Crispiness and airy lightness of the aquamarine-blue sky collides with diamond-esque edges of the sleepy forest. Every evergreen stands still, holding mountains of heavy and thick snow banks on its shoulders, bending under the weight of nature’s warmth. You could hear the wood-pecker happily drilling for his afternoon snack, bringing the stillness to a rhythmical momentum. Shadows from the high noon combined with eliminated rays of golden brightness above make the snow seem like a trillion little glass fragments, divulging into the sea of cotton candy. Smell of sunshine permeates your pores, waking the sleepy body from the winter’s dread and igniting desire to breathe, to wake, to live.
Such is the beauty of a winter, its infinite purity and might, its burlesque shapes. One of the most unforgiving seasons and yet, one of the most beautiful times in nature. It is the time when everything is asleep and yet awake, quiet and yet exceedingly loud, effervescent and yet…at times, unbearable.
My legs sink in the heaviness of the snow, slowly drifting to the side, as I use my whole body to lift the several kilos of white gold off the ground in order to move through the sleepy forest. Desire to simply plump on the next snow bank and do the angel routine is unbearable…yet, I know better then to lay down in the lethal graveyard of the vicious white demons. Most beautiful of nature’s creations, yet the most deadly. It pierces your skin and your mind, freezing every extremity and chilling you to the core. You are acutely aware of the fact that the beauty around you is nothing more then a nature-made coffin, waiting to absorb your whole being into its sublime demise.
I walk; continue to overcome the urge to rest. My mind drifts across the horizon, imagining miles and miles of snow-covered ground and its breath-taking stillness. Relaxed and poised, I stand still for a moment, becoming one with the surroundings. Quietness of the field becomes the loudest noise I can imagine of ever hearing. The ringing in my ears is increasing in magnitude and my head begins to spin. If not distracted by the sound of a distant train…I wonder.
On the way back, exhilaration of surviving yet another meandering venture into the forest makes my heart beat faster. I long to return, to experience yet another whiff of beauty that is Alps…
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Tai Chi
I finally made it, I was in Tai Chi class! Who would have thought! Among the stay-at-home moms and ladies in their late 60s, I felt alone and comfortable. I did not have any connection to either group and yet was safe.
Moving through water, feeling every inch of my body succumb to the weightlessness of the situation, allowing the air to freely move through my lungs...what was I doing? This was not me. This was not the person I knew. I never let go. I never stopped and analyzed. Everything was done in-transit, on the fly, in spur of the moment.
The instructor slowly and repetitiously moved in front me, gaining momentum and gliding through each pose with envious levity. I hate the images of samurai warriors and karate masters jumping in my brain, reluctantly stimulating the will of this confused body, moving it in ways that seemed foreign and unnatural. I kept saying 'yes, you have to do this, don't stop'. My hands moved withouth any effort and my eyes did not blink. I was to memorize these mysterious movements. I was to let this 'enlighten' my life.
When the class was over, I slowly swam along the edge of the pool, allowing others to leave, to disappear, to let me be. Feeling of being light as a feather, combined with zombie-like stillness of the pool made a wonderful after chill-factor cocktail. I wanted to stay still and not move. I wanted to become the single molecule of chlorine liquids, flowing through my swim suit. I wanted to melt and merge. So, this was the 'enlightenment' I was seeking - a complete resistance to the natural forces of gravity, a rebellion against the norm.
I did not ponder the situation any further. The sounds of children splashing nearby and older ladies kvetching about the noise make reality slip back into the 'norm'. I was back in my skin, loosing the sense of levity and gaining the heaviness of my body. Strong body odor of nearby crowd made the feelings of dread appear slowly. I perceived it as do or die and quickly exited the aquimarine shelter of peace.
When you are exercising, what any trainer will say is 'BREATHE'. When you are troubled and you are freaking out, what any person will say is 'BREATHE'. When you're happy and relieved, they say 'TAKE A DEEP BREATH'. The question is WHY? Why do we need to breathe? What is the purpose of that magical inhalation/exhalation process that makes it all alright? Scientifically, quite simply an exchange of bad/good gases. Philosophically, an exchange of good/bad feelings. So, what was I exchanging in that 50 minutes of curious body movements and zen music? What was the result?
I thought about it all the way home. I thought about it all through dinner. I thought about over and over. My conclusion was rather simple: I was not exchanging, not by a long shot. I was inhaling the life around me, finally, without a concern of the consequence and eagerly awaiting the unknown to come right afterwards. I was gaining back the streingth to force myself to experience, withouth considering all the if's and what's. I was living. I was not breathing. I was eating the air around me.
Moving through water, feeling every inch of my body succumb to the weightlessness of the situation, allowing the air to freely move through my lungs...what was I doing? This was not me. This was not the person I knew. I never let go. I never stopped and analyzed. Everything was done in-transit, on the fly, in spur of the moment.
The instructor slowly and repetitiously moved in front me, gaining momentum and gliding through each pose with envious levity. I hate the images of samurai warriors and karate masters jumping in my brain, reluctantly stimulating the will of this confused body, moving it in ways that seemed foreign and unnatural. I kept saying 'yes, you have to do this, don't stop'. My hands moved withouth any effort and my eyes did not blink. I was to memorize these mysterious movements. I was to let this 'enlighten' my life.
When the class was over, I slowly swam along the edge of the pool, allowing others to leave, to disappear, to let me be. Feeling of being light as a feather, combined with zombie-like stillness of the pool made a wonderful after chill-factor cocktail. I wanted to stay still and not move. I wanted to become the single molecule of chlorine liquids, flowing through my swim suit. I wanted to melt and merge. So, this was the 'enlightenment' I was seeking - a complete resistance to the natural forces of gravity, a rebellion against the norm.
I did not ponder the situation any further. The sounds of children splashing nearby and older ladies kvetching about the noise make reality slip back into the 'norm'. I was back in my skin, loosing the sense of levity and gaining the heaviness of my body. Strong body odor of nearby crowd made the feelings of dread appear slowly. I perceived it as do or die and quickly exited the aquimarine shelter of peace.
When you are exercising, what any trainer will say is 'BREATHE'. When you are troubled and you are freaking out, what any person will say is 'BREATHE'. When you're happy and relieved, they say 'TAKE A DEEP BREATH'. The question is WHY? Why do we need to breathe? What is the purpose of that magical inhalation/exhalation process that makes it all alright? Scientifically, quite simply an exchange of bad/good gases. Philosophically, an exchange of good/bad feelings. So, what was I exchanging in that 50 minutes of curious body movements and zen music? What was the result?
I thought about it all the way home. I thought about it all through dinner. I thought about over and over. My conclusion was rather simple: I was not exchanging, not by a long shot. I was inhaling the life around me, finally, without a concern of the consequence and eagerly awaiting the unknown to come right afterwards. I was gaining back the streingth to force myself to experience, withouth considering all the if's and what's. I was living. I was not breathing. I was eating the air around me.
Panic - Part IV
Wednesday
I worked from home, not really allowing myself to be dragged into any of the office fires or complex issues. I wanted to simply remain distant and non-absorbed. I wanted to feel free to stop and go as I please and not be dictated by meeting, appointments, and words. I wanted to fly above it all.
I also decided to take control of my life and let the Panic run its course, but without allowing it to change me. So, I called insurance company and filed a short-term disability claim. I then calmly informed my management of my decisions and discovered that for once in my life I did not give a damn about work. I only cared about what was truly important – the loved ones. I did not care whether I would have gainful employment tomorrow. I only cared about whether I would be sick forever and that was not an option. Simply not. The only option was to get better. I only had to work the next few days and get my workload transferred. I need to take care of my affairs at work in order to being taking care of my self. The very last leap to begin my journey back to ‘normal’. Yes, I was ready to take it.
In the evening I ventured to the very first therapy session with Dr. Katherine. Her office was about ½ hour from the house and the drive gave me the much needed snooze time. We parked near an old house in Webster Groves . I knew that the rooms would be small and stale, the stairs steep and screeching, the ceiling low and cracked. The house was quiet, with nothing besides a bell notifying that visitors have arrived. It as close to a invisible medium, filled with sparkles of pure hope and care. I felt calm upon the first step and experienced a serene feeling of relaxation. No one in this abode could hurt me, no one could attack me, and no one could point fingers and call me ‘broken’. In this house it would not be ‘all in your head’. In this house it would be OK to cry and feel lost. In this house it would be OK to release and let the light in.
