At some point in June, Sierra’s goldfish Goldy will forget that it ever had a friend.

But it did. Copper – Isaac’s goldfish and Goldy’s bowl companion – died on Wednesday, a loss that we commemorated Cosby-Show-style with a toilet-bowl funeral and the promise that it was on its way to fish heaven (via the sea).

Because the memory-span of a goldfish lasts up to three months, Goldy will eventually forget he ever had a fellow swimmer; for our son, it could take longer, but he too will forget. Children forget things. They always will – that’s part of growing; our memories fade, our ideals change, our lives move forward.

Most of the time.

The Accident

If this was the only traumatic thing that’s happened in the past week, we’d be lucky. Instead, we’ve been working through two weeks of surgery, pain and doubt – the result of an accident that left Isaac with a lacerated tongue and a distrust for medicine.

The story is long and tangled, but it involves an errant trip to urgent care, a non-healing tongue and two separate surgeries. It involves a 45-minute fight to take a sedative, two IVs, a week’s worth of chocolate milk and a throbbing tongue that’s been sewn together twice.

It also involves a lot of crying. A lot of night-waking. An awful lot of fighting back, of communication dissonance and Isaac’s refusal to admit when there’s a touch of trouble, his mind wary of anything that might send him back to surgery, back into the gaping maw of sedation, anesthesia and sutures.

I’m afraid it will eventually involve a lot of memory, too. Children forget things. They always will.

But if it’s something traumatic, sometimes they don’t. They’re not goldfish, after all.

Remembering the Trauma

I remember the time, when I was five, when some moron kid on a bike didn’t see me and ran me over. I remember the roll, the smack, the pain. I remember being several states away from my parents – on vacation with my grandparents – and I remember being scared. I remember having to show the tire tracks on my leg to exonerate my grandparents from abuse, because kids don’t get run over by bicycles. I remember the picture my grandma took to document the process.

Later, I remember sitting in a doctor’s office, my lungs racked with pneumonia, refusing to take the medicine I was offered. I remember someone – my father? The doctor? – say that they’d “need to take me to the hospital” if I didn’t take the medicine, and I remember crying so hard, long after I finally took the medicine, long after the scare tactic worked, so afraid that I’d be hooked up to machines like they do on television.

I remember this all, still today.

My hope is that Isaac forgets this entire ordeal. But logic assumes he wont – that the Great Tongue Laceration Incident of 2013 will live on.

I will remember it as a time of great strength and bravery, when we saw the kind of stoicism a three-year-old can exhibit. But also as a reminder of why the human body cannot be trusted. Why healing isn’t as easy as it sometimes seems.

He could remember it as a weird time of straws and ice cream. Or, he could take it on as anxiety – an irrational fear of doctors, or a sudden hatred for the Lorax Soundtrack (which has played in the background of these last two weeks like some kind of poppy Musak). He could forget. Or he could pack it away for later.

I just hope he takes it all in stride. God knows I haven’t.

One moment, it’s typically quiet. There’s the periodic dump of the ice tray, the snoring of the dog and the click-whoosh of the heater kicking in, but otherwise there are no sounds. It’s dark. It’s warm. It’s quiet. Typically quiet.

And then Isaac begins screaming. The night terror has begun.

Parasomnia

Like any storm, Isaac’s night terrors start with a whimper. By this point, it’s already too late – there’s no turning back. These are not an issue of comfort or fear – night terrors are 100% parasomnia, occurring in a place in between wakefulness and sleep. They are unstoppable. They are frightening.

The whimper is heartbreaking, but the wail is exhausting. Isaac’s night terrors have three distinct steps. First is the warning. We’re awoken by a sound, we rub his back, he pushes us away. We can no longer help this situation; we are bystanders. We are useless.

Second is the terror. This involves a screaming that’s not unlike a vocal sleepwalk, rising and thrashing despite our voices and distractions. During this time, nothing is comfortable for Isaac. He doesn’t want anyone to touch him. He refuses to open his eyes – and when he finally does, he’s not necessarily in the clear. Light bothers him. Touch bothers him. He kicks off any blanket, rolls out of any lap. It’s a period of unbearable frustration, where nothing brings the terror down and everything is a problem.

