Last night I dreamed that Remington and I were sitting on the couch, his front end sprawled across my lap as was his usual wont. Suddenly he shot to a sit, his face contorting, and then the seizure started. He thrashed, his limbs stiff and jerking spasmodically, and I just held him as gently as I could so that he wouldn't throw himself off the couch like he threw himself off the bed the night he died.
As the spasms died away and he lay on his side, panting, eyes wide, I gently wiped away the foam and strings of saliva from his mouth and face. I stroked him slowly, comfortingly as my mother wandered in and asked casually what was going on.
"It's siezures," I said, "Just like the night he died. I thought they were done with. I thought they wouldn't happen again."
And I woke up crying.