The Weekend Before Victoria Day Weekend
I had my mom take me to urgent care for stroke-like symptoms. Chris had been ill, in bed and out of commission himself. The doctor arrogantly brushed-off my symptoms as a reaction to antibiotics I was taking for a bladder infection. Knowing I would be alone Victoria day weekend, I took my passcode off my phone and taught my daughters how to use my phone in case of an emergency. It was to be Chris's final retreat as a youth pastor.
Victoria Day Weekend
Days felt like years.
Weekends on my own with the girls were commonplace having a husband as a youth pastor. This time was the last for a while and should have been the easiest. I had barely texted Chris. I didn't want him to worry about me.
Using the back door on Sunday night, Chris eased into the house. I forced myself off the couch and collapsed into his arms, crying. It was a defining moment for me. I was not okay. I began struggling with daily headaches and recurring migraines.
A Sunday between Victoria Day and Father's Day
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| June 2019 |
Everyone was bustling in line and deciding on flavours. I started sweating. I lost my appetite and ability to focus. The room was closing in on me and I needed fresh air. My only goal was to last standing long enough not to puke or faint. I ordered nothing, leaving Chris with the icecream decisions for our family and ushered myself outside. I landed on a rock in time to suppress the sick feeling in my stomach from exiting.
With icecream eating finished, we began to walk. I tried to stay steady, focused on each dizzying step. Another picture. I chose to sit beside a friend who had been through medical-trauma while the group-selfie was orchestrated. It was a miracle he was alive. I drew strength from his smile that day. We landed at a park. The children ran off to play. I was praying mine didn't get kidnapped because that was the extent of my parenting capabilities at that moment.
I asked Chris to keep an eye on our girls. With my purse as a makeshift pillow, I lay under the shade of a massive hardwood. As I looked up through the leaves and branches crossing the sky, my friend shared a poem about seasons and trees. She murmured that we didn't have to talk. Her words eased me. I closed my eyes and started to settle back into my own body.
***
Days later. Another stroke-like migraine hit me. I could feel the numbness radiating up and down the left side of my body. Speech? Fine. Face? Fine. I ran through the symptoms of concern my doctor had reviewed with me. Migraine. My temporal veins throbbed with intensity. Advil. Bed. The next day, the doctor wrote me off work. I couldn't teach with out-of-control migraines, even if there were only two weeks left in the year. I had already been struggling for a month.
Father's Day Weekend
I shuffled dinner around my plate, forcing myself to eat for the second time that day. Every swallow was an effort. It was a repeat of the lunch I didn't eat. Earlier, my Greek salad existed to catch tears. I had broken down with two of my friends over the meal. It was my low. My unfinished Iced Capps was a warning sign to those who know me. The days that followed had moments where my heart was quaking in my chest. Chris and the girls would stroll ahead playing Pokemon-Go while I walked the panic attack off.
***
What was the cause? I don't have a concrete answer. Headaches, migraines and panic attacks were physical symptoms. I had anxiety about what was happening, maybe even depression. I was in weekly contact with my doctor at the time. After much reflection and therapy, there were physiological, emotional and trauma-induced factors. Stress wasn't the cause, but that didn't help.
What did I do to be well? I was in regular contact with my doctor. I meditated and prayed through the panic attacks. I breathed in the presence of God and out the anxiety. There were waves I had to let pass. I would excuse myself to the bathroom, talk to myself in the mirror and say, "You are okay. You are still you." I repeated the words until I believed them. I ate healthily and exercised to help prevent headaches and boost positive brain chemicals. I went to therapy. When I was on the road to recovery, an event triggered me to the point where I almost lost all my hard work. I then advocated for myself and asked my doctor for medication. Therapy allowed my brain to make sense of my story. Now, I write.
Why? The brain is a physical part of the body. I went through emotional trauma. Initially, it wasn't my own trauma. As a witness, I can't write about what isn't mine. My unwellness was trauma-induced. At least, in part. My brain was triggered into a physical state of protection. That's the physical explanation I worked out in therapy. I believe, there is also a spiritual one. At that moment in time, I was called to walk alongside victims of trauma. Sharing a part in their stories, I found myself impacted too. I fought for my health back. As a result, I can better understand the fight. We don't always get to choose what our brains do and how our bodies react. Sometimes trying harder doesn't work.
***
A devout life does bring wealth, but it’s the rich simplicity of being yourself before God. Since we entered the world penniless and will leave it penniless, if we have bread on the table and shoes on our feet, that’s enough...
Pursue a righteous life—a life of wonder, faith, love, steadiness, courtesy. Run hard and fast in the faith. Seize the eternal life, the life you were called to, the life you so fervently embraced in the presence of so many witnesses. -1 Timothy 6-8, 11-12 (The Message)
