Karl’s second seizure came almost exactly twenty-four hours after the first one.
We hadn’t slept well that night. Even though I’d tried to convince myself the first seizure might have been a one-time event, caused by something benign like fever or stress, my mind wouldn’t settle. I kept replaying the night before, reminding myself that seizures can happen just once and never return. I wanted to believe that.
But around 1 a.m., the same sound ripped us awake — the wild, unmistakable thrashing of a grand mal seizure.
Karl was closest to me, just like the night before. I jumped up and pulled him away from the wall before he could injure himself again. His body arched back in a rigid wave, and his legs kicked and jerked with intense force. Between convulsions, his body was completely rigid.
I grabbed my watch and began timing the seizure.
The first seizure wave lasted about 90 seconds, though it felt like a full hour stretched thin with fear. Then, just like the night before, Karl stopped breathing. The silence of that moment was suffocating.
My husband leaned in and began blowing air across his face to stimulate breathing. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Karl gasped, shook, and the second wave of convulsions began. Another minute and a half passed, intense, frightening, unstoppable, until finally, his body released its tension and he collapsed onto the floor, drooling thick white foam.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes looked distant, like he was somewhere far away and trying to find his way back. But then, slowly, he seemed to recognize us. His eyes softened, focused, and his tail gave a small, hopeful wag. It felt like the first deep breath we had taken all night.
He tried to stand. The first attempt failed. The second attempt was wobbly. But on the third try, he made it up and staggered to the door, asking to go outside like everything was normal. He managed the stairs carefully and went out to potty, still unsteady and confused.
This time, recovery took much longer. Hours passed before he seemed like himself again. We stayed awake with him until morning; there was no question of sleep after that.
As soon as the vet clinic opened, we called and were given the first appointment of the day. Bloodwork was done, tests were run, and everything came back normal. Nothing was wrong on paper, yet everything had changed.
And that was when the diagnosis came:
Idiopathic epilepsy. He was given his first medication for epilespy.
For anyone unfamiliar with the term, it simply means they don’t know the cause. It felt vague and unsatisfying, but it’s common in dogs, especially German Shepherds. We’d had a cat with epilepsy years ago, but nothing about that experience prepared us for this. What we were facing with Karl felt like an entirely different world.
And it was the moment we realized this wasn’t a one-time scare.
This was the beginning of a long journey we never expected, but one we would walk with him, no matter what it looked like.