Anxiety Attack

An anxiety attack, I've learned, is appropriately named.

One minute, I'm fine. The next, I'm in the middle of a physiological, emotional catastrophe that I didn't see coming.

My body shakes like I'm outside in shorts in temps of 20-below. My mind wills the shaking to stop, but it won't. I'm overcome by a general sense of fear that's undefined yet definitely present. As the blood rushes away from my head, my face becomes pale and I feel lightheaded. I start to sob, uncontrollably and visibly. That's the part I hate the most. The other symptoms I can try to fake. But tears announce, loud and clear to others, that something's wrong.

The first time I ever had an anxiety attack was two years ago, on a 10-hour trans-Atlantic flight. Due to a mix-up with the seating arrangements, my husband and I were separated, with no chance of reassignment, as the flight was sold out. My seat was in the middle of the plane - halfway back in coach, in the middle of a five-abreast row. For nine hours and forty-five minutes, the flight was relatively pleasant. I read an entire book, ate a little, and had just the right amount of conversation with the woman to my left. Fifteen minutes prior to landing, however, I felt an overwhelming urge - no, a mandate - to get off that plane now. If I could have, I would have jumped out the window. I felt I couldn't sit any longer, though of course I had to. I might as well have had arm and leg restraints on my body. I felt lightheaded and sick to my stomach. Those were the longest 15 minutes I'd ever spent. When my husband and I reunited after deplaning, he wondered why I looked so pale. And then the inevitable tears came, though I was now safe from captivity. It was just my body's reaction to the anxiety ordeal. I couldn't control it, though I would have given anything to do so.

I've flown several times since that trip, and haven't had an issue at all. So it's not flying that caused my anxiety. It's not fear of heights that caused it, either. Confined spaces don't typically bother me. It was just a confluence of conditions that triggered the attack.

My second anxiety attack occurred today, again without warning. As I was sitting in the dentist's chair, being prepped for some non-routine dental work, I felt the symptoms begin again: the shaking, the illogical fear.

I know it's common - almost cliche, really - for people to be afraid of the dentist. But I never have been. It's not my favorite way to spend an hour, but it doesn't bother me, either. Until today.

So I excused myself to use the restroom, thinking that the short walk and the time alone would enable me to think logically and pull myself together.

It didn't work.

As the dentist started to work on me, I felt my my creases deepen, my involuntary frown nearly causing my eyebrows to touch. I crossed my arms like a stubborn child, and brought my knees up so I was practically in a fetal position. None of this I did purposefully. My mind ordered my body into protective mode. It wasn't long before the tears started rolling down my face.

I felt like a baby.

And I felt sorry for the dentist and his assistant. They were really doing a fantastic job. Nothing actually hurt; they were moving as quickly as possible; they were trying to make me comfortable.

I felt anxious anyway.

I just wanted to leave that dentist's chair, get to the safety of my home, and huddle under a blankie with my husband's arms around me.

But I'm a grown-up. So when the dentist offered to give me a break, I said no, I just wanted to get it over with. He understood.

And once the drilling was over, I was fine. My mind and my body relaxed as they finished up with the remaining tasks.

Still, the next time I need some major dental work - like, say, a root canal! - I think I'll go for the valium. Because if I'm going to act like a baby, I'd rather coo like one than cry like one.

Hit 'Em Where It Hurts

In this case, my son's wallet.

Yes, the boy is bright, funny, creative, and handsome (oh, indulge me - I am his mother, after all!). Alas, his weakness is organization.

And because he's unorganized, he loses things. All the time.

For years, we've worked with him to help him plan his day, organize his things, keep track of items. Sometimes there's a glimmer of hope, but mostly it appears we still have quite a way to go. So it wasn't really all that surprising when, one month into the school year, he lost the power cord to his new laptop. Of course, none of the power cords for our other laptops are compatible with his computer (despite two of the others being of the same make), so he had to buy a new one. On the one hand, we praised him for going to his school's IT department on his own and obtaining the new power cord. On the other hand, he had to learn a lesson from this incident. We had to hit him where it hurts - no, of course not a literal hit! - and that is his wallet.

Whether or not you believe in Gary Chapman's five love languages (found in his book by the same name), or that there are exactly five, or that these are the exact five that exist, it does give some food for thought. One of his love languages is called "Receiving Gifts," which happens to coincide with our son's appreciation for (need for, really) materialistic things. He's always been this way: objects appeal to him. He can't bear to get rid of the ones he has, and he always has a list of new ones he'd like to acquire. And by extension, he loves money. Because, of course, money is the path to obtaining the things he wants. So, he doesn't like to part with any of his hard-earned money.

So when intrinsic rewards and punishments don't work - and they don't ever work with him - we have to get concrete and materialistic. He had to pay for his own power cord out of his own wallet.

A week later, wouldn't you know it, he lost his English textbook. After running through all the options to locate the book (did you clean out your locker? did you check the lost and found? did you ask your teacher for a loaner copy?), it was clear that his was gone forever and there were no loaners available. He had to have his textbook in order to do his assignments. So on Friday, he came home with a brand-new textbook from the school book store in hand. Great!

Then on Saturday, I looked up the cost of that book. My eyes about popped out of my head when I saw the price: $82.69! This is a lot of money! Mind you, this is not a college textbook. He's in 6th grade!