Dr. Katherine appeared in a hallway quietly, approaching, almost gliding, with long, gray hair and soft, small face. It was full of little wrinkles, formed at the times of smile and compassion. Her voice flowed, filling the air with comfort and warmth. That accent took me back to the stories of Sherlock Holmes that I used to read back in the days, waiting for school to start. Her eyes were blue, like the sea before the storm. Lean and graceful, she almost looked like a fairy, inviting you to the magical land of hope. I followed her, clutching to Christian’s hand and wanting nothing more then to feel some form of relief. Dr. Katherine began by assuring me that everything will be OK, things will get better, and one day we will look back and laugh at the terrible monster that now occupied my body. I wanted to believe her. She was telling the truth! She was the messenger of hope.
She asked me to tell her what happened that led us to this moment. I started to re-tell the events of the weekend…and could not stop the flow of warm, salty tears into my mouth. My body began to shake. I grabbed Christian and pulled him closer, hiding my face inside his warm chest, wanting to escape and forget. I could not say another word. It was take me over the ledge…I would not come back. ‘Please stop!’, my mind was shouting. ‘Don’t talk about that! Why are you making me hurt all over again? You were supposed to help!!!!’
I fell into a daze, hiding my face and body inside Christian’s embrace, not listening to what he was saying to Dr. Katherine. I did not want to hear it. I did not want to understand it. I did not want to let it hurt me again. I closed up my mind. After a little while, I was able to breathe again, taking in the sweet air of the room and listening to Dr. Katherine tell me about Panic Attacks, their fateful impact on human psyche, their enormous power to overturn your world. That I knew. That, I felt. That is why I was here, wanting to get help. And, the help was offered, in its beautiful glory, with open hands and heart. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel and her name was ‘Dr. Katherine’. I felt that this person would help me, without stifling my own efforts, yet guiding the lost handful of emotions to their rightful places.
Friday
I finally got an approval from Liberty Mutual to be on Short Term Disability. A bitter relief to know that I now have a right to be sick and not bother with work … and a right to call myself broken, disabled, not fully well to be part of the work world, of the social world, or the world that I used to call my own. That realization hit hard. I did not care to take it any further. My body did not have the juice to simmer in misery of it all. I had just enough strength to know and to act upon my feelings, whatever they may be. I wanted to be in a cocoon, cradled in a warm, soft space, filled with lavender smells of Provence and the humming of Mediterranean outside the window. I wanted to be in paradise, in a Neverland, a land so far away. I wanted to escape the path to recovery. It was not going to be easy. On some level I compared the journey ahead to a careful crawl in a mine-field, porous land filled with sharp reminders of the past and future moments of turmoil and pain.
That evening I went to see Dr. Susan. My insurance recommended this therapist and I figured that it is not a bad thing to try two different persons. I needed to see which one would truly help me move forward. I came into Dr. Susan’s office when it was already dark outside. It was in a cold office building, with boring décor and heavy furnishings. Nothing in the office spelled warmth. I felt a bit off being in there. It did not feel right. But, I knew, that nothing was understood from the first moment. I had to give it time.
Dr. Susan came out, dressed in purple suit, very professional and sure person, professing an aura of confidence and intelligence. She was firm and polite, but I could not read her. There was a barrier that I was unable to cross. Felt very uncomfortable and sad being inside her office. She did not let Christian come with me, which truly upset the balance even further. I was ready to run out and go back into Christian’s arms. But, something held me back. I had to stay. This was necessary.
Dr. Susan asked me to re-tell the events of the weekend and I, much like with Dr. Katherine, did not do a good job holding back the tears or the panicky feeling of fear and terror that filled every inch of my body. I think it took about fifteen minutes to describe what could have taken three, but to me it felt like the eternity lingering on top of my shoulders. I could not wait to come to the end of the story. Then, let myself hide between the heavy red pillows of the couch and forget where I was. The absence of comfort within the office did not make me feel the same hope that Dr. Katherine provided. But, in some strange way, I thought that the opposite type of therapy, which is cold and clinical, cognitive and almost removed, could provide the outer shell for the warm, cushy, glowing filling that Dr. Katherine would fill. There was a ying and yang of the therapy world in my disposal, ready to help. I felt somewhat comforted by that conclusion and decided to attend session with both Doctors until at least I could begin to feel some form of relief.
And that’s how I discovered the start of the Escape from Panic.
Sabbatical from the world
I began my two months of rest slowly and carefully, taking the time to feel each emotion and nurture its origin and end. I wanted for the first time to take care of myself exclusively and did not allow for needs for others to interfere with this process. I could not risk stretching what little I had left of self-control and inner strength. There was a minute amount of it left and I had to spare every little drop to get better. I wanted for the first time in my life to be cared for and not worry about others. That was not easy to master, as I have always put everyone else’s needs before mine; never thought what Yana would want first. Now, I had to learn. Like a helpless infant left in daycare for the first time and unable to find the comfort of his mom, I too found myself scared and lonely, lost and terrified in a prospect of self indulgence. I had to fend my little island of despair and try to extend its borders far and beyond, obtaining new territories, discovering the ‘New World of Strength’.
Much like a little kid, I could not do it without mom. So, despite of little voice telling me that I had to do this on my own, I asked for mom to come and help me start on the road to recovery. She flew in on Thursday afternoon. I waited at home to see the car pull up, to know that she was only a few yards away. I guess the anticipation gave me the familiar feeling of exhilaration, of something wonderful about to happen. I remember feeling little tingles in my palms, full of sweat and jitters. Knowing that only a few moments from now I will have the protection that I felt from the moment of conception, made the world a little brighter. I knew that help was on the way, the help that only a mom can give.
The next few days were trying. I felt like a robot, doing simple tasks of the day, taking Xanax and Lexapro, experiencing constant anxiety and fear, waiting for another attack to come along. The days felt like infinity. There was no relief in sight and I gave up trying to imagine even the possibility of getting better. With mom being by my side, I did not have to try. I could relax and let the disease take its course and not worry about trying. That was bad and I knew it. But, I just could not care. I was tired. The weight of it all taken its toll and now I had to find the strength to lift it (on my own). This was not going to happen until I am cornered.
I worked from home, not really allowing myself to be dragged into any of the office fires or complex issues. I wanted to simply remain distant and non-absorbed. I wanted to feel free to stop and go as I please and not be dictated by meeting, appointments, and words. I wanted to fly above it all.
I also decided to take control of my life and let the Panic run its course, but without allowing it to change me. So, I called insurance company and filed a short-term disability claim. I then calmly informed my management of my decisions and discovered that for once in my life I did not give a damn about work. I only cared about what was truly important – the loved ones. I did not care whether I would have gainful employment tomorrow. I only cared about whether I would be sick forever and that was not an option. Simply not. The only option was to get better. I only had to work the next few days and get my workload transferred. I need to take care of my affairs at work in order to being taking care of my self. The very last leap to begin my journey back to ‘normal’. Yes, I was ready to take it.
In the evening I ventured to the very first therapy session with Dr. Katherine. Her office was about ½ hour from the house and the drive gave me the much needed snooze time. We parked near an old house in Webster Groves . I knew that the rooms would be small and stale, the stairs steep and screeching, the ceiling low and cracked. The house was quiet, with nothing besides a bell notifying that visitors have arrived. It as close to a invisible medium, filled with sparkles of pure hope and care. I felt calm upon the first step and experienced a serene feeling of relaxation. No one in this abode could hurt me, no one could attack me, and no one could point fingers and call me ‘broken’. In this house it would not be ‘all in your head’. In this house it would be OK to cry and feel lost. In this house it would be OK to release and let the light in.
