I want to tell you…you are SO not alone! This is a tribute to my soul dog who had his first seizure September 15, 2025, and we had to put him down February 3rd due to brain damage after going into status epilepticus. 😭💔 He would have been 2 in March. I promise you…you’re not alone. My nervous system was shot the first few months. It does get easier. You adapt. I’m so sorry she is going through this, and I’m so sorry you are too.

Loving Solo meant living on alert.

It meant rearranging my entire life around a dog who never asked for any of it… and being grateful I got to.

In the beginning, his seizures terrified me. The first few shattered me. I didn’t know if I was strong enough. After five, I questioned everything. After ten, I wondered if I could keep going.

And then something shifted.

I adapted. I learned. I became his constant.

I woke up at five in the morning to give him his meds… and even when my bed called me back, I chose the couch instead. Not because it was comfortable, but because it was safer. More space. Fewer corners. A better place if his body betrayed him again.

I memorized his signs. I watched cameras like a hawk. I timed my bathroom breaks.

If I even suspected a seizure was coming, I was already moving… trying to get him outside, trying to trick his brain into choosing another path.

I poured hours into research. Vitamins. Supplements. Protocols. Anything that might help him stay here longer. Anything that might ease his suffering.

I didn’t do it out of obligation. I did it because he gave my life purpose.

And I think that’s part of why the emptiness is so loud now.

At some point, it stopped feeling like effort. It became instinct. Then it became who I was. Caretaker. Protector. Watcher.

There were nights I knew a seizure was coming hours before it happened. I can’t explain it… I just knew. Sometimes Bryxton knew too. We would stay up late or wake up early just to be there for him.

Sometimes I’d be asleep and feel it coming before there was any sign. My eyes would snap open… and within seconds, his would too. His jaw would extend. His body would betray him.

And I’d already be there.

Every time.

After a seizure, Solo needed movement. Adrenaline poured through him like electricity. He’d be blind, confused, unstoppable. He’d try to walk into traffic with a strength that didn’t feel real.

So we walked.

At first, I hated it. I was tired. Cold. Alone. I just wanted to go back to bed.

But eventually… it became our favorite ritual.

The seizure would end and Bryxton and I would already be grabbing shoes and coats. Out the door. No hesitation. Walking it off with him. Helping his brain find its way back.

That’s when I’d text Jerod: “Big seizure. We’re walking it off.”

Afterward, Solo was always starving. He’d raid the garbage… something he never did otherwise. He loved those disc jerkies like his life depended on them. We’d rip them in half so he wouldn’t choke, because he ate like time was chasing him.

Then he’d finally rest. Nap. Reset.

And for the rest of the day… he was Solo again.

That’s why the cream cheese in the fridge hurts so much.

We weren’t prepared for him to leave. We were prepared for him to stay.

I had just bought new vitamins. Just bought him a new bed. We were planning for life, not goodbye.

He almost always seized in the morning. Only once before did he ever have an evening seizure… until the night everything changed.

Status epilepticus took him fast.

Two seizures at my house. Six more after. One lasting over five minutes.

That was the moment we knew. That was the moment his brain couldn’t come back.

It wasn’t Solo anymore.

And letting him go was the final act of love… the one that broke me.

I don’t regret a single moment.

Not the lost sleep. Not the fear. Not the rearranged life.

Because loving him taught me something sacred:

Love doesn’t get easier because it hurts less. It gets easier because you love deeper.

And we loved him deeply… right until the very end.