Third is the calm. A switch is flipped. He’s back with us. It’s relief in its purest form.

These things last for minutes, or they last for hours. They happen 90 minutes after falling asleep, or they happen in the middle of the night. They happen because of stress during bedtime, or because of sickness, or because of the whims of nature.

They are completely normal. They go away with time. They are horrible.

Pavor Nocturnus

Night terrors are known scientifically as pavor nocturnus, a arousal disorder that causes a person to experience fear- and pain-like symptoms despite not being in danger or in pain. They present as an uncontrollable screaming, sobbing and general malaise, though they can be much worse.

Some children are more violent during night terrors. They punch, and they kick, and they flail around, causing harm to themselves and those around them. Isaac does not do this – sure, he’ll flail at times, but he’s relatively safe. His night terrors are almost 100% aural. They are a sound. A very long, frightening sound. The sound of a child in excruciating pain, despite the fact that he is safe and in no danger.

It’s been suggested that bedtime stress or a fever can trigger a night terror. An argument over a toy, or an already uncomfortable bout with the flu, or simply being overtired from a big day can all factor into whether one will break loose. As routine deteriorates for the night, night terrors begin their build. If we’re lucky, they never manifest.

They are a certified disorder in the DSM-IV-TR. This is serious stuff.

They affect less than 6% of children, and they go away as the child gets older. But not soon enough.

The Growth of an Anxiety

Helplessness isn’t learned. It’s acquired, like a new vehicle or a tax break. In this way, one is never prepared for its arrival – helplessness doesn’t RSVP, and it doesn’t bring a bottle of wine. It just happens. It just happens, and your mind accepts it.

For me, helplessness is a combination of sleep deprivation and fear. The fear I can handle, because I know what to expect. I know that Isaac is not being harmed, despite the fact that he’s breaking my heart. The fear goes away, in time, with peace, once things have calmed and the only sound is the tail end of Yo Gabba Gabba. But when exhaustion is added into the mix, a new level of anxiety rises, smoking and bubbling over, burning the beaker and scalding the countertops.

All we can do is hold him. And wait. We dodge kicks, and we let him writhe, and we cuddle him up and talk loudly and try to snap him from the trance. But mostly, we wait. Because that’s all you can do. Wait for his cries to stop, for his imagined pain to go away, for his life to return to normal.

The screaming is cosmetic, nothing more than mind tricks, but there are few sounds worse. The next morning, he doesn’t remember a thing.

But we do.

When our oldest went to preschool for the first time, I freaked out. I freaked. The hell. Out. And last week, when she went to kindergarten for the first time, I freaked out even more. “The building is so big,” I said. “She’ll get lost out there,” I said. I was sick with worry and dread even though at the exact same time I was more proud of her than I’d been of anyone else in my life.

Our youngest, Isaac, went to preschool for the first time yesterday.

I did not freak out.

I was not sick with worry and dread.

Admittedly, I feel bad about this. It’s not as if each child has a set amount of doting they are required to endure, or that as a second child, we have neglected Isaac by not providing enough attention in the form of brow-dampening anxiety and a reluctance to let go. But it’s still there.

Why don’t I care as much? Why am I not as worried?

Thing is, I do care. I am worried.

If it seems that Isaac is forgotten, I only need to remind myself that he’s receiving the best of both worlds – he gets to experience the freshness of the world without being tied to his father’s cautiousness. Where his older sister gets the parental equivalent of three seat belts and an airbag for every activity, Isaac moves forward with the benefit of a parent who’s already learned a set of mistakes.

Isaac went to preschool for the first time yesterday. He was excited. He was scared. He was able to adapt. He recounted snack time – chips AND chocolate milk – and the day’s activities – trains, dinosaurs, bugs – as if he had written them down in reference.

I was more proud of him than I’d been of anyone else in my life.