I gulped, then broke the news to him.
"WHAT?!" he said. "For one book?!"

Yes, he has to cough up the $82.00 (generous as I am, I waived the change...). We were both sick to our stomachs. Yet there was no argument. He knew that, since he was responsible for the book, he would be the one to pay for the replacement. I told him he didn't have to reimburse me until I got the bill from school.

Regardless, he handed me a wad of money a little while later. Evidently, he couldn't live with that kind of debt hanging over his head, so he paid me in advance. I appreciated his attention to paying his debt without argument, rather than hoping I'd just forget about it.

These back-to-back lessons really hurt him where it counted, but they certainly made an impression that he won't soon forget.

Let's just hope we can make it to Christmas before he loses the next big thing...

Helpless

She whispered to me, in breaks and starts, "I'd rather have a bloody nose than be sick like this. Because a bloody nose doesn't last that long."

I agree with her.

Each time a child of mine is in agony with a flu or other virus, I am in another kind of agony watching his or her suffering. Through my daughter's chills, the fever, the pains, the heaving, she suffers slowly and continually throughout the day.

We've endured many traumatic and at least one life-threatening event in our children's lives, and the range of emotions and thoughts that a parent experiences at those moments is inexplicable. But in those moments of despair, there's also a call to action, a rush of adrenaline: save the child, solve the problem, repair the damage. Yet watching a child suffer a common virus makes me feel so helpless for so long. Pain relievers may, well, temporarily relieve some of the aches and pains, but they do nothing to cure the virus. There's nothing I can do but watch, and hold, my child until the battle within her body is over.

Yesterday, my daughter grimaced with stomach and head pain and cried silent tears nearly all day. Her words, when rarely spoken, came out in whispered sentence fragments. If there had been anything I could do to end her suffering, I would. But I couldn't. She had a common virus and it had to run its course.

Today, thankfully, she's better. The fever has broken, her aches and pains are gone. She is simply worn out from yesterday's battle and needs much rest. I will still be here to hold her and make her comfortable. That's what mommies are for.

Hiatus

At 6:15 this morning, I was making preparations for my busy day ahead: appointments, errands, other tasks.

At 7:00 this morning, I started to cancel appointments, postpone errands, rearrange my task list.

The abrupt change occurred the minute my daughter woke up suffering from the flu symptoms that were causing her to ache and hurt.

Likely she will be home from school tomorrow as well. Then, like a chain of dominoes, we'll see who is the next among us to fall.

Sometimes, my second thought after I discover a sick child is, "Now how am I going to get everything done?" But my third thought is, "Nothing on my schedule is so critical that it couldn't be postponed to another day."

So, here I am with an empty schedule and a book, sitting beside my daughter as the battle of the germs vs white blood cells wages on within her body. As we cuddle, I try to give her whatever comfort she needs to fight her battle.

All the rest can wait.

The Game

You know how the subtitle for my blog reads: "Winning some and learning some"?

Let's just say I'm learning a lot lately.

That's Not My Job

Consider these 3 questions, actually asked of me:

1. By my son: "Mom, don't you want to make me happy? I really want the {fill in the blank with the latest electronic gadget}!" This question has been asked of me repeatedly, ending each time with a different electronic or motorized object.

2. By a national modeling agency via a radio ad: "Don't you want to make your child happy? Join us at {specific location} on {date} for your chance to meet modeling and acting agents. Your child could be the next Hannah Montana!"

3. By my friend: "Don't you want to make your husband happy?"

My answer to all: That's not my job! And even if I thought it were, it's not possible to make someone else happy.

No one can make anyone else happy. We all have to figure that out on our own, and pursue our own happiness.

Pleasure, now, that's something different. The latest toy or outfit, transportation to the movies with friends, my husband's favorite meal - those are examples of little things I can do for them, expressions of love, to provide a moment of pleasure. And I do think we all have an obligation to do nice things for one another. But pleasure and happiness are not interchangeable terms. The latest Rock Band system will bring momentary pleasure, but not lasting happiness.*

Regarding my children, my job is to give them a loving & nurturing environment, guidance, and opportunities to find their own way in the world. Through hard work, persistence, and patience, they will pursue paths that bring each of them inner happiness.

I do want them to be happy. But that's not my job. That is work they need to do for themselves.
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* If anyone is interested in research on the subject of happiness, I highly recommend Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. My husband and I both have read this book (written in laymen's language, but based on research in the field of psychology), and will recommend it to our children when they are old enough for such a topic to hold their interest.

Trust

You know that exercise in which your partner stands behind you, and then you fall backward, hoping to land in your partner's arms and not flat on the floor? Whether or not you thrust your hands out to break your fall at the last minute reveals your level of trust in your partner.

Here's another true test of trust: Try walking ahead of a child pushing a grocery cart behind you. You'll be uneasy the entire time, knowing that at any minute the backs of your ankles could become bruised and bloodied. Yet, to continually glance behind to check the cart-to-ankle distance is interpreted as an insult to the child.

So you suck it up and pray that, this time, your ankles will be spared.

** CRASH **

No, that wasn't my ankle. Just the cart of another shopper as it collided with my child's. Loud and jolting, but no actual ankles were hurt in the collision.