Dr. Katherine appeared in a hallway quietly, approaching, almost gliding, with long, gray hair and soft, small face. It was full of little wrinkles, formed at the times of smile and compassion. Her voice flowed, filling the air with comfort and warmth. That accent took me back to the stories of Sherlock Holmes that I used to read back in the days, waiting for school to start. Her eyes were blue, like the sea before the storm. Lean and graceful, she almost looked like a fairy, inviting you to the magical land of hope. I followed her, clutching to Christian’s hand and wanting nothing more then to feel some form of relief. Dr. Katherine began by assuring me that everything will be OK, things will get better, and one day we will look back and laugh at the terrible monster that now occupied my body. I wanted to believe her. She was telling the truth! She was the messenger of hope.
She asked me to tell her what happened that led us to this moment. I started to re-tell the events of the weekend…and could not stop the flow of warm, salty tears into my mouth. My body began to shake. I grabbed Christian and pulled him closer, hiding my face inside his warm chest, wanting to escape and forget. I could not say another word. It was take me over the ledge…I would not come back. ‘Please stop!’, my mind was shouting. ‘Don’t talk about that! Why are you making me hurt all over again? You were supposed to help!!!!’
I fell into a daze, hiding my face and body inside Christian’s embrace, not listening to what he was saying to Dr. Katherine. I did not want to hear it. I did not want to understand it. I did not want to let it hurt me again. I closed up my mind. After a little while, I was able to breathe again, taking in the sweet air of the room and listening to Dr. Katherine tell me about Panic Attacks, their fateful impact on human psyche, their enormous power to overturn your world. That I knew. That, I felt. That is why I was here, wanting to get help. And, the help was offered, in its beautiful glory, with open hands and heart. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel and her name was ‘Dr. Katherine’. I felt that this person would help me, without stifling my own efforts, yet guiding the lost handful of emotions to their rightful places.
Friday
I finally got an approval from Liberty Mutual to be on Short Term Disability. A bitter relief to know that I now have a right to be sick and not bother with work … and a right to call myself broken, disabled, not fully well to be part of the work world, of the social world, or the world that I used to call my own. That realization hit hard. I did not care to take it any further. My body did not have the juice to simmer in misery of it all. I had just enough strength to know and to act upon my feelings, whatever they may be. I wanted to be in a cocoon, cradled in a warm, soft space, filled with lavender smells of Provence and the humming of Mediterranean outside the window. I wanted to be in paradise, in a Neverland, a land so far away. I wanted to escape the path to recovery. It was not going to be easy. On some level I compared the journey ahead to a careful crawl in a mine-field, porous land filled with sharp reminders of the past and future moments of turmoil and pain.
That evening I went to see Dr. Susan. My insurance recommended this therapist and I figured that it is not a bad thing to try two different persons. I needed to see which one would truly help me move forward. I came into Dr. Susan’s office when it was already dark outside. It was in a cold office building, with boring décor and heavy furnishings. Nothing in the office spelled warmth. I felt a bit off being in there. It did not feel right. But, I knew, that nothing was understood from the first moment. I had to give it time.
Dr. Susan came out, dressed in purple suit, very professional and sure person, professing an aura of confidence and intelligence. She was firm and polite, but I could not read her. There was a barrier that I was unable to cross. Felt very uncomfortable and sad being inside her office. She did not let Christian come with me, which truly upset the balance even further. I was ready to run out and go back into Christian’s arms. But, something held me back. I had to stay. This was necessary.
Dr. Susan asked me to re-tell the events of the weekend and I, much like with Dr. Katherine, did not do a good job holding back the tears or the panicky feeling of fear and terror that filled every inch of my body. I think it took about fifteen minutes to describe what could have taken three, but to me it felt like the eternity lingering on top of my shoulders. I could not wait to come to the end of the story. Then, let myself hide between the heavy red pillows of the couch and forget where I was. The absence of comfort within the office did not make me feel the same hope that Dr. Katherine provided. But, in some strange way, I thought that the opposite type of therapy, which is cold and clinical, cognitive and almost removed, could provide the outer shell for the warm, cushy, glowing filling that Dr. Katherine would fill. There was a ying and yang of the therapy world in my disposal, ready to help. I felt somewhat comforted by that conclusion and decided to attend session with both Doctors until at least I could begin to feel some form of relief.
And that’s how I discovered the start of the Escape from Panic.
Sabbatical from the world
I began my two months of rest slowly and carefully, taking the time to feel each emotion and nurture its origin and end. I wanted for the first time to take care of myself exclusively and did not allow for needs for others to interfere with this process. I could not risk stretching what little I had left of self-control and inner strength. There was a minute amount of it left and I had to spare every little drop to get better. I wanted for the first time in my life to be cared for and not worry about others. That was not easy to master, as I have always put everyone else’s needs before mine; never thought what Yana would want first. Now, I had to learn. Like a helpless infant left in daycare for the first time and unable to find the comfort of his mom, I too found myself scared and lonely, lost and terrified in a prospect of self indulgence. I had to fend my little island of despair and try to extend its borders far and beyond, obtaining new territories, discovering the ‘New World of Strength’.
Much like a little kid, I could not do it without mom. So, despite of little voice telling me that I had to do this on my own, I asked for mom to come and help me start on the road to recovery. She flew in on Thursday afternoon. I waited at home to see the car pull up, to know that she was only a few yards away. I guess the anticipation gave me the familiar feeling of exhilaration, of something wonderful about to happen. I remember feeling little tingles in my palms, full of sweat and jitters. Knowing that only a few moments from now I will have the protection that I felt from the moment of conception, made the world a little brighter. I knew that help was on the way, the help that only a mom can give.
The next few days were trying. I felt like a robot, doing simple tasks of the day, taking Xanax and Lexapro, experiencing constant anxiety and fear, waiting for another attack to come along. The days felt like infinity. There was no relief in sight and I gave up trying to imagine even the possibility of getting better. With mom being by my side, I did not have to try. I could relax and let the disease take its course and not worry about trying. That was bad and I knew it. But, I just could not care. I was tired. The weight of it all taken its toll and now I had to find the strength to lift it (on my own). This was not going to happen until I am cornered.
Panic - Part III
Sunday
In the morning I slept…and slept. My body was begging for energy, for comfort, for stability. So, I slept. That’s all I had left any desire to do. I just wanted to be alone. But, something inside me begged to go downstairs, to be with my family. I had something inside unwilling to give up, dragging my stubborn body back to life. They say G-d is inside each one of us. If that’s the case, then my god was doing just that: being inside, guiding the inside, helping soothe the soul, inflict pain outward, and relieving me of the burden.
Around 11 AM, started getting ready to send Simone and Christian to COCA for her ballet class. I did not want them to leave, but knew that she needed to continue with her routine and have a stable environment, regardless of my shaky situation. I said my good-byes and settled on the couch, with pugs lying lazily around me, snoring the peaceful sounds of afternoon nap. Their warm bodies were heavy, contrasting my racing heart. It made me sleepy, tired, and ready to turn off for a few hours. I closed my eyes, but could not find the avenue to relax. My heart kept racing and my head kept spinning. I decided to refocus and turned on the TV. I still can not remember what was on….I simply can’t. But, I do remember the instant burst of panic engulfing my body, agitating the whole room. Pugs continued to be still, which only emphasized my fear. I picked up the phone and said ‘Come home’ and hanged up. I could not say anything else. I did not want to. I was afraid to agitate him as well. He had to drive my most precious angel home and that was above even the Panic. But, the situation worsened and I decided to call my parents. My dad picked up the phone. He was joking at first, until realizing what is happening on the other side of the line. He kept telling me that everything is OK and I will get better soon. I knew that he meant it, but did not find the strength to believe him. All I wanted at this point is to be comforted, so mom came on the line. She did what every mom would – began to direct my attention elsewhere, telling me the stories that mesmerized me when I was just a little kid. Her words, her tone, the storyline brought me into a dazed state, feeling the tenderness of the moment and welcoming the memories of the actual storytelling back in the days. I began to breathe again. I was able to open my eyes and look around the room. But, I did not let go of the story. I felt it; I imagined it and wanted to be in it. I wanted to escape the reality.
And, that is how I felt Panic.
