A Natalie Observed

Tag: PanicAttack

  • Wicked Dread

    Wicked Dread

    I touched it again, that feeling between the space where I am now and the reality of your death. I touched it and had a panic attack. I am learning the panic attacks are the result of a confrontation in my body as what it feels like to lose you meets the space where I am, wherever this is. I sat next to my dad while Glinda’s heart broke and tears poured down my face in succession, one hot glob after another. How did I get here to this moment? I was watching a movie, completely rooted to the ground. Embodied. And then I remembered what it felt like to lose you and had to talk myself out of following my thoughts down the pathway toward panic. You were just grounded, and now you are not. The flash of lightening is so fast I cannot see it, let alone catch it. It feels tenuous, the elusive bubble every child tries to hold in their tiny, inept hands. I sat next to my dad negotiating with myself. Am I breathing? Yes, but not consistently. Count your breaths, Natalie. Focus on the box. What is becoming so difficult is that these moments feel like feeling you, and, aside from the panic, I do not want them to end. I want to feel what it feels like to miss you. And I still cannot. I have a panic attack. It is a new layer to the grief. A new room.

    The anniversary of your Hero Walk was the 17th. The Sunday after Grammy’s funeral. I retreated to my apartment from mom’s early so I could sit in the space of trying to remember what it was like to watch medical staff line the hallway to escort you to your final surgery. That day, like so many the week you died, is so difficult to remember. I have flash images of seeing Randy and Adam, of your father and sister, of your close family friends whose names I cannot remember.  My parents were on either side of me. I was wearing your orange shirt we splurged on at Bloomingdales the month before you died because I wanted us to have one nice thing we felt confident in. The family representative invited me to say goodbye to you, but I was not ready. I did not expect to be given space in front of so many people to say my last words to you. I lost my legs and learned that when people do that in movies, it is real. My body stopped working and I would have fallen if not for my parents on either side of me to hold me up. I walked up to you and stared, sobbing, unable to speak. I think I said that I could not do this, but I do not remember. I do not remember my last words to you. It haunts me.

    I had a brain-spotting session tonight and focused on the feeling of dread I have when I have to do anything new since you died. I dread meeting with prospective clients for the first time. I dread their first sessions. I dread going to outings where I do not know everyone or have not been to the venue. I dread going to a child’s birthday party. I dread leaving my house. I dreaded having guests in my home and having to be “on” for so many people at my Grammy’s funeral. I logically want to do all of these things and know I will be okay doing them, but the dread lives in a gnarled, mangled mess in my stomach, anchoring me to the past.

    The therapist took me through the dread and wove it into the feeling of my safe space. My safe space is Rockaway Beach sitting next to you. My therapist does not know you are there, but I do. We were so happy there in room 27 with Beamer and Dottie, Beamer in his cone because Dottie scratched his eye. I imagined the sun on my face, and the cold breeze reminding me of the wide spectrum of things that can be true all at once. I noticed the glitter on the sand and the sherbert of the sun saturating the clouds as it sank below the horizon. We thought it was so beautiful, this life we created with our gremlin dogs. And it was.

    As I processed the dread and revisited the beach with you, I smelled the way the sea released against the shore and heard the waves as seagulls skipped around the surf. And somewhere in that process, the feeling of dread emancipated not out of my body completely, but out of my soul. The thought of sitting with my entire family during Thanksgiving felt less overwhelming as my brain married the idea that I can get through a year of losing you, therefore I can do anything.

  • 11:11

    11:11

    One year ago, I arrived at the hospital for rounds anticipating guidance on removing your life support. The medical team informed us the day before tests confirmed you were not responsive. Your brain did not register any of the pain you definitely should have been in. I already knew. I knew when the neurosurgeon named Natalia told me on November 9th to keep hope up, to talk to you and play music. She told me we never know what kind of healing the brain can do and while I knew she was right, I knew you were not coming back. You did not have it in you to heal from this. We did not know how long you did not have oxygen when I started CPR. She introduced herself as Natalia when I arrived at your room. I remember because I tried to address her by title, as Doctor, but she corrected me. “I’m Natalia”. She’s the only name I remember from that week because her name was close to mine. She asked if she could hug me before leaving. I said yes and she gave me a strong, sturdy, caring hug. I played Reggae Saturday on KEXP because you loved Reggae Saturday. That’s what we would have listened to. I held your hand. I told you I loved you and that it was okay to move forward. I am realizing now you were the first of two people I have told this year it was okay to move beyond this life to whatever is next. The second was Grammy.

