I find that cats help - our cat Gatsby is a cuddle bug, and he will sit in your lap and let you pet him until the end of time. After a few minutes of stroking his soft, silky fur, feeling the warmth of his body, and listening to the steady, reassuring hum of his purr, I start to feel a little better. Listening to music is also soothing. There's a light classical station on our digital cable that we call the Puppy Channel. When Chauncey was a puppy, if we had to leave the house, we would kennel him and leave the television tuned to this station. It seemed to keep him calm. Although he's way past the kennel stage, we still turn the Puppy Channel on for him when we go out - it keeps him from chewing up the furniture. Although I am in no danger of masticating an armchair, the Puppy Channel seems to help me, too.
Crying also helps - the release of emotion seems to help loosen the vise around my chest, and I can breathe again. Unfortunately, I sometimes find it hard to turn on the waterworks, especially when I am alone. Writing also helps - it gives me a focus that distracts me and helps lessen the virulence of the symptoms. But when it gets really bad, the only truly effective remedy seems to be Brian. His touch, and his gentle presence, is healing. I fall apart - and he puts me back together again. Unfortunately, he's not always here to handle the reassembly, particularly during the work day, but I'm not about to ask him to stay home with me, in case I fall apart. I know I just need to suck it up and deal with it, but it is not easy.
I can't say exactly what triggers an attack. Sometimes it hits me upon waking, before my conscious mind has formed a coherent thought. Sometimes, it just happens. On Wednesday, I was planning to go out and run some errands in preparation for Brian's birthday. Every time I started to walk out the door, the panic would set in, and I just couldn't do it. I was afraid to drive the car - I just knew I wasn't in control. I don't know whether it was leaving the house alone, or the unconscious realization that, for the first time in months, I could leave the house without having to worry about leaving Peggy. Maybe it was a little moment of agoraphobia, because I hadn't left the house in more than a week and the idea of venturing out into the world again triggered my flight response. I eventually managed to get out later that evening, when I went with my mother to meet with the minister who is officiating at Peggy's memorial. I'm not sure I could have made it there on my own.
Yesterday afternoon, I was trying to deal with some details for the program for Peggy's memorial. The digital image that the funeral home had scanned was poorly done, and I was Photoshopping it to make it look better. The draft of the program arrived via e-mail, and it needed work, too. I was also trying to get confirmation on the group of singers from Sweet Adelines, whom we had asked to perform at the service, and get that information added to the program. None of these were huge things, and none of them outside the scope of my experience. As a theatre producer, I often deal with booking and scheduling issues. I have some desktop publishing skills, so working on the program design and tweaking a photo is not a challenge. Yet suddenly, I became overwhelmed by all of the details. The panic set in, and stayed with me until Brian got home. He walked in the door and I burst into tears. After that, I felt better.
Sometimes it's a conversation that triggers it. I seem to be perfectly fine talking about everything that has happened with my family or close friends. When I start to talk about it to someone I don't know so well, that hysterical feeling starts to creep in and take over. Maybe it's because all of this has happened in this very tiny bubble, within the confines of my home, and very few people know all the details. Bursting that bubble and revealing those details - and my pain - to the wider world makes it seem more real. Inexorable. Final. Ironically, I seem to have no problem disclosing any of it here, in this virtual world. In person, it's much more difficult. I'm hoping that talking about it here will help me to conquer the problem.
You have to understand - this kind of emotional turmoil is not normal for me, which makes it all the more alarming. I suppose I must be suffering from post traumatic stress - everything that has happened is finally catching up with me. The not-sleeping thing doesn't help, either, and I know my hormones are out of whack. The attacks are exhausting - and I have already been stretched to the limit of my physical, emotional, and mental reserves. Suffice it to say, I am a mess. I suppose I could go to the doctor and get a prescription for Xanax or some other medication that would help chill me out, but I have never been big on prescription drugs. However, there have been times over the last few days that I wish I had rescued a couple of Peggy's Lorazepam pills before Toni dumped them in the kitty litter.
The emptiness in the house is palpable - especially after Brian leaves in the morning. I still find myself listening for sounds from Peggy's room. Sometimes I imagine I can still hear her. On an intellectual level, I know it's just my mind conjuring up familiar sensations, blurring the line between memory and reality. On an emotional level, it wrecks me. It's hard to come to terms with knowing I will never hear those sounds again, that she is completely, unequivocally Gone.
Brian thinks the panic comes with feeling out of control. He's probably right. I am a fairly controlled person - calm in a crisis, able to manage stressful situations without blowing up or falling apart. I don't often loose my temper - I get cranky, but I don't have tantrums. I tend to hold things in until some inevitable point where I can no longer contain the emotions, and then I explode, but not often in public. I'm cool in a crisis - and this is my problem.
"There's something edifying for you in identifying a problem, finding a solution to it, and rolling up your sleeves to fix it," Brian reminded me, as we sipped our morning coffee. "But now the crisis is over, and there's nothing for you to fix. You can't fix death."
I know this is true. I also know that taking care of Peggy has been a huge part of my everyday existence. Now that she is gone, there is a huge void in my life, and I don't quite know yet how I am going to fill that emptiness. I know that I will figure it out eventually, but the sheer magnitude of the change is almost paralyzing to my psyche. Right now, all I can do is try and cope.
I've just read what I've written, and I'm disgusted at my weakness. Whine, whine, whine. I am going to post this anyway, in case someone who reads this is in a similar place. This is by way of saying: Okay, this sucks, but it is not unusual, and it will pass. I am not the first person to experience this kind of physical response to an emotional upheaval. I know I am not alone in what I am going through. And neither are you.
Time to go find a cat and listen to the Puppy Channel.
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