A Golden Miracle
 

     My name is Erinn Elizabeth Farver, and I would like to tell the work about a very special miracle. In 1998, I had been trying to fight a 16 year uphill battle with epilepsy, when a 4 pawed, long haired miracle came into my life. This miracle's name is Ava, and she is a light golden Seizure Assistance Dog.
     Before this beautiful Golden Retriever entered my life, I lived alone in my own house, but was constantly on guard, almost terrified of having a grand mal seizure and wandering outdoors where I could seriously injure myself. Living alone in itself was quite daring, but I longed for independence. What I longed most for was the freedom to leave my house on foot, walk to the corner market, and buy a gallon of milk. Simple everyday tasks such as this are easily taken for granted by many. For me, these "tasks" turned to blessings once Ava came to work for me.
     Ava came to me via airplane from Nashville, TN on March 18, 1998. A training center in that state had worked with her for the previous six months, and a training center here in Maryland took over the secondary training of Ava shortly after.
     This is how Ava "works" for me: when I have a grand mal seizure, either in my house or out in public, Ava stays right by my side, and when I'm coming to, is licking my face. She will not lick my face at any other time. The licking of the face causes a strange sensation and seems to "awaken" me quicker. The post-ictal mode of a grand mal is often the most dangerous part of having these types of seizures. This is the aftermath, when the seizure itself has ended but the disorientation of the body, not yet reconnected with the mind, makes a person wander around in a daze.
     Ava has been an unyielding help to me when I'm post-ictal. She runs all around me, circling until she has my attention, and then gets me to sit down in a "safe" place. This is usually either on the couch or on the carpeted floor with my back up against a wall. If I begin to get up again and she has not sensed that I am ready, she will let out a brief low growl—not mean—just one letting me know to stay where I am. Ava stays in a sitting position just in front of me until she feels the danger is gone. She stands then, and takes 2 or 3 steps back as if to tell me I'm allowed to rise. By this point, aside from a bad headache, I do feel better.
     Once, as I was taking a lay-down bubble bath, Ava entered the bathroom, sniffed at my arm as I was reaching out to pet her, and then growled. When I just looked at her, shocked by her odd reaction to my touch, she barked. I do not remember, but I must have realized Ava was trying to warn me of a seizure because the next thing I knew, I was coming to, very dazed and very wet, on my bathroom floor. Ava just may have prevented me from drowning.
     Sometimes, before I have a grand mal seizure, Ava begins acting erratic, pawing me, dancing around on her hind legs, and sometimes even producing that low growl I mentioned before. Several times I have noticed that she was acting out of character, and then after waking up to her tongue licking my face, figured out why. Due to us living alone—and perhaps by me missing signals—no one has been able to distinguish a pattern, to tell for certain whether or not Ava uses this strange behavior before every seizure.
     When I've had seizures outside, in our fenced in back yard, Ava has barked to my next door neighbors for help. Two of the times that this happened, I'd seized at the top of my deck steps, fallen down them and was not coming to at all. Ava has been to the emergency room with me on several occasions, and has laid quietly beside the bed, watching closely (as close as possible) but allowing the medical team to do their work without interference.
     It's been about 2½ years since Ava, my golden miracle dog, came into my life and just having her with me has enabled me to overcome many challenges. One specific barrier I thought I would never break through was fear.
     Now, with Ava beside me as my companion, my medical helper, my friend, I have no fear . . . . and that alone, is a miracle.