On July 19, 2024, our lives changed forever. At 5:40 am, I was jolted awake by the sound of my dog, Forrest, hitting the floor. In the darkness, I heard only strange noises—then saw him violently seizing. My seemingly healthy seven-year-old Aussie, my best friend, was in a severe crisis. All I could do was hold him, pray, and tell him how much I loved him and what a good boy he was as tears streamed down my face. In that moment, I truly thought he was dying.
He survived, but that terrifying morning was just the beginning. A second seizure came 17 days later. I thought I was more prepared—with a bed rail and rescue meds—but epilepsy has a way of humbling you. He fell again, right through the bed rail; and I wasn’t able to draw up the rescue meds in time. My heart broke all over. I felt so helpless. So unprepared. So frustrated. So scared.
After an MRI and spinal tap at Mississippi State, Forrest was diagnosed with late onset idiopathic epilepsy. Since then, he’s had ten grand mal seizures and several focal ones. I’ve completely changed his diet, consulted with a canine nutritionist, and I spend hours each week researching everything I can. I’m always watching, always preparing, always praying.
His seizures mostly happen at night so I don’t sleep much. I wake every time he stirs. But I’m prepared now. I go to bed each night with his rescue meds drawn up and ready to go. I’ve learned I have to let him play, run, and even vacation again someday. We’ve canceled plans, missed trips, and made sacrifices, but I won’t let epilepsy define his life. We have to live and enjoy the time that we’ve been given.
Forrest is still the happiest, sweetest, most loving dog I’ve ever known. He does silly tricks, catches frisbees, and makes me laugh when he mimics my silly tongue faces. I’m so thankful that despite all the medication he is on and despite his seizures, he’s still his same, happy self in between. After he comes out of a seizure, he always looks for me, even when he can’t see right away—looking for love, for comfort—and I’m always right there.
I haven’t left him much since this began, and almost each time I have, he’s had a seizure. But I’m learning how to navigate this life we didn’t choose, leaning on faith and holding onto hope.
This journey is hard, but Forrest is worth it. He’s my boy. My heart. My gift from God.
From our lavender world of grace — we’re holding onto hope and walking by faith. 💜
On our way home from the vets office the morning after his first seizure.
The Epi Dog Mom Blog 
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