Limbo week
I decided that in order for me to get a hold of things, I needed to get back to normal routine, come back to the world as it is and show myself that it is only a bump, a small indentation in my journey…I am back on track. I hardly ever stop and let myself absorb the situation before diving into it, however, that Monday I felt that it might be a good idea to absorb before diving. I took Monday and Tuesday off, relishing the idea of being at home, in a safe place, confined to my nest, my heaven. Heaven full of books and pugs, fruit and foreign movies, tea and caviar, sky and air. I felt free to be sick and not be judged. I felt liberated to suffer the weakness of my being.
Monday morning Christian took me to see Dr. Senol in order to figure out the next steps in this thorny path. I came slowly to the door of the office and felt that if I pulled it, things would turn upside down. I could not bring myself to opening yet another door to the Panic World. I did not want to. The blissful innocence and absolute resolve to not deal with the problem made me just about as determined as a coward terrorist in the Al Qaeda convention. I felt scared. I felt…I did….and that made the minute difference in opening that door or turning back. The fact that I could still feel taken me a step further, no matter how incredibly terrorizing.
The office was full of people eager to get done and get on with their pointless non-stop race to get another material possession, to get to work and complete a set of tasks irrelevant of anyone’s well-being, to get…to have…to be…but not to feel. I sadly realized that my hard stop and complete halt of survival has made me feel more acute details of day’s passing and absorb them, one by one. What a relief that was to feel a bit more above the crowd, to have a foundation on which to base my emotions, to understand that I too had a place in this world, even though in a different light.
The nurse called my name, but I did not realize it, until Christian told me that it is time to go. I asked him to come with me. Would not have it any other way. To be able to step into a new place, situation, position would require constant support and love, which he was providing in constant flow. That flow would sustain me through it all.
I could not sit on the examination table. I could not contain my body to be in a still position without feeling the symptoms crawling up my spine, grabbing my chest and emerging from every orifice. Laying down, breathing in the medical smell of band-aids, scalpels, anti-microbial spray and stale outdated literature on diabetes, I could not help but feel out of place. Grabbing Christian’s hand, I slowly slipped into a dreaming state, relaxing, focusing on my breathing. Things were calm, I was OK. I was OK.
The minute Dr. Senol appeared in the room, my sense of calmness disappeared and the emotions took control. I started the tedious fight between being in control and being in despair. Despair was winning, breaking down whatever sense of stability I had left and in a few moments I was having a full blown attack, being swallowed by the monster. Dr. Senol asked us to re-tell the story of the past few days and I could hardly pronounce the words, before fighting another attack. One after another. One after another… Stop, please stop. It did not. She decided to not get the full story from me, but instead questioned Christian. In the interim I regressed to the point of a childish fear and tightly grasped the silence between their words, to feel my little safety net of fighting armament. I needed silence. I needed peace. I needed solitude.
Slowly I was able to get back to somewhat regulated condition, while looking at Dr. Senol’s eyes. She has the eyes full of honey, never piercing, but comforting and soothing. Those eyes have taken me from anxiety to comfort many a times, but now they were not helping. I tried to find that comfort long lost, but to no avail. After being given a hefty instruction on how Lexapro and Xanax should be taken, we were finally back in the car. I reclined and went to deep sleep. I did not want to talk, or to listen. I wanted to be back home…NOW!
Tuesday
Taking another day off made sense, to get into the routine of taking drugs and giving my body a chance to accept the newly present chemical agent to correct its faulty ways and to put me back with the mundane. Xanax made the day bearable and I found myself waiting to take another pill, counting the hours until 8 had passed, feeling the body slip back into abyss to those few seconds when one pill would wear off and the next did not take affect yet. Those minutes of unbearable torture, complete dismay, disgusting feeling of failure, almost loosing the sense of humanity. The day went on, bringing moments of happiness and hours of agony, combined with pure exhaustion of physical and emotional being. I remember going to sleep very early and simply falling into it. I did not think about it. I fell into it without any effort. It was empty, ample and fulfilling. I had allowed my body to relax and recharge itself for what was ahead. I needed Shabbat to come soon. I needed to know that Shalom will once again be part of my being. I wanted to be entitled to it, as much as the next guy. I wanted to exist without effort.
Wednesday
I worked from home, not really allowing myself to be dragged into any of the office fires or complex issues. I wanted to simply remain distant and non-absorbed. I wanted to feel free to stop and go as I please and not be dictated by meeting, appointments, and words. I wanted to fly above it all.
I also decided to take control of my life and let the Panic run its course, but without allowing it to change me. So, I called insurance company and filed a short-term disability claim. I then calmly informed my management of my decisions and discovered that for once in my life I did not give a damn about work. I only cared about what was truly important – the loved ones. I did not care whether I would have gainful employment tomorrow. I only cared about whether I would be sick forever and that was not an option. Simply not. The only option was to get better. I only had to work the next few days and get my workload transferred. I need to take care of my affairs at work in order to being taking care of my self. The very last leap to begin my journey back to ‘normal’. Yes, I was ready to take it.
In the morning I slept…and slept. My body was begging for energy, for comfort, for stability. So, I slept. That’s all I had left any desire to do. I just wanted to be alone. But, something inside me begged to go downstairs, to be with my family. I had something inside unwilling to give up, dragging my stubborn body back to life. They say G-d is inside each one of us. If that’s the case, then my god was doing just that: being inside, guiding the inside, helping soothe the soul, inflict pain outward, and relieving me of the burden.
Around 11 AM, started getting ready to send Simone and Christian to COCA for her ballet class. I did not want them to leave, but knew that she needed to continue with her routine and have a stable environment, regardless of my shaky situation. I said my good-byes and settled on the couch, with pugs lying lazily around me, snoring the peaceful sounds of afternoon nap. Their warm bodies were heavy, contrasting my racing heart. It made me sleepy, tired, and ready to turn off for a few hours. I closed my eyes, but could not find the avenue to relax. My heart kept racing and my head kept spinning. I decided to refocus and turned on the TV. I still can not remember what was on….I simply can’t. But, I do remember the instant burst of panic engulfing my body, agitating the whole room. Pugs continued to be still, which only emphasized my fear. I picked up the phone and said ‘Come home’ and hanged up. I could not say anything else. I did not want to. I was afraid to agitate him as well. He had to drive my most precious angel home and that was above even the Panic. But, the situation worsened and I decided to call my parents. My dad picked up the phone. He was joking at first, until realizing what is happening on the other side of the line. He kept telling me that everything is OK and I will get better soon. I knew that he meant it, but did not find the strength to believe him. All I wanted at this point is to be comforted, so mom came on the line. She did what every mom would – began to direct my attention elsewhere, telling me the stories that mesmerized me when I was just a little kid. Her words, her tone, the storyline brought me into a dazed state, feeling the tenderness of the moment and welcoming the memories of the actual storytelling back in the days. I began to breathe again. I was able to open my eyes and look around the room. But, I did not let go of the story. I felt it; I imagined it and wanted to be in it. I wanted to escape the reality.
And, that is how I felt Panic.
Limbo week
I decided that in order for me to get a hold of things, I needed to get back to normal routine, come back to the world as it is and show myself that it is only a bump, a small indentation in my journey…I am back on track. I hardly ever stop and let myself absorb the situation before diving into it, however, that Monday I felt that it might be a good idea to absorb before diving. I took Monday and Tuesday off, relishing the idea of being at home, in a safe place, confined to my nest, my heaven. Heaven full of books and pugs, fruit and foreign movies, tea and caviar, sky and air. I felt free to be sick and not be judged. I felt liberated to suffer the weakness of my being.
Monday morning Christian took me to see Dr. Senol in order to figure out the next steps in this thorny path. I came slowly to the door of the office and felt that if I pulled it, things would turn upside down. I could not bring myself to opening yet another door to the Panic World. I did not want to. The blissful innocence and absolute resolve to not deal with the problem made me just about as determined as a coward terrorist in the Al Qaeda convention. I felt scared. I felt…I did….and that made the minute difference in opening that door or turning back. The fact that I could still feel taken me a step further, no matter how incredibly terrorizing.
