and blather and weep.

See you there.