    After Natalia hugged me and left, I sat in the room listening to Reggae Saturday with you alone for a couple hours before others arrived. I do not remember who came or when. I know your sister was there and your brother. Your dad and his partner. My parents were making separate journeys from Chico. I had not slept while staying at Adam and Randy’s. I lay awake and cried, in shock. I got to your hospital room by 6:30am. Dottie was staying with Adam and Randy because I could not leave her alone. I sat on the sofa in your room and focused on breathing. Inhale, 1-2-3-4. Hold, 1-2-3-4. Exhale, 1-2-3-4. Even today when I have box breath like that to help my body settle, I remember sitting in that room on the pleather sofa that was easy to clean. I remember looking at lifeless you and out the window at the oranges and yellows of fall. I remember the beeping as they tried to thin your blood. The machine did not work and the nurse was so kind as she overly explained that “this happens sometimes”.

    I was hugged by your neurosurgeon on November 9th. On November 10th, we learned your brain was unresponsive. That you felt no pain. My mom and I walked to your room and a doctor asked to speak with me in a quiet room down the hall. I knew she was going to tell me you were not responsive and actively thought “remember this hallway Natalie, it’s going to change you.” I remember the wall of professional photos of the medical team. I wondered who the interior designer was of a hospital and how did they get that job. As the doctor told me, a conversation I cannot remember, a woman walked in on her phone seemingly unaware I was learning you died. That woman was probably stuck in her own nightmare. Not getting the hint from the palpable despair in the space, the doctor who told me you were brain dead asked her to leave. The woman startled, apologizing for intruding. My mom held me as I wept. We went home. There was nothing left to do. I told Facebook you were not going to wake up and the first of many panic attacks gripped me. Sitting on our sofa in our home, I lost my breath and hyperventilated as I attempted to touch the reality of you dying. The same reality I still struggle to touch. The energy of trauma is other-worldly and powerful. No wonder it splits us.

    On November 11th, I arrived at the hospital a little late for morning rounds. My parents were with me, and I think I asked them to stay in the family waiting area until I knew what was happening, although I cannot remember. I did not want to crowd your room and we were only allowed so many people. The medical team stood lining the hallway and I parted the members of your family blocking the entrance to your room so I could set down my water bottle and jacket. Was it raining outside? Or was it sunny? I think it was gray? So many details I cannot remember. I squeezed your hand and told you hello. Your eyes were half open, the sparkle no longer adorning the cerulean anymore. There was a thin layer of white crust under your eye lashes as your eyes attempted to keep moisture in them. I grabbed a tissue and wiped it away. I tucked your hair behind your ears. I joined your family in the doorway to your room and tried to understand what the medical team was talking about. They gave updates about your nutrition and fluid intake.

    I think it was on the 11th, although I cannot remember exactly what happened and when, that your sister said the quiet part out loud on behalf of all of us: why are we gathering to discuss your nutrition and fluid levels when your brain died? I did not understand what we were doing at Morning Rounds and was so grateful when your sister interrupted their updates to ask. We arrived on the 11th expecting to be talked through pulling you off life-support, but here we were getting updates on your nutrition. Your sister knew you would not want to be laying there like this. We all knew you were not supposed to be suffering any more than you already had. It was not what you or any of us wanted. I did not hear the reasons and went back to your bedside. Someone told me we were supposed to meet with a team at 10am. Everyone dispersed for a walk, a cry, tea, or coffee. I do not remember where I went.

    On the 11th, at 10am, your father, his partner, your brother, your sister, myself, my mother, and my father all sat in the room where I learned you died just the day before. Across from us, two women introduced themselves before quietly and kindly discussing next steps. They asked us to talk about who you were to us. I do not remember much of the conversation. Eventually, they explained organ donation and how it works and I realized they were preparing us for a conversation I had not anticipated. You were an organ donor, and your body had not completely died yet. Just your brain. And, amidst all of this, we could help you help other people. Several of us indicated approval of the idea. It was unquestionably what you wanted. The donor coordinator asked your dad one final time if she had permission to move forward. He made eye contact with me and I nodded (or did I say something?) and he looked to the coordinator and confidently said “it feels like a no brainer. Let’s move forward”. Here we all were in a situation where you were brain dead, having opted to be an organ donor. It was a literal no-brainer. The air in the room hung heavy as everyone quickly assessed if we should start crying over this remark or start laughing. I started laughing, tears filling my eyes. You would have thought it was funny. We looked at the time, and it was 11:11am. So, on the 11th day of the 11th month at 11:11am a group of us defined a day meant for Veterans and Hope as something else entirely. We formalized your time of death.