The office was full of people eager to get done and get on with their pointless non-stop race to get another material possession, to get to work and complete a set of tasks irrelevant of anyone’s well-being, to get…to have…to be…but not to feel. I sadly realized that my hard stop and complete halt of survival has made me feel more acute details of day’s passing and absorb them, one by one. What a relief that was to feel a bit more above the crowd, to have a foundation on which to base my emotions, to understand that I too had a place in this world, even though in a different light.
The nurse called my name, but I did not realize it, until Christian told me that it is time to go. I asked him to come with me. Would not have it any other way. To be able to step into a new place, situation, position would require constant support and love, which he was providing in constant flow. That flow would sustain me through it all.
I could not sit on the examination table. I could not contain my body to be in a still position without feeling the symptoms crawling up my spine, grabbing my chest and emerging from every orifice. Laying down, breathing in the medical smell of band-aids, scalpels, anti-microbial spray and stale outdated literature on diabetes, I could not help but feel out of place. Grabbing Christian’s hand, I slowly slipped into a dreaming state, relaxing, focusing on my breathing. Things were calm, I was OK. I was OK.
The minute Dr. Senol appeared in the room, my sense of calmness disappeared and the emotions took control. I started the tedious fight between being in control and being in despair. Despair was winning, breaking down whatever sense of stability I had left and in a few moments I was having a full blown attack, being swallowed by the monster. Dr. Senol asked us to re-tell the story of the past few days and I could hardly pronounce the words, before fighting another attack. One after another. One after another… Stop, please stop. It did not. She decided to not get the full story from me, but instead questioned Christian. In the interim I regressed to the point of a childish fear and tightly grasped the silence between their words, to feel my little safety net of fighting armament. I needed silence. I needed peace. I needed solitude.
Slowly I was able to get back to somewhat regulated condition, while looking at Dr. Senol’s eyes. She has the eyes full of honey, never piercing, but comforting and soothing. Those eyes have taken me from anxiety to comfort many a times, but now they were not helping. I tried to find that comfort long lost, but to no avail. After being given a hefty instruction on how Lexapro and Xanax should be taken, we were finally back in the car. I reclined and went to deep sleep. I did not want to talk, or to listen. I wanted to be back home…NOW!
Tuesday
Taking another day off made sense, to get into the routine of taking drugs and giving my body a chance to accept the newly present chemical agent to correct its faulty ways and to put me back with the mundane. Xanax made the day bearable and I found myself waiting to take another pill, counting the hours until 8 had passed, feeling the body slip back into abyss to those few seconds when one pill would wear off and the next did not take affect yet. Those minutes of unbearable torture, complete dismay, disgusting feeling of failure, almost loosing the sense of humanity. The day went on, bringing moments of happiness and hours of agony, combined with pure exhaustion of physical and emotional being. I remember going to sleep very early and simply falling into it. I did not think about it. I fell into it without any effort. It was empty, ample and fulfilling. I had allowed my body to relax and recharge itself for what was ahead. I needed Shabbat to come soon. I needed to know that Shalom will once again be part of my being. I wanted to be entitled to it, as much as the next guy. I wanted to exist without effort.
Wednesday
I worked from home, not really allowing myself to be dragged into any of the office fires or complex issues. I wanted to simply remain distant and non-absorbed. I wanted to feel free to stop and go as I please and not be dictated by meeting, appointments, and words. I wanted to fly above it all.
I also decided to take control of my life and let the Panic run its course, but without allowing it to change me. So, I called insurance company and filed a short-term disability claim. I then calmly informed my management of my decisions and discovered that for once in my life I did not give a damn about work. I only cared about what was truly important – the loved ones. I did not care whether I would have gainful employment tomorrow. I only cared about whether I would be sick forever and that was not an option. Simply not. The only option was to get better. I only had to work the next few days and get my workload transferred. I need to take care of my affairs at work in order to being taking care of my self. The very last leap to begin my journey back to ‘normal’. Yes, I was ready to take it.
Panic - Part II
The Weekend…
Friday
Back then I did not know that it was a Panic Attack… I only knew that an instant my whole body was out of control, my psyche affected and my life’s foundation appeared to have a crack. A crack that is patchable, but not removable, the one that will stain my character and give a shadow to all my future endeavors.
I slowly recuperated at home, taking things easy and trying to figure out as to why an activity that has always been a part of my life has had such an effect on me. Without having many answers and many more questions by the hour, I nursed the shaken soul back to normalcy and proceeded with my everyday life as if nothing is wrong.
For weeks everything was as always and nothing seemed to be out of place. I began to forget the events of that day, not wanting to remember a weak point in my strong, independent life. Life was too short to concentrate on something that insignificant, or so I thought…
October 31st came rolling in; just like any other Halloween morning, full of preparations for early commute and last-minute candy hauling by desperate parents. Everywhere the people were eager to finish up the work day and enjoy the childish display of horror and twisted tales, sugared with a cherry on top. I was making last minute plans to attend a family get-together and still have enough time for our own trick-or-treating. This would be the first year when Simone was actually looking forward and enjoying the holiday.
I finished the workload for the day, said my ‘Happy Halloween’ greetings to co-workers and friends and proceed to my last errand of the day – laser hair removal appointment. To those that have never experienced the torture of being a woman, this would be irrelevant. But, to those poor creatures that at all costs have tried every recipe known to men to reduce the hair growth in body parts never seen to the public, this is truly a profound moment. The laser promises to remove and/or greatly reduce the pesky reminders that once we were all on all fours, foraging the Sahara .
The appointment started as usual with a few niceties said to the technician and me getting ready to experience half an hour of torture. I relaxed and submitted myself to the loud bangs of the laser gun. As the thirty minutes have passed and the actual treatment was almost completed, I began to feel that awful lightness in the head, freezing extremities…and horrendous feeling of pure panic. Heart began to beat faster and faster, making my mind spin in all directions, not wanting to admit the return of the monster. I asked the technician to lay me flat, elevate my feet and give me a cold compress. Thankfully, being a nurse, she calmly and sweetly told me that ‘It will be OK’ and proceeded to do just what I asked. After taking my vitals and noticing highly irregular heart-beat combined with elevated blood-pressure, they called 911. Paramedics arrived in a few minutes and advised that it would be in my best interest to go to ER. At that point I remember saying two things over and over again: “I want my daughter and husband” & “Don’t let me die”. I don’t remember when I stopped.
The next thing was a dim light shining through the ambulance, with a murky sky barely seen in the side window. The paramedic held my hand and kept asking me questions. “Name, height, weight…” How hard I tried to stay awake and answer all of them. How hard… When we arrived in the hospital, the nurses took me to a room and put me on the monitor. The vitals were improving and I was given a doze of Xanax. The panic attacks kept coming, but in smaller bursts, almost trying to relive their glory one last time. I kept screaming for help and no one came. The nurse forgot to give me the button to ring for help and being only three feet away from the actual nurses station I never did get the help.
I finally told myself that I am strong and can get up on my own. I did and was lucky enough to catch a passer by in the hallway to inform my nurse that I needed to use the restroom. What a great time to have someone in full blown panic attack to scramble for help. All problems aside, I was finally beginning to feel like I could breathe again. It was a welcomed feeling, combined with hope that I will see my husband soon and be able to go home and see Simone. I wanted nothing more then see my beautiful girl, feel her skin, touch her hair and kiss those gorgeous eyes. I just wanted to do that, over and over, and never stop. It seemed like an unattainable goal, being stuck in a cold hospital room, with no one around to share my fear.
The doctor finally came and advised that I see a shrink. The bed-side manner of that doctor and the hospital’s general ‘friendly’ disposition left nothing but disgust in my mouth for St. John’s Mercy Medical Center . To this day, I always feel a bit of anger passing by that building.
Christian arrived when it was almost 4 PM and took me home. I was so happy, exhausted, scared and completely morphed into a helpless little girl. Seeing my home and seeing Simone made the rest of the day bearable. I did get enough strength to take my little angel trick-or-treating and then crushed, falling into a deep sleep…and the nightmare to come.
