I drank some water and it was difficult to swallow. My husband continued to sleep soundly next to me. The first thought I draw toward: "What now? Is this going to worsen?!"
It seemed to be uncomfortable laying on my back, so I sat up, which seemed to help. I continued to notice the uncomfortable sensations. I closed my eyes and gently breathed into them, with not much breath to draw.
"OK, maybe I'll get up and gargle with some salt water," I thought to myself. As I rose to my feet, I felt even more winded.
"Perhaps I had just better settle down for a minute," I thought again to myself. The next thought was that I hadn't been doing anything to provoke such a response from my body. I had been asleep, and for at least five or six hours.
I got back into bed, sitting upright. I noticed the sensations again. Upon noticing it felt like my throat and airway passage was further constricting. My throat got scratchier and I felt a lump in it that felt like a mass or that perhaps something was forming in my throat and not allowing full passage. My pulse quickened.
I went and got my phone off the charger. After unlocking it, I searched my browser to see when the nearest urgent care clinic would be open. There's one just a couple minutes up the road. Oh good, 8:00 a.m. What time is it now? It's 6:26 a.m. "Hmmm ... do I have that long?" Again to myself I thought. "Is this going to resolve itself or do I need to take further action? Is this serious? Dire? Lifethreatening?! Do I have enough time?" My thoughts continued their distress ...
"OK, calm yourself. It will be OK," I assured myself, physically being mindful of releasing tension anywhere in my body I felt it, especially my lungs, chest and throat, which were tight.
About twenty or so minutes pass. My husband awakens. "Are you OK?" he asks.
"Yeah, I think so ..." I replied unassuringly, and then explained to him in detail what I had been experiencing.
He throws off the covers, switches on the bright ceiling light and says in an utterly declarative manner, "Alright, I'm taking you to the ER at UW, and we're going to get to the bottom of all of this and get this resolved once and for all!"
"OK, I will take your lead on this," I said in absolute compliance. We threw on some clothes and away we went.
The thought of being in the car on the bustling freeway, even though it was before first light, gave me an uneasy feeling. It was chilly out, and I was already having some shivers when I was still wrapped snugly in bed. The head and tail lights of my black SUV flash on and off, an indication he'll be driving me in my car as he's the one who has the key. I climb in the passenger side and pull the hood of my thick woven sweater jacket up over my head. I close my eyes and breath gently with what breath I am able to carry in and out of my lungs. Feeling the strong pull of the car toward the driver side for an extended time, I could tell we were on the cloverleaf about to get onto state route 509 into town.
First what struck me was the rush and roar of traffic. The speed and urgency of the forward motion at 60 plus miles per hour. I opened my eyes. Lights flashing by. My heart sped up, my breath shortened. Most perilous of all, we live quite some distance from UW, and what if it's something serious and we don't make it in time?! What if I stop breathing? What would happen? How would my husband handle things?
I looked at the car ahead of us, focused on seeing the plate and almost noticing the make and model. It was a smaller, newer hatchback, like a Kia. I looked up at the sea of city lights as they sparkled in the distance in front of a dark and gloomy backdrop of barely distinguishable clouds. I suddenly remembered that saying "it's always darkest before dawn," and here we were in that very moment. What will my dawn look like? Am I going to survive this?
Suddenly towers of sleek glass and metal are passing over us, one by two by three. There are lights blazing in all directions. A bright red ambulance screams by in the oncoming lanes of Interstate 5. I think to myself, "Should we have called an ambulance? We're getting closer, will we make it in time?"
As we exited onto Montlake Boulevard, the streets were eerily desolate and quiet; complete juxtaposition to my racing mind and body. We get to the final protected left turn signal guarding the ER driveway entrance. It's red, steady red.
"It's OK, go!" I demanded. My husband obliged. As far as I was concerned, we couldn't get there fast enough. He let me off at the main entrance. I briskly stagger in and see a reception window right away. The chair in front of it is facing outward to greet me. There's no one there. No one behind the booth, nor in the hallway beside it, nor in the- Wait, there's a person in the waiting area changing the channel on a TV no one is watching, because there's no one other than her in the waiting area. I catch her eye as she turns away from her channel change.
"Are you here to check-"
"Yes!" I interjected over her.
She comes around into the booth and assumes a professional administrative position at the helm of the desktop terminal.
"Do you have some ID?" she asks.
"Do we have to go through all of this, really?" I thought to myself. Before I knew it a triage nurse greeted me, and took me back to check my vitals.
"Is anyone with you?" he asks.
"Yes, my husband." I replied. Almost no sooner had I said so, hubby appeared.
After asking me a host of questions about my symptoms and taking my vitals, I am taken back to a room and given a gown to change into. Pretty customary procedure here. The room is just able to accommodate a patient bed, a side chair, a medical stool, some bits of equipment and a counter with a sink. I change into the gown, take off my shoes and climb up onto the bed. Immediately I notice how much more comfortable this bed is than the one I was on at the Highline ER. Then I notice my breath shortness is still present, as is the throat soreness, as is the tightness in the front of my neck.