    Today, I woke up at 5am and could not fall back to sleep. I cried as I remembered where I was one year ago and what it felt like to not know what would happen to you. I tried to exercise but quit one-third of the way through because I could not stop crying while on the bike. I canceled the massage I scheduled because I poorly planned it to take place at 10:45am and I knew I could not stop crying or relax as 11:11am passed on the clock today. I am sitting in my dry, but sweat drenched clothes, wearing the KEXP “You are not alone” shirt your dad got you and your Eddie Bower printed fleece pullover we bought that one time at U-Village. I carved into a candle my mom gave me yesterday. The candle was made by a shaman to burn on 11/11, the angel number, the number of hope and remembrance. My mom had been saving it for herself for years, always out of town on the day or not able to get to it. She handed it to me last night after I made Grammy’s cookies for her memorial on Friday. “I realized you could use it more than me”. I carved the words “love”, “healing”, “wholeness”, “alignment”, “rest”, “peace” and “laughter” on one side. I carved your name on the other. I am going to sit here and watch it burn in between episodes of whatever I end up watching. Because today marks one year since you died and I do not know what else to do but try and remember and focus on what’s to come. David Kessler once said “Anxiety” is the Present and the Future while “Grief” is the Present and the Past. I’m firmly in Grief today. It is a relief to be here.

  • Ba-Ba-Ba-Baby Steps

    Yesterday, while at Walk Woof Wag, I checked the time to see it was 11:11am. On the 11-month anniversary of you being declared dead, I looked at the time you were declared. I have screenshot or photographed every single time I see 11:11am since you died. So far, I have been able to capture it 58 times. This means, I just happen to glance the time 58 times at 11:11. Like, what is that? Is my internal clock just oriented to that time? I feel like I must be looking for it. I have an album of the screenshots on my phone. I do not know the purpose of having these moments documented, but something about capturing the experiences where I remember you died feels important to me. The other day it occurred to me that I might not want to do this forever and probably need to identify a time when I stop tracking it. Will it become compulsive? I tend to navigate toward compulsive behaviors, a moth to structured and degenerative frame, but I catch myself doing it. I know the familiar feeling of shame as it leeches and unleashes on my body, causing horses to run inside my chest and wet cement to anchor my intestines. That feeling is when it is time to stop wearing the apple watch, to break the 110-day streak on Peloton, or end the diet. Balance, Natalie. There can be balance.

    I was introduced to a Widow in the wild last weekend. She was near my age and also lost a partner to addiction. I trauma-dumped on her. Four beers, two cocktails, and a dance party later, I had no filter between my mountain of trauma and this woman. She received the energy of my great uncorking as I explained through disorganized, intoxicated, and triggered thoughts, how it felt to tell someone who understood how alone I feel all the time. Drunk me assumed she got it, which I feel embarrassed by now. After many apologies for how drunk I was and my haranguing this poor person who just met me, I hit the point when I drink too much where I know it’s time to go home. I called an Uber and left, a Natalie-Goodbye. I did manage to let people know I was leaving, but then, embarrassed, I could not let anyone walk me out. As I waited for the Uber, I watched a young, confident Latina college-aged student face-plant out of a pedicab. She did not lose her leopard print tube-top dress or scrape her 5” heels. She laughed and popped right back up. A queen in her own right.  I would not have survived going to college here, I thought.

    The next day in my alcohol and emotional hangover, I zoomed in on what it felt like to realize just how alone I feel. I feel alone in my grief all the time and loneliness is this new assaulting aroma in the air. I am not sure if I got so used to loneliness that I could no longer feel it’s suffocating and icy fingers or have I never seen it as clearly before? A jacket of brisk, fall air wafted in through the windows and I sat in what it feels like to be this completely alone in my experience of you dying. Talking to that woman, even as drunk unfiltered me who would never normally open like that without a lot of consent first, shifted my view out to a higher altitude. I got to see from another dimension a glimpse of how alone I am. I feel like I felt for the first time the enormity of my sadness since you died. A drone’s view of the grief palace.

