The Descent

Sunday, June 24^th I experienced my first Anxiety Attack. I never knew these things were real. I always thought it was just an expression, a phrase used to describe some celebrity diva throwing a tantrum. But they are real as I found out. Very real.

I awoke at 4 in the morning. I had not been sleeping well since I learned that I might have cancer. I lay in bed at night, wide awake in the dark, thinking, “what if”, unable to sleep because the sound of blood pulsing in my ears was so loud. Once I do fall asleep, I invariably wake up at 4 AM, regardless of what time zone I am in.

The first time it happened, it started with a sob and short, shallow breathing, making me light headed from hyperventilation. My chest was heaving, my heart was pounding and I could not stop crying. I got up out of bed. My muscles were all contracted, my arms were frozen in a bent position, my hands like claws. My shoulders were shrugged up by my ears. My neck was tight and I was hunched over. My whole body was convulsed with shaking. Barely able to shuffle my way down the hall to where A was sleeping on the couch, I stood next to him and was barely able to speak above a whisper. Once he woke up he could immediately tell I was in distress. All I could say was, “I’m so scared, I’m so scared.” I was in a complete state of terror.  

He sat me down and tried to calm me down by talking to me. I could not stop my chest from heaving and the crying. He tired to give me alcohol, but I could not swallow. I don’t know how long it went on, but it was completely terrifying.

I finally convinced him to come to bed with me, to lie down next to me and hold me firmly. That worked. I was finally able to stop the shaking, and the trembling.

The next morning we went about our normal Sunday business and did some shopping. But I felt odd, disconnected, not well. I called Dr. Crossland, the oncologist I had just seen 4 days earlier. I hoped she would be on call. I got her partner, who I had never met. I tried to explain how I felt and that I needed help, trying to control the emotion in my voice, and failing. He was sympathetic but said, “I’m sorry I can’t help you. I can’t prescribe anything for your anxiety over the phone. You have to go to the ER.” That afternoon I told A I was not feeling well and he said, “You are going to the ER.” I needed help and did not resist.

Once we arrived I told the registrar why I was there. They were not very busy. She took some information and got me into a room. I laid on the bed with a thin blanket over me. The first person to come in to evaluate me was the social worker. An older lady she seemed sympathetic, professional and competent. It was her job to document my story. She stood before a rolling computer stand with a screen on top and a keyboard on the shelf. She never took her eyes off the screen and entered everything I said; only occasionally asking a question.

I started at the beginning and I told her everything, about my mom, my move to Florida, my breakup with my partner, my pending house purchase, my leaving Washington, and my diagnosis of breast cancer. As I recounted the list, I became more and more agitated until I was in a full blown panic attack. These things come over you like a tsunami and they are completely uncontrollable. Shaking, trembling, sobbing, crying, wailing, and unable to take a deep breath, I pulled the thin sheet over my head and hid from everyone. I would not come out from under the blanket, I did not want to be seen and I was too scared. I felt safer that way.

The ER doc came in to ask me questions and I spoke to him through the blanket, only occasionally peaking out at him with one eye. “I’m sorry I can’t help you,”, he said, “You have to agree to be admitted.” He wanted me to be admitted to the psych ward for 5 days. “THAT IS INSANE!” I wailed, “I am moving to Florida in 8 days! I can’t afford to miss any work!”

“Well, I’m not going to write you a prescription for Ativan and send you on your way. You have to be seen by the psychiatrist.”  He had me. I had no choice. There was no way I would be able to walk out of there. I reluctantly signed myself in.

They checked me in and went through all my things. They took away anything with a string on it so I could not hang myself. They took away my cell phone. They put in a cold, sparse room, with very little furniture only a hard bed with a thin blanket. Then they turned out the lights and left me alone in the cold and the dark.

As usual, I woke up at 4 AM and found myself in a strange, cold, dark, scary place all alone. I was too scared to stay in there alone. I wrapped myself up in the thin blanket and padded down the hall toward the light and voices.

The talking stopped when I arrived.  All eyes looked at me. “What are you doing up?”. “I can’t sleep”. “Well, we can’t give you any Ambien after midnight. You have to see the psychiatrist”. They gave me an Ativan, an anti-anxiety medication and I went back to my room where I laid awake staring at the walls until morning.

Learning to navigate the hospital’s rules and systems proved to be a challenge. I had to call my work from a phone in the hall. Then I had to figure out how to order food. The other patients seemed to have the knack, but they ignored me. I was not there to make friends.

I spent the first day forced to attend classes where we would talk about our “feelings” and how to take care of ourselves. Yes, I know I have to eat, yes, I know I have to sleep, I know I have to take a shower. There was no place to exercise. I paced the halls. No sign of the psychiatrist. Everyone else wanted to see him, too.

The second day was much like the first. They started giving me Ativan on a regular basis, and I lurched from side to side as I walked down the halls. Finally, the psychiatrist came to see me. I tried really, really hard to act sane. I told him I could not stay in the hospital, that it was a waste of my time and that I was leaving town. He disagreed with me. He wanted me to stay another 3 days.

He signed me out because I was there voluntarily but he wrote that it was, “against doctor’s orders.” Dr. Mathieson, is a tall, gangly, bearded older gentleman; he seemed kind, but strict. “I am only going to give you a prescription for 2 weeks worth of medication, and that’s it!” You have to visit your family physician before you leave and you have to find a psychiatrist once you are in Florida. Ok, fine.

They unlocked the door and let me out.

I went back to work the following day and later saw the family doctor who has been treating me for years. I told her the whole story. The anti-anxiety medication was working but now the depression set in. I cried and cried as I spoke. She wrote me a prescription for Bupropion, an anti-depressant. Four weeks later I would be reading on line that Bupropion interferes with the effectiveness of Tamoxifen, the cancer drug I was taking. None of the doctors, or pharmacists caught it, but I did.

Thursday, at the end of my shift, I disconnected all the company equipment I had at home, the computer, the phone, the headsets, the wires, modem, router, etc. I packed it all up to take to the office the next day. My supervisor was going to ship it to my brother’s house in Daytona where I was going to live and work temporarily until my escrow closed in 30 days. Friday, the 29^th I worked from the office. It was my last day working in the state of Washington.

That weekend was devoted to moving all of my furniture and household items  into storage. I ordered two big containers to be delivered to the apartment and they left them in the parking lot in front. A hired two laborers to help move the big stuff. It was unbelievable how they packed everything into those two containers. But there was one big problem, the kitchen. The two days I spent in on the psych ward in the hospital and all of my emotional problems had really set me back. I did not have the kitchen packed.

Then an angel appeared. My dear friend F who had advised me from the beginning on her experiences with breast cancer arrived on the scene. If she had sprouted wings and a halo, she could not have looked more like an angel to me. I was emotionally distraught, a mental wreck, drugged and confused. I was upset, crying, could not focus and could not make a decision. F came in, started assembling boxes, grabbed some wrapping paper and packed my whole kitchen! She worked all day. I could not have done it without her. I will be forever grateful.

Sunday, A and I packed the few remaining things in the storage containers, I packed my clothes to take on the flight and it was done. The following morning, Monday the 2^nd of July, I boarded a plane for Orlando, with my little dog in his crate, never to return again. I cried quietly the whole way hoping the young couple sitting next to me would not notice. But I am sure the flight attendant did.