A short while later the resident doctor comes in to introduce herself and quiz me about my symptoms. Hadn't we gone through all of this already? We gave her a complete rundown of everything that's transpired from beginning to end. Terry did most of the talking as I was still quite winded. The doctor's with us a while longer and then leaves. The nurse comes in, inserts an IV, draws some blood and checks vitals.
"Um, if they're going to do a urinalysis, I have to go and could bring back a sample." I offer.
"Sure, there are cups in the restroom, do you know where it is and are you OK to walk there?"
"Yes, yes I think I am." So away I went and returned with a cup full of light amber. My husband was sitting back in the side chair and had found the TV remote.
"It's hermetically sealed so they can swap it down," he said, a reminder to me about how many creepy crawlies lurk in hospitals, like mersa. He began flipping through channels. He stopped on a channel with a man in church robes in a cathedral was talking about part of ancient Roman history. I thought that seemed heavy. Then another with a woman who was being violently chased down by a man. Um, no. The next he discovered was Fox news and he changed it before it could even register on Nielsen. He landed on Little Fockers, and that seemed alright. A little silly. Laughter after all is the best medicine.
"I heard you talking with my mom last night about my brother, what did you say to her?" I asked my husband.
"I brought up to her his misplaced priorities," he said. "He's only here for a short period of time. He went out last night, too. He slept all day yesterday when he could have spent time with your mom. He pulls a tag of a new $46 shirt, and says he has no money. Then how can he go out, two nights in a row, and party?! And be OK with us paying his airfare to come up here, which he also spent another $100 upgrading to first class. I just don't get it."
"I know, he has no grasp on reality," I said. "Was my mom upset?"
"Yes and no. I mean, sure, she is of course, she said that's just the way he is," he said.
"Yep. He gets a pass. Al gets a pass. I get her fist up my ass," I said.
"Your dad discarded her, and you've always been the stable one for her," he said.
"Yeah, real stable here, total rock," I quipped. Just then there was a knock at the door and in emerged a beautiful, young blonde woman with perfect makeup, a cute outfit and a clipboard. With a big, bright smile she said, "Hi, I'm the social worker."
Social worker? My mom has a social worker at the cancer clinic. Oh boy, this can't be good ...
She continued, "I brought you some resources for counseling services, including some really great, affordable graduate program resources at Bastyr. They have a great cognitive mindfulness program for dealing with anxiety."
She handed me a few white pages that were stapled in the top left corner. A few bolded headings had been highlighted in pink. Yeah, I thought the pink gave the pages a little something extra, too.
"Do you have any questions?" she asked us.
My husband and I looked at one another, me more toward him as if there was something more that I didn't pick up on. He said no, I just turned back and shrugged. She smiled and said OK, good and I hope you feel better, then spun around and breezed out of the room.
"Wait, did she say anxiety?" I thought to myself. I looked up at the clock and turned to my husband.
"What a fresh, perky spring breeze of pleasantness just blew through here at twenty after nine on a Sunday morning!" I quipped. "Did you see how well applied her face was? She was so sweet."
"Anxiety. That can't be right." I thought to myself. "I've yogaed, gone through a MBSR course, continue a mindfulness practice at home, taken Zen meditation classes, study Buddhism. I've seen an energist, psychic, spiritual guru. I've gone on a Shamanistic soul retrieval for goodness sake. How can this be right?!"
Call it intuitive, or just knowing me perhaps better than I knew myself at this juncture in my life, my husband smiled anticipatingly and allowed pause for me to process. I looked over the list of resources. One by one counseling, counseling and more counseling. The clue phone was ringing off the hook for me. You know what, I answered the call.
"Bubba," I said. (that's one of many of my pet names for him) "I know there's a lot going on right now. I guess I just didn't realize until now how big it is for me ... I'm aging, sure. That is a given. My mom is dying of cancer. Some guys run out and buy expensive Porches. I get sick for two years. Welcome to my midlife crisis."
And there it was, as plain and simple as the Midwest. My eyes welled with tears. I knew what a gift my husband had just given me for the holidays. It was terribly wrapped, and there is a strict no return policy. Yet is the most priceless and admirable thing another human being has done for me.
For so many weeks and months my husband has mentioned that ugly, dreaded word; anxiety. This always left me feeling like he thought I was going crazy, making this whole chronic illness thing up, that it was all just in my head. I'm medically hypothyroid and have chronic inflammation, one cannot just imagine that, can they?
If I step back and take a good, long look at the bigger picture, perhaps even being hypothyroid is just a component of being on a life path that clearly was not sustainable. My reality is altered, paradigm is shifting. Eureka! This really does explain a lot.