Saturday
Shabbat morning the Hotter House was buzzing with preparations for synagogue, reminding us of the day of rest that G-d took on the 7th day and the need for us to do the same, in order to re-fill the drained energy from the week’s worries and deeds. I was looking forward to seeing Rabbi Randy and Rabbi Susan, their sweet faces and calm dispositions, the warm hands and open hearts. I wanted to be in a safe place, with my daughter and husband next to me.
We got into the car and I decided that being in such a weak state was probably impossible combination to handle a driving task. So, Christian took the reigns and I reclined the chair, deciding to relax until we get to our destination. As we continued on State Road 44 and observed the gray mass of autumn ridden St. Louis , I began to feel the dreaded symptoms. Without wanting to scare Simone, I calmly asked Christian to drive me to Barnes Jewish Hospital. I could not think of another place that was closer and more appealing at that point, which made me even more scared. I realized that I did not feel safe without medical attention, without confirmation that there was nothing wrong from a doctor. I was loosing trust in people around me and in myself. I could not rely on anything, except a life-less machine producing green digits of hope on a tiny screen and beeping in unison with my aching heart.
After securing Simone’s entertainment for the afternoon (on the gracious invitation from the Alperin family), we felt comfortable and ready to face the music. The tests did not bother me, as much as unknown and almost pitiful expression in my doctor’s face when stating that ‘there is nothing wrong physically with you’. It is as if he was sorry for giving me such a blurry diagnosis of nothingness. I felt betrayed and outraged that in this day and age the only thing that these machines could tell me is that it is all in my head! The nerve! How dare they? I am sick…why else would I be in a hospital?!?! I am very intelligent, independent, strong and take-charge woman. Why would I be here if something was not wrong?
My heart-felt anger and frustration, combined with Christians’ inability to console me made matters worse. I did not know what to do or what to say. I just felt tired and upset. The world was turned against me and no a soul was able to see into mine, to understand me, to see me, to hear my pleas.
I was release from Barnes Jewish that evening, with lots of tests to show and no plan to take charge of the situation. We drove to Alperin’s house to pick up Simone and had a wonderful meal with the whole family. It was nice to be among friends and loved ones, as opposed to a hospital. I felt a few symptoms, but was able to deflect them with a timely rest on the couch. Things were beginning to ware off and I thought that I just need rest. Yes, I just need rest and everything would be fine…
Saturday Night
We got home and decided to just take things easy. Simone was deep asleep and I was resting on the couch. The symptoms came in an instance, hard, like a freight-train rushing through the dark of the night, with its full might determined to throw me off the tracks. That it did. I could not contain the fear or the physical pain of pure exhaustion of contact horror and fear of what might happen next. My symptoms had an enormous strength and determination. I was at total loss for words or actions. What could I do to stop this? G-d, help me. Please don’t let me die. I could hear Simone’s breathing on the monitor, asking myself to listen, TO LISTEN! Nothing worked. I screamed for Christian to go to the hospital. I don’t remember the rest, except being transported to Missouri Baptist Medical Center in a quiet ambulance, with a nice paramedic asking me the same sets of questions…the same questions….the same answer-less questions…déjà vu has taken its place and I felt like Alice, not being able to get home.
Christian held my hand, while I fell into a deep, much needed sleep. Additional tests were done and nothing found. It was after midnight when a nice, older man came into the room and started to talk about panic attacks, anxiety and all that jazz. I listened, quietly, taking in every word and feeling a RELIEF. Someone knew that I am sick and someone had the plan. I swallowed hard and deep, knowing that relief was in sight (even though it was a long and hard road ahead). I breathed. For the first time in 72 hours, I breathed…and let out a first sigh of relief.
Friday
Back then I did not know that it was a Panic Attack… I only knew that an instant my whole body was out of control, my psyche affected and my life’s foundation appeared to have a crack. A crack that is patchable, but not removable, the one that will stain my character and give a shadow to all my future endeavors.
I slowly recuperated at home, taking things easy and trying to figure out as to why an activity that has always been a part of my life has had such an effect on me. Without having many answers and many more questions by the hour, I nursed the shaken soul back to normalcy and proceeded with my everyday life as if nothing is wrong.
For weeks everything was as always and nothing seemed to be out of place. I began to forget the events of that day, not wanting to remember a weak point in my strong, independent life. Life was too short to concentrate on something that insignificant, or so I thought…
October 31st came rolling in; just like any other Halloween morning, full of preparations for early commute and last-minute candy hauling by desperate parents. Everywhere the people were eager to finish up the work day and enjoy the childish display of horror and twisted tales, sugared with a cherry on top. I was making last minute plans to attend a family get-together and still have enough time for our own trick-or-treating. This would be the first year when Simone was actually looking forward and enjoying the holiday.
I finished the workload for the day, said my ‘Happy Halloween’ greetings to co-workers and friends and proceed to my last errand of the day – laser hair removal appointment. To those that have never experienced the torture of being a woman, this would be irrelevant. But, to those poor creatures that at all costs have tried every recipe known to men to reduce the hair growth in body parts never seen to the public, this is truly a profound moment. The laser promises to remove and/or greatly reduce the pesky reminders that once we were all on all fours, foraging the Sahara .
The appointment started as usual with a few niceties said to the technician and me getting ready to experience half an hour of torture. I relaxed and submitted myself to the loud bangs of the laser gun. As the thirty minutes have passed and the actual treatment was almost completed, I began to feel that awful lightness in the head, freezing extremities…and horrendous feeling of pure panic. Heart began to beat faster and faster, making my mind spin in all directions, not wanting to admit the return of the monster. I asked the technician to lay me flat, elevate my feet and give me a cold compress. Thankfully, being a nurse, she calmly and sweetly told me that ‘It will be OK’ and proceeded to do just what I asked. After taking my vitals and noticing highly irregular heart-beat combined with elevated blood-pressure, they called 911. Paramedics arrived in a few minutes and advised that it would be in my best interest to go to ER. At that point I remember saying two things over and over again: “I want my daughter and husband” & “Don’t let me die”. I don’t remember when I stopped.
The next thing was a dim light shining through the ambulance, with a murky sky barely seen in the side window. The paramedic held my hand and kept asking me questions. “Name, height, weight…” How hard I tried to stay awake and answer all of them. How hard… When we arrived in the hospital, the nurses took me to a room and put me on the monitor. The vitals were improving and I was given a doze of Xanax. The panic attacks kept coming, but in smaller bursts, almost trying to relive their glory one last time. I kept screaming for help and no one came. The nurse forgot to give me the button to ring for help and being only three feet away from the actual nurses station I never did get the help.
I finally told myself that I am strong and can get up on my own. I did and was lucky enough to catch a passer by in the hallway to inform my nurse that I needed to use the restroom. What a great time to have someone in full blown panic attack to scramble for help. All problems aside, I was finally beginning to feel like I could breathe again. It was a welcomed feeling, combined with hope that I will see my husband soon and be able to go home and see Simone. I wanted nothing more then see my beautiful girl, feel her skin, touch her hair and kiss those gorgeous eyes. I just wanted to do that, over and over, and never stop. It seemed like an unattainable goal, being stuck in a cold hospital room, with no one around to share my fear.
The doctor finally came and advised that I see a shrink. The bed-side manner of that doctor and the hospital’s general ‘friendly’ disposition left nothing but disgust in my mouth for St. John’s Mercy Medical Center . To this day, I always feel a bit of anger passing by that building.
Christian arrived when it was almost 4 PM and took me home. I was so happy, exhausted, scared and completely morphed into a helpless little girl. Seeing my home and seeing Simone made the rest of the day bearable. I did get enough strength to take my little angel trick-or-treating and then crushed, falling into a deep sleep…and the nightmare to come.
Saturday
Shabbat morning the Hotter House was buzzing with preparations for synagogue, reminding us of the day of rest that G-d took on the 7th day and the need for us to do the same, in order to re-fill the drained energy from the week’s worries and deeds. I was looking forward to seeing Rabbi Randy and Rabbi Susan, their sweet faces and calm dispositions, the warm hands and open hearts. I wanted to be in a safe place, with my daughter and husband next to me.
