Jaylen Evans

Adjusting

Lena pov
We brought him home on a Tuesday. Stef drove while I sat in the back with Jaylen, one hand on his knee the whole ride. He didn't talk much. Didn't even look out the window. Just sat curled into himself like the wind might knock him over if he moved too fast.
Stef: How you holding up back there?
Lena: We're okay
Jaylen didn't answer. He hadn't said more than a handful of words since discharge. Not in full sentences, anyway. His speech came and went sometimes clear, sometimes muddled. He hated that. I could tell by the way his eyes darted away every time he stumbled.

At home, he went straight to the couch. Didn't even take off his shoes. Just collapsed face-first into the cushions and let out a long groan.
Jaylen: Don't talk to me
Lena: Okay. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me
I gave him space. At the hospital, I hovered. Here, I had to trust that the safety net stretched a little wider. That if he seized again, I'd hear it. That the nasal sprays we hadn't needed yet would work if it came to that. Naomi had sent us home with a revised schedule—leve increased, clobazam twice a day and a laminated sheet about side effects that now lived on the fridge like some kind of warning label.

May cause: drowsiness, mood swings, irritability, speech difficulty, cognitive delay

She forgot to include "heartbreak."

The first night was the hardest. He didn't want dinner. Didn't want company. Didn't want to be touched. He snapped at Mariana when she offered him a popsicle, then burst into tears before anyone could respond.
Jaylen: Stop being NICE to me! I hate it! I hate this house, I hate my brain, I hate, just LEAVE ME ALONE!
He locked himself in the downstairs bathroom and stayed there for over an hour. Stef and I took turns waiting outside the door, saying nothing, just being there. He came out eventually. Red-eyed, shaking.
Jaylen: Sorry I was mean
Lena: You're allowed to be overwhelmed
Jaylen: I'm just tired of everything being hard
I nodded. Didn't try to fix it. Just offered my hand. He didn't take it, but he didn't walk away either.

By Thursday, we had the meeting scheduled because school wanted to touch base, plan a phased return, check how he was doing. Mr. Kenny, Mr. Malone, and Mr. Peters. Jaylen didn't want to come. I didn't blame him.
Jaylen: What's the point? They're just gonna say I'm too much again
Lena: They're not. They're here to help. We're going to figure this out together
Jaylen: They'll look at me like I'm dangerous
Lena: No one thinks that. You're not dangerous. You're just a kid who needs support. That's okay
He didn't argue. But he didn't get dressed either.
So Stef and I went without him.

Mr. Kenny: First of all, we're really glad Jaylen's home and stable. We've all been concerned
Mr. Malone: We've told the other LSU students he's taking time to recover. No one's asking questions
Mr. Peters: We want to work with you both and with Jaylen to build a support plan that fits where he is now. He's changed. So have his needs
I appreciated the honesty. I appreciated that none of them tiptoed around the reality of it. Jaylen's epilepsy wasn't just a medical issue—it bled into everything: school, focus, friendships, emotions.
Lena: He's struggling with the side effects. His speech is jumbled some days. He's frustrated. Angry. It's hard to tell what's seizure-related and what's emotionaly
Mr. Kenny: That's normal post-status. The brain takes time to heal. We'd like to offer some speech support, maybe a few sessions a week when he's ready
Mr. Peters: And when he does return, he can stay full-time in the LSU for as long as needed. He'll have a quiet desk, and we'll adjust the workload
Mr. Malone: We can also reduce sensory load. Fewer transitions. Shorter days at first
I nodded. Took notes. Tried not to cry.
Lena: And what about meltdowns? They might happen. He's been volatile. It's not aggression—it's dysregulation
Mr. Kenny: Understood. We'll make sure all staff are briefed. And Mr. Grayson's aware if we need a calm-down space in ISS
We left with a plan: no school for another week, then half-days in the LSU. A new timetable. Emergency meds stored in multiple locations. All staff briefed. I texted Jaylen a picture of the plan. He didn't respond.

At home that afternoon, he was curled up on the floor in the hallway when I got back. Not asleep. Just... lying there.
Lena: Hey, bud
Jaylen: Did they say I'm expelled?
Lena: No. They want to help
Jaylen: Bet they don't even believe I'm trying
Lena: They do. I do
He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Jaylen: My brain feels like soup
Lena: I know. They said that's normal while your meds settle
Jaylen: How long?
Lena: Maybe a few weeks
Jaylen: i don't wanna feel like this forever
Lena: You won't
He turned his face toward me. For the first time in days, his eyes met mine.
Jaylen: Promise?
Lena: I promise

The days crawled by. He had bursts of energy—short, sharp, wild—and then crashed hard. His moods whipped like wind: angry, elated, numb. He had trouble reading more than a few words at a time. Got stuck on math problems he'd mastered last term. Screamed at himself when his body wouldn't cooperate.
Jaylen: I used to be good at this! I'm getting dumber!
Lena: You're not getting dumber. Your brain is healing
Jaylen: Then why does it feel like I'm broken?
Lena: Because it's hard. Because you're scared. But you're not broken
Sometimes he didn't believe me. Sometimes I wasn't sure I believed myself.

One night, I found him on the porch at 2 a.m., wrapped in a blanket, staring up at the stars.
Lena: You okay out here?
Jaylen: Couldn't sleep
Lena: Yeah. Me neither
We sat together in silence.
Jaylen: I hate that I'm the kid who needs rescue meds
Lena: I know
Jaylen: I hate that I have to be watched all the time. Like a bomb
Lena: You're not a bomb
Jaylen: Then why's everyone scared something's gonna happen?
Lena: Because we love you. That's all. We want you safe
He didn't say anything. But he leaned his head against my shoulder. I counted that as progress.

The week passed in fragments: naps, medication alarms, quiet stimming, flash-card games for language recall. No school yet. No basketball. Just healing. We survived. And sometimes—briefly—we even laughed.