Bubba reached over, grabbed a hold of my hand a rubbed it. As comforting as that was, I've just been hammered with a huge dose of reality and a prescription for re-wiring my mind. I allowed the tears to stream down my face.
A while later the doctor returned, foremost asking if we had been paid a visit by the social worker. "You mean the fabulous fairy," I thought to myself. "Yes, she came by." I said.
And now for the shocking results of my ER urine, blood and x-ray labs (drum roll, please): Sore throat with some protein deficiency and a prescription for GERD (which I had already received from my GI doc). It was one of those moments where all I was really compelled to do was lay there and blink.
A little while later we were discharged and heading through the long hospital corridors to the car. I noticed all the peculiar modern artwork on the walls, some of it really disturbed me whereas previously I may have just somewhat noticed an object's presence. Now I think I'm really seeing things as they actually are. I'm capable of so much, and there are plenty of times I will want help. I get it.
As we were on the freeway home, I turned on the radio. I wanted to hear music as I happily watched the scenery go by. I turned on Sirius 70's on 7, and "Only Want to Be With You" was on. I took hold of my husband's hand as I gazed at him and smiled. In my head, however, are still those thoughts about what it's going to take as well as whether I'll get better. Of course, every thousand mile journey begins with a single step. For me, today, I feel like I took a giant leap. One cannot solve a problem if one doesn't acknowledge what the problem is.
Next thing I knew I was feeling lighter, my chest felt more open. The song "Alive Again" started playing. I sang along a little bit as I watched gleaming skyscrapers diminish into to towering port cranes diminish into low-rise warehouses, which bled into industrial wasteland and then timber enshrouded highway up our plateau toward home. The mood changed and so did songs. Finally "If You Don't Know Me By Now" aired, and all I could think about was how perfectly life unfolds. It's a matter of purely trusting and having faith you're going in the right direction. As a wise, beloved friend once told me, when you are on the right path, the doors of opportunity will open to assist your arrival. Isn't that the truth!
As we were nearing home, a couple things dawned on me. The first is I had best shoot a little text to my mom and let her know I'm OK and we'll be home soon. The next is to carefully consider what to share with she and Al when we get home.
"Bubba, I think it's best if we just tell them I'm being treated for GERD and have a protein deficiency," I said. "No good will come of telling them I've been unofficially diagnosed with stress induced anxiety. My mom would make it about her, she'd feel terrible and spiral."
He agreed and added perhaps we could politely ask to fill in the details at a later time.
"Bubba, with my Grandma we could just, you know, be with one another, gazing at one another lovingly, enjoying ourselves immensely without even having to converse, and it was like time could stand still." I recalled. "I keep thinking I might be able to find some of that magic in my mom, and I know that's an unrealistic expectation."
Again, he agreed, reiterating that's just not who she is anymore and I'm going to have to learn how to have a good relationship with her regardless. Of course I already know this, and it's one of the things that overwhelms me the most. I've been through the medical gauntlet with her these past six months as well as all of her emotions around victories and losses. I've been a coach, a guide, a parent, a problem solver. Heck, I've even been her Realtor, literally. All I want to do is continue being her son, and yet I know she deserves much more of me than that. I want to be a wonderful son and caregiver to her. So this starts with being a wonderful caregiver to myself.
As we rolled up to our home, I could see from the street my mom cross from the kitchen into the living room as if in anticipation of our arrival. Our place has huge windows, it's kind of a fishbowl. Anyway, she was in her white robe. The way she sat and was seated, she felt like my old mom again. It was sweet. My heart felt light.
My husband opened the door for me to walk in first. For a time I have been reluctant to be the first in the door and have to set the tone with people. So I paused for a brief moment, then proceeded confidently.
"You're home!" mom said. "You look so much better."
I immediately went to her and gave her a hug. "Thank you, I feel so much better."
"What did they say?"
At first I almost tabled the discussion entirely. Then I suddenly just felt more able, more free, to just say what was so. "They treated me for GERD, which I now have a prescription for, and told me that I'm protein deficient."
Both mom and Al seemed pleased it was nothing serious. In my mind, the seriousness is what lies ahead. It's a road I have yet to travel. I don't even know what to pack. Or maybe it's all the unpacking I'm going to be doing. Either way, I do get that this is big, at least for me. It's also good. It's a time for healing and preparing for whatever life has to dole out to me and especially to my mom.
A while later I scrolled through Facebook. I noticed I had some notifications. One of them was from my mom's cousin Karol who posted a comment on the Christmas photo I posted of my mom and I by our tree.
"Thank u brad for taking care of my sweet cousin patty!!! XOXO"
I liked her comment and posted a reply. "You know what, Karol, she's actually taking care of me." (with a winky face blowing heart kiss emoticon at the end)
As has been the case since I was 10 weeks old, my dear old mom is taking care of me yet again. This time as my profound teacher.
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