We got into the car and I decided that being in such a weak state was probably impossible combination to handle a driving task. So, Christian took the reigns and I reclined the chair, deciding to relax until we get to our destination. As we continued on State Road 44 and observed the gray mass of autumn ridden St. Louis , I began to feel the dreaded symptoms. Without wanting to scare Simone, I calmly asked Christian to drive me to Barnes Jewish Hospital. I could not think of another place that was closer and more appealing at that point, which made me even more scared. I realized that I did not feel safe without medical attention, without confirmation that there was nothing wrong from a doctor. I was loosing trust in people around me and in myself. I could not rely on anything, except a life-less machine producing green digits of hope on a tiny screen and beeping in unison with my aching heart.
After securing Simone’s entertainment for the afternoon (on the gracious invitation from the Alperin family), we felt comfortable and ready to face the music. The tests did not bother me, as much as unknown and almost pitiful expression in my doctor’s face when stating that ‘there is nothing wrong physically with you’. It is as if he was sorry for giving me such a blurry diagnosis of nothingness. I felt betrayed and outraged that in this day and age the only thing that these machines could tell me is that it is all in my head! The nerve! How dare they? I am sick…why else would I be in a hospital?!?! I am very intelligent, independent, strong and take-charge woman. Why would I be here if something was not wrong?
My heart-felt anger and frustration, combined with Christians’ inability to console me made matters worse. I did not know what to do or what to say. I just felt tired and upset. The world was turned against me and no a soul was able to see into mine, to understand me, to see me, to hear my pleas.
I was release from Barnes Jewish that evening, with lots of tests to show and no plan to take charge of the situation. We drove to Alperin’s house to pick up Simone and had a wonderful meal with the whole family. It was nice to be among friends and loved ones, as opposed to a hospital. I felt a few symptoms, but was able to deflect them with a timely rest on the couch. Things were beginning to ware off and I thought that I just need rest. Yes, I just need rest and everything would be fine…
Saturday Night
We got home and decided to just take things easy. Simone was deep asleep and I was resting on the couch. The symptoms came in an instance, hard, like a freight-train rushing through the dark of the night, with its full might determined to throw me off the tracks. That it did. I could not contain the fear or the physical pain of pure exhaustion of contact horror and fear of what might happen next. My symptoms had an enormous strength and determination. I was at total loss for words or actions. What could I do to stop this? G-d, help me. Please don’t let me die. I could hear Simone’s breathing on the monitor, asking myself to listen, TO LISTEN! Nothing worked. I screamed for Christian to go to the hospital. I don’t remember the rest, except being transported to Missouri Baptist Medical Center in a quiet ambulance, with a nice paramedic asking me the same sets of questions…the same questions….the same answer-less questions…déjà vu has taken its place and I felt like Alice, not being able to get home.
Christian held my hand, while I fell into a deep, much needed sleep. Additional tests were done and nothing found. It was after midnight when a nice, older man came into the room and started to talk about panic attacks, anxiety and all that jazz. I listened, quietly, taking in every word and feeling a RELIEF. Someone knew that I am sick and someone had the plan. I swallowed hard and deep, knowing that relief was in sight (even though it was a long and hard road ahead). I breathed. For the first time in 72 hours, I breathed…and let out a first sigh of relief.
Panic - Part I
Humming of cars made the ride to work serene and full of ample two-fold silence. Nothing perched above the gray skyline and monotonous flow of sleepy motorists. Life was ordinarily simple with multitude of problems and crisis, deadlines and lattes.
Thinking about the itinerary for the upcoming weekend and thankfully feeling the mid-week break of Wednesday, I parked and walked into my sadly familiar office. It is the kind of space where everything is foreign and familiar, repulsive and welcoming – a contradiction in terms, much like the life itself. My cubicle is a collection of artifacts and mementoes, useless collector editions and family images that carry me through the day, dissolving the grid of office demise. An IT heaven that promises endless entertainment for one’s fried intellect and gives a faulty sense of security in a cold corporate world.
My blood donation appointment was not until 10 AM, so I lazily checked the e-mail and sent politically correct responses in time to get a bit of breakfast energy into already growling stomach. Vaguely remembering that blood donation and a light breakfast hardly mix, I doubled the breakfast amount, proudly thinking of how much I have become a ‘mom’, person that is duly responsible and profoundly lost in the chaos of do’s and do not’s.
10 AM approached faster then expected and I calmly walked into the conference room, observing military-like setup amid the sea of tables and chairs, with a feel of make-shift hospital arising from the walls of a dreary corporate room. After several satirical exchanges with the nurse about whether Lichtenstein is actually a country or not and whether Ukraine is part of Russia (which is somewhat a prevalent discussion with just about any simpleton in the Midwest ), I was glad to finally get on the stretcher and give the so-much needed ‘burgundy gold’. Having done so since my 16th birthday, the idea of blood donation was a welcomed sign in my mind, as it serves a double purpose of helping others and re-storing my blood to its healthful levels. The Tikkun Olam – Hebrew phrase meaning ‘repair the world’ – has been a permanent fixture of my psyche since I could recognize the importance of helping, regardless of its impact, as long as its impact was affecting at least one other in this world. So, that bright October morning, I more then welcomed the idea of helping others.
The needle slowly slipped into the thick blue wall of the vein, like a thirsty snake waiting to dig its fangs into the prey. The pinch was quick and soon I felt warm flow of the blood sliding down the path of the IV and into the container. I closed my eyes and though about the next few hours before yet another meeting and how I will see Simone’s face tonight, smiling and running towards me. Euphoria like feeling penetrated my body, the relaxation of blood loss swirling in luscious colorful bursts. In an instant my head felt like it was completely decapitated, floating above the body orifice; heart pumping at a million miles per hour, hands feeling the energy sucked out of them with a speed of light; pure panic engulfing my entire limp body. I calmly (at least outward) spoke up, asking the nurse to stop the donation. With complete and outer dislike in her voice, she informed me that ‘My, you are white as snow.’ She proceeded to direct others to help me, which was just as enthusiastic as her initial response. My legs were elevated, donation stopped and head lowered on the stretcher, with a cold pack beneath my neck. The sinking feeling now swallowed all of my body, forcing the extremities to shutdown and my heart to elevate its painful cry for help. I was told to lay on my right side and drink bouts of orange juice, coke and extraneous elements offered when a diabetic shock is in progress. I tried to refuse, but later obeyed everyone’s requests for consumption of sweets goods, not feeling any relief from the fact.
Time passed and my body continued to fall into the abyss of unknown, in short bursts shaking me back to reality and then slowly rolling the panic back to its awry corner. Nothing seemed to soothe, except a hand of a friend, giving the much needed link to a small window of relief ahead and calming my at that point completely shut nerves. After much deliberation with the nurses, I decided that ambulance was in order. I think it took them five minutes to arrive…and five millennia for me to wait. Paramedics’ presence, their strong, blue silhouettes and massive hands brought me out of the pure hell and back into the shaky reality. My hands slowly began to gain warmth and feeling; my heart stopped its race and was pumping now in sporadic, yet contained intervals; my sweaty forehead beginning to feel the cool of the air-conditioner. I was weak, confused, angry and wanting nothing more then a loved one by my side, protecting me from another…attack.
And, that’s how I met Panic.
Thinking about the itinerary for the upcoming weekend and thankfully feeling the mid-week break of Wednesday, I parked and walked into my sadly familiar office. It is the kind of space where everything is foreign and familiar, repulsive and welcoming – a contradiction in terms, much like the life itself. My cubicle is a collection of artifacts and mementoes, useless collector editions and family images that carry me through the day, dissolving the grid of office demise. An IT heaven that promises endless entertainment for one’s fried intellect and gives a faulty sense of security in a cold corporate world.
My blood donation appointment was not until 10 AM, so I lazily checked the e-mail and sent politically correct responses in time to get a bit of breakfast energy into already growling stomach. Vaguely remembering that blood donation and a light breakfast hardly mix, I doubled the breakfast amount, proudly thinking of how much I have become a ‘mom’, person that is duly responsible and profoundly lost in the chaos of do’s and do not’s.