    Now as I write this, I am both sitting in the corner of the sectional and also sitting above me watching warm tears slowly slide down my dehydrated face. I can feel the heat of the tears, so I know I am still here in the room. I jump between both views when I need a break from one or the other. Eleven months after you died, and I still struggle to fully integrate your death with the feelings of absolute despair about it. This lack of integration is so devastating. I am in 16 hours of therapy a month. I pay for it all on a credit card because I cannot afford it, but I do not know how else to help myself. I allocate 4 hours to verbally talking about what happened and continues to happen as I open new layers to my grief. I spend 4 hours in an art therapy group procesing in a collective the experience of grief by making art about it. I have 4 hours (2 sessions for 2 hours) of 1:1 grief art therapy because 4 in the group once a month was not enough. And I am now adding one hour a week of brain spotting to help with the panic attacks and overwhelm in my body. 16 whole hours trying to process what happened when you died and the fact that you are not here anymore. And it is still not enough and I would do more if I could. I do not want to keep jumping from reality to not reality. I am exhausted by it. And I am terrified I will always feel like this.

    And here we are again. We found the trigger thought that prompts me to take deep breaths so I do not have a panic attack. It will not always feel like this, Natalie. I at least have to believe that it will not always feel like this. Or else, I am not really sure why I am doing this at all.

    I am still not sure what to do for the 1-year milestone of your passing. November 8-12 is the horrible period of time from my finding you to you being declared dead on 11/11/24 at 11:11am. Also, October 27th would have been our 5-year anniversary. That is a Monday. At first I wondered if work and my clients would help get me through these anniversaries, but I worried I’d need to cancel everyone and why not just take the time off? I think I need to take off from work. But what do I do with all those days? Do I make plans? Spend money to be distracted? Can I afford to do anything? What does one do for the first anniversary of their partner’s death? What does one do to mark the occasion that started the trauma they are still trying to understand and heal from? Do I go for a hike? Do I drive somewhere for the day? For the weekend? At one point I thought maybe I could visit Seattle, but then I realized the last time I was there was when you died. I had a panic attack as I thought about the fact Seattle is not possible. I miss Seattle so much, but I want Seattle to still be somewhere I love even though you died there. I want it to be the good of us, not the end of us.

    Taking the time off is a loss of income over 4 days in just November, not planning for Thanksgiving and inevitable holiday slowdown. This has been a difficult financial year. I am down 20% to last year in my income and no longer have a two income home. I have to make financial decisions as well as decisions in the best interests of my clients. I know I will need the time off. Taking care of myself is in the best interest of my clients. I think my body deserves the time off. My body is so rigid as it is. My massage therapist kept reminding me to let her move me. Let me take care of you, she kept saying as I stiffly coiled my body in an attempt to hold in all the sadness one can experience in a lifetime. Sometimes I wonder if your sadness transferred into me. Part of me feels like I understand you better, understand the holes in your body where your mom used to live, caverns excavated and quarantined by the trauma of her sudden and unexpected loss. I hope you get to frolic in the sunshine with her now. I hope it is warm there.

    A pet psychic at Walk, Woof, Wag told me Dottie was proud of me. That Dottie was sad you left, but glad she could be there for you. Dottie wants me to get out of the house more, she thinks we’re home too much. I’m trying, Dottie. I promise to keep trying to be better for you. The psychic told me you were there, that you were as surprised by your dying as I am. I do not know how much credence I give to all of this, but I do find comfort from it. I miss you so much. It is so nice, in the most distressing way, to remember that missing you also means I love you. The loving part is coming up more than it used to. Baby steps. (Thank you, Olivia Dean).

  • Is That All There Is?

    Yesterday was 10 months since we decided to donate your organs and officially moved into the space of you being dead. It was also the day I realized I had not thought about it. Around 4:12pm I was walking from one end of my mom and Phil’s home to the other and a voice inside me said “oh wow, you were just now not thinking about him being dead”. It was different than “I forgot he died”. There was no trauma or re-remembering of the moments that filled my life ten months ago. Instead, it was a flutter of noticing, the wings of a memory touching my skin. A whisper that did not knock me over. Whispers knock me over so frequently now, it was nice to notice one that left me with my feet still on the ground.

    I have had few more of these moments the past three weeks. I found a video of you making dinner, lip-synching to Whitney Houston’s rendition of I Will Always Love You. I kind of remember the night, but not really. I know I probably made you do that for me on camera because I found it funny and endearing and wanted to capture it so I would remember. I also probably paused the song so I could film it at the right moment. I remember wanting to remember us and how we felt that day, remember the warmth of being madly and exquisitely enamored with you. I wanted to feel the moment of us being on the same page and in the same room with too many groceries on the counter as you layered whatever is in the leftover containers into a casserole dish. I shared the video on my stories because I love it so much. Because I love you.

