Crying Wolf

A friend has said the way I have lived the last four years is to kick the can down the road dealing with whatever only when the road ends and whatever absolutely needs to be addressed. She’s not wrong. The multiple warning lights illuminated on my car dashboard? I realize at some point my car is going to stop working. The hole in my kitchen ceiling caused by a leak from the upstairs bathroom? At some point that needs to get fixed. The accumulation of empty boxes in my basement? Yes they need to be recycled. The parts of my yard covered in weeds? They drive me nuts but not enough to do anything about it. My garage badly in need of painting? I’m sure the neighbors are well aware every time they drive by. The road I’m on feels eerily close to its end.

Living moment to moment in unrelenting anguish, it is hard to think about the future or something that needs to get done next week. An excuse for sure but a darn painful one to hide behind.

I was vertically resting in the leather recliner underneath my cat blanket in the small treatment room in Vadnais Heights recuperating from the latest Ketamine treatment. I was fully coherent when the latest panic attack hit and hit with a vengeance. I was gulping for air, sweating profusely and could feel my heart racing. The device they place on me to monitor my heart and blood pressure during the treatments wasn’t working but I knew my heart was pounding hard. Eventually the nurse attendant entered the room to remove the IV needle from my arm. I told her I was having a bad panic attack and she went and got the nurse. I told them I didn’t think it was related to the treatment, that the attacks have been happening more and more and with more and more intensity. Once I feel one coming on, it’s almost made worse in knowing how long and how severe the others have been. The nurse attendant (who’s told me she loves how I dress… cat clothes), who has an impressive snake tattoo on her forearm, and who has helped in many of my treatments, asked if I’d like someone to stay with me. I said yes so she asked me about my cats. She said she understood how bad panic attacks can be, having suffered several in her life. After a few moments of silence she asked if music would help. I said yes. She said when she gets panic attacks sugar sometime helps so she asked if I’d like a Life Saver. That seemed aptly appropriate so she left to grab an iPhone and a variety of Life Savers. I chose jazz music and a cherry flavored Life Saver. She said for what it was worth, she appreciated my personality and that I seemed like a really nice person. 

The nurse returned and having discussed all this with the other nurse handling my case and the onsite psychiatrist who I met with for the first time before my treatment given how things have gone the past few days, and they decided to increase the frequency of my treatments. I said yes, but I don’t know. I’m in an even darker place now than when I started the treatments again. But that likely would have been the case had I not tried. The real ‘cure’ has to come from within, it always has. But I no longer trust my within to figure this out since it hasn’t been able to for the past four years (and beyond). The only reoccurring thought that has bubbled to the surface during all my treatments has been the necessity, the importance of publishing my memoir. So I’ve restarted that process again. 

I sat in the treatment room for over an hour trying to catch my breath and thinking I should be around people for as long as I could knowing my cats are spending less time with me in the hot weather. I buzzed the kind nurse attendant that I was ready to leave. She walked me down to my Lyft ride home. I thanked her for the Life Saver.