10 AM approached faster then expected and I calmly walked into the conference room, observing military-like setup amid the sea of tables and chairs, with a feel of make-shift hospital arising from the walls of a dreary corporate room. After several satirical exchanges with the nurse about whether Lichtenstein is actually a country or not and whether Ukraine is part of Russia (which is somewhat a prevalent discussion with just about any simpleton in the Midwest ), I was glad to finally get on the stretcher and give the so-much needed ‘burgundy gold’. Having done so since my 16th birthday, the idea of blood donation was a welcomed sign in my mind, as it serves a double purpose of helping others and re-storing my blood to its healthful levels. The Tikkun Olam – Hebrew phrase meaning ‘repair the world’ – has been a permanent fixture of my psyche since I could recognize the importance of helping, regardless of its impact, as long as its impact was affecting at least one other in this world. So, that bright October morning, I more then welcomed the idea of helping others.
The needle slowly slipped into the thick blue wall of the vein, like a thirsty snake waiting to dig its fangs into the prey. The pinch was quick and soon I felt warm flow of the blood sliding down the path of the IV and into the container. I closed my eyes and though about the next few hours before yet another meeting and how I will see Simone’s face tonight, smiling and running towards me. Euphoria like feeling penetrated my body, the relaxation of blood loss swirling in luscious colorful bursts. In an instant my head felt like it was completely decapitated, floating above the body orifice; heart pumping at a million miles per hour, hands feeling the energy sucked out of them with a speed of light; pure panic engulfing my entire limp body. I calmly (at least outward) spoke up, asking the nurse to stop the donation. With complete and outer dislike in her voice, she informed me that ‘My, you are white as snow.’ She proceeded to direct others to help me, which was just as enthusiastic as her initial response. My legs were elevated, donation stopped and head lowered on the stretcher, with a cold pack beneath my neck. The sinking feeling now swallowed all of my body, forcing the extremities to shutdown and my heart to elevate its painful cry for help. I was told to lay on my right side and drink bouts of orange juice, coke and extraneous elements offered when a diabetic shock is in progress. I tried to refuse, but later obeyed everyone’s requests for consumption of sweets goods, not feeling any relief from the fact.
Time passed and my body continued to fall into the abyss of unknown, in short bursts shaking me back to reality and then slowly rolling the panic back to its awry corner. Nothing seemed to soothe, except a hand of a friend, giving the much needed link to a small window of relief ahead and calming my at that point completely shut nerves. After much deliberation with the nurses, I decided that ambulance was in order. I think it took them five minutes to arrive…and five millennia for me to wait. Paramedics’ presence, their strong, blue silhouettes and massive hands brought me out of the pure hell and back into the shaky reality. My hands slowly began to gain warmth and feeling; my heart stopped its race and was pumping now in sporadic, yet contained intervals; my sweaty forehead beginning to feel the cool of the air-conditioner. I was weak, confused, angry and wanting nothing more then a loved one by my side, protecting me from another…attack.
And, that’s how I met Panic.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Cote D'Azur
The air felt warm and sweet, transpired with bits of champagne and last night’s pleasures, forced through nostrils into the dura mater, refusing to stop permeating all of my membranes. It was bright and iridescent morning on the Mediterranean, letting the aroma of delicious artisan breads and sweets engulf your senses, while visually stimulating every neurotransmitter within me. The rays of the morning sun did not burn, but rather caressed your body, fooling you, teasing you…letting the warmth block out any sense of consciousness.
The reality felt off key, somewhat askew, perverted and yet inviting. Sleepy streets began to awake, radiating life into every particle of air around them, bringing the noise level to a humming, lively background. The smell of freshly washed streets and garbage trucks navigating the medieval dimensions resonated along with mothers calling out to their respective off-springs to hurry up and get to the lyceums. It was déjà vu and I was in it for the first time.
As the bus approached our hotel, terracotta shine of the building and its tall, grandiose windows seems to be in striking contrast with the renaissance almost like feel of the city. This was a bright and stoic monolith, nestled firmly between its more exotic cousins. The doors felt heavy and smelled of cigar smoke. The knob felt almost velvety, transferring the oils of many hands before mine, entering this strange domain. The inside was very Hollywood and quite abrasive to the pure essence of the sleepy town right outside its doors. I inhaled a very stale whiff of air, mixed with a laundry and cheap liquor and hint of saffron. This was the beauty of this hotel: it’s own and as raw as I let it be.
When the door to the room opened, the unassuming décor and dim lighting made it feel small and uninviting. I felt almost suffocated, bombarded by yet another round of dark furniture and bourgeoisie-like wall paper tones. The sudden urge to flee came and then dissipated, as I noticed a ray of light gleaming against the lacquer headboard. My eyes travelled to the source and I was greeted with an amazing view of the Nice skyline, with it’s laundry lines and graffiti on each roof, pigeons migrating in swarms and architectural geniuses glistening in the sun’s rays. This was el paradiso, le magnifique! The window was abundant in its size and light in its frame. I felt that my excitement may damage its already fragile state…but, could not resist leaning on the sill….and inhaling the aroma of Nice, with its smelly seafood and fresh bread, cheap cigarettes and dark alleys, rich and poor strolling along side the beaches and artistic flames engulfing within you simply upon the mere act of breathing.
After the initial melting sensation, my eyes moved further towards the horizon, to take in the Cote D’Azur and its emerald beauty. Waves were foaming and aggressive, jerking the yachts, left and right…as if trying to tare apart the man-made demons encroaching on its territory. Seagulls flew close, hoping to catch a few tasty morsels of the menu de jour. Everyone’s white linen attire and tan bodies mixed in like buttery nuggets floating amidst the summer air, superfluous and elusive and yet rather philistine. This was simple and unassuming summer day, without a doubt a pinnacle of provincial pleasure. Provence...
The reality felt off key, somewhat askew, perverted and yet inviting. Sleepy streets began to awake, radiating life into every particle of air around them, bringing the noise level to a humming, lively background. The smell of freshly washed streets and garbage trucks navigating the medieval dimensions resonated along with mothers calling out to their respective off-springs to hurry up and get to the lyceums. It was déjà vu and I was in it for the first time.
As the bus approached our hotel, terracotta shine of the building and its tall, grandiose windows seems to be in striking contrast with the renaissance almost like feel of the city. This was a bright and stoic monolith, nestled firmly between its more exotic cousins. The doors felt heavy and smelled of cigar smoke. The knob felt almost velvety, transferring the oils of many hands before mine, entering this strange domain. The inside was very Hollywood and quite abrasive to the pure essence of the sleepy town right outside its doors. I inhaled a very stale whiff of air, mixed with a laundry and cheap liquor and hint of saffron. This was the beauty of this hotel: it’s own and as raw as I let it be.
When the door to the room opened, the unassuming décor and dim lighting made it feel small and uninviting. I felt almost suffocated, bombarded by yet another round of dark furniture and bourgeoisie-like wall paper tones. The sudden urge to flee came and then dissipated, as I noticed a ray of light gleaming against the lacquer headboard. My eyes travelled to the source and I was greeted with an amazing view of the Nice skyline, with it’s laundry lines and graffiti on each roof, pigeons migrating in swarms and architectural geniuses glistening in the sun’s rays. This was el paradiso, le magnifique! The window was abundant in its size and light in its frame. I felt that my excitement may damage its already fragile state…but, could not resist leaning on the sill….and inhaling the aroma of Nice, with its smelly seafood and fresh bread, cheap cigarettes and dark alleys, rich and poor strolling along side the beaches and artistic flames engulfing within you simply upon the mere act of breathing.
After the initial melting sensation, my eyes moved further towards the horizon, to take in the Cote D’Azur and its emerald beauty. Waves were foaming and aggressive, jerking the yachts, left and right…as if trying to tare apart the man-made demons encroaching on its territory. Seagulls flew close, hoping to catch a few tasty morsels of the menu de jour. Everyone’s white linen attire and tan bodies mixed in like buttery nuggets floating amidst the summer air, superfluous and elusive and yet rather philistine. This was simple and unassuming summer day, without a doubt a pinnacle of provincial pleasure. Provence...
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