    After posting, I got texts and direct messages from more than a few people asking if I was okay. I found the outreach confusing. Did I say or do something to cause worry? I felt and still feel a bit baffled by it. To be clear, I am so grateful people check in. My confusion is in no way a discouragement from doing so. My point is I had another moment recently where a memory of you was not immediately coupled with the dread of feeling the loss of you. The checkins tell me the video feels heavier to others than it did to me. A difficult part of what I am navigating since you died is the fact most people do not understand what I am experiencing in any way. I have grandparents who have not experienced the death of their partner. I am the first person in my family, and in my parents generation to have this happen to them. My aunts and uncles still have their wives and husbands and life partners. I am the first of my friends to have a loss like this. Most of us don’t have our partner die before we are “old enough”. Definitely not when we are 36 and 41. This short fucked up stick is all mine.

    When I focus on the Part of me that misses my Whitney Houston moments with you, I can feel the heat of my throat bearing the responsibility of managing a tidal wave, a useless levee about to let the water destroy my precariously constructed Grief Palace. I do not want to feel restriction when I look at you lip-syncing that you will always love me. Because that moment is the joy of us. I have so few of those to see. There are not enough recordings of us at the moments when things felt good. These moments reassure me I did not make it all up. If there was ever any advice I could dispense, it would be to record the innocuous things with those you love. Get a minute of video here and there and then put your phone away and stay present with them. I did this as much as I could with you, but it will never be enough when I was supposed to have a lifetime.

    I am feeling an integration happen, grief folding into my day to day as I find other ways to fill my time that do not include a screen. I finally have mental capacity to do more than watch tv all day. I read a book and started another. I got my library card so I can save money on buying books I will not read more than once. There are small glimmers of hopefulness floating around me and I feel like I have bandwidth to see them. They are fragile glimmers, iridescent little bubbles floating in the wind and bursting at the softest touch. I told Heather last week I was nervous about experiencing this shift because the last time I looked toward the future, a wave of grief destroyed any sense of stability. I lost myself into a depression I do not like and loathe to welcome back. You death makes me scared to trust Hope. Some days I am pretty sure the destruction of Hope is probably the worst part of your dying. Right now, I make it through every single day attempting to convince myself that Peggy Lee was wrong. This cannot be all there is. So, I catalog the small whispers that do not knock me over. I try to watch the bubbles as they float along the cliff. I need as many of these moments as I can get.

    I am operating in a world that is only one day at a time, and more often a few hours at a time. I am struggling to plan for any more than today and maybe tomorrow unless someone else has made the plan for me. Tell me a date and time, and I will be there. My ability to be creative and follow through is limited which makes me a poor social companion. Relationships are two-way streets and there is roadwork on my side. Sometimes I can get around the construction, but most of the time I am stuck in traffic. I feel like I am constantly tricking myself to get things done, something that has been a thread in my entire life, but not in the way it is now. Before you died I ate without thinking about it. Now I eat because it is time to eat. Meals are big factor in how I pass time. I get to lunch and am thankful I made it to halfway through the day. At dinner, I actively have gratitude I can go to sleep soon and pass more of this horrible After without you by sleeping.

    All of that said, I am proud of me. I cook myself dinner more than I do not. I remain mostly sober. I pay my bills on time. I ask for help when I cannot pay my bills on time. I attend all of my client sessions and am accountable in my job. I attend weekly supervision to make sure I do not lose sight of my grief as it impacts my clients. I attend weekly therapy. In July, I joined an art therapy group with other therapists once a month. I am starting art therapy biweekly to have more space for someone to witness what I am going through. I stay in contact with my small group of people most days and remain responsive. The level at which I am functioning astounds me and, when I think about it, I feel validated in how exhausted I am. Then I remember I am exhausted of being exhausted. Then I tell someone in the rotation about feeling totally frustrated with my life and completely depressed. Then I watch tv or drink wine and puzzle or have an edible. You died ten months ago and my body still has not repaired from all the ways my brain broke when I found you not breathing on our dining room floor. But I make myself dinner more than I do not. And I started to notice that I do not always think about you dying. At least there is that.

    August 26, 2022