The Quiet Signs
In the days leading up to Karl’s first cluster attack, things felt slightly off in ways I couldn’t fully explain. Even then, I knew something wasn’t right. I told his dad more than once that Karl seemed different, but I struggled to put my finger on why. It was a quiet, uneasy feeling that stayed with me.
Karl’s behavior shifted in small ways. He would occasionally stumble, something that immediately caught my attention because Karl is normally so energetic, coordinated, and alert. It wasn’t dramatic, but it wasn’t him. Each day, those tiny changes added up.
Then one afternoon, we were outside and he was doing perfectly normal Karl things, sniffing tree trunks, checking every corner of the wood fence around the driveway, following scents only he could understand. But as he moved along the fence line, I noticed a thin line of drool hanging from his mouth. The kind of drool he’d get if he were staring at our dinner plates hoping for a bite. Except this time, he wasn’t watching food. He wasn’t excited. He was just going about his routine.
On its own, none of this meant anything. But together, it painted a picture that only became clear a few days later, when the seizures started.
After the Cluster: Karl’s Care and Recovery
Once the cluster was finally broken and we got him stabilized, everything shifted into a new stage of worry and care. Karl had follow-up blood work, and his Levetiracetam, generic Keppra, the same medication used for humans with epilepsy, was adjusted. His dosage was doubled to 1500 milligrams every eight hours.
I was still shaken from everything that had happened. Karl hadn’t fully come back to himself, either. He was spacey, unfocused, and drifted in and out mentally unless you gently guided his eyes toward yours. Physically, he was functioning, walking on his own, eating and drinking normally, going potty fine, but mentally, he felt far away.
It was a strange mix of relief and fear. He was safe, the seizures had stopped, but now he was on an enormous amount of medication. Too much, as we would later learn.
This was the stage where we were trying to figure out what “normal” would look like for him again, balancing his safety with his quality of life, and learning how his body responded to treatment.
Coming Home From the Vet
The day after Karl had been hospitalized and the cluster was finally broken, we went back to the vet for follow-up blood work and the medication adjustment. He was still off, still not himself, but he seemed to be slowly coming back. When we got home, it was just the two of us. We had been keeping him on his leash because where we lived there were no fences, just deep woods surrounding the house, and with how disoriented he still was, it felt safer. But he looked a little steadier, a little more aware, and I thought he might be okay to walk from the driveway to the house on his own.
I was wrong.
I told him to go potty and then called him toward the house. But he didn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he started walking toward the woods. He passed the woodshed and kept going straight into the trees. It was the last week of December in central Alaska, after a heavy snow and a major ice storm. The woods were beautiful, but dangerous. The snow was deep, and because of the extreme cold, the ice was thick, sharp, and unforgiving.
I went after him immediately. I called him again, louder, but he didn’t react at all. He just kept moving forward, completely unaware that I was behind him. He began bounding through snow deeper than he was tall, managing it with surprising ease at first. When he reached untouched snow, areas we hadn’t packed down with our own footsteps, he was light enough to walk on top of the crusted surface.
I was not.
When he disappeared around the corner, I pushed myself forward as fast as my body could manage. The snow was deep, chest-high on me in places, and I am not a tall person. Every step was a battle. I kept crashing through the crusted top layer while Karl walked easily across it, and each time I sank, it felt like the snow swallowed me up to my waist. I had to heave myself forward, crawling on all fours just to make progress. The ice was sharp enough to cut, and the snow was so deep it fought me with every movement. It was an extreme effort, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to reach him.
The thought of him wandering out there, disoriented and alone, was more terrifying than anything we had been through that weekend.
When I finally rounded the bend, I saw him. He was standing there calmly, looking at something only he could see. I don’t think he heard me approach. But I reached him, grabbed his harness, having long since lost hold of his leash, and I just hugged him. And hugged him. And hugged him. He looked up at me and wagged his tail as if he had just noticed me for the first time all day.
His face said, “Hi, Mom! I didn’t know you were here. This is fun!”
Once I had him close, I pushed him gently in front of me and told him, “Let’s go home.” He happily led the way back, trotting as if nothing had happened.
It was terrifying. It was exhausting. And it taught me a lesson I will never forget, one that, thankfully, only cost me some cuts and bruises instead of something far worse.
Through snow, fear, and exhaustion, we made it home together. Karl’s story is still being written, and every day is a reminder that even after the hardest moments, hope and courage carry the way forward. He is full of life and energy and love, what else could I ask for?