I was so worried the weather would be poor, that the rain would pound and I wouldn’t be able to stay dry. I found myself rubbing my right wrist with my left hand and looking into a distance that the wall in front of me could not reveal.
What would happen when they stuck a tube up my nose? What did a heart cath procedure feel like? How much numbing medication would be available? Was anesthesia an option for any of this?
What would the “lung transplant class” actually teach me? Could I play hooky? What would I do with my hands while I listened? At what point during the two weeks of tests would I have an emotional break down? What if I got sick?!
The clouds of worry kept getting darker the closer to Sunday and my flight to Seattle became. I found myself more worried it would turn into a lightning storm setting fire to unknown parts of me, than I was about the fact that I was being evaluated for a double lung and liver transplant.
Anxiety wreaks havoc on my imagination, I know this. I knew this. I did my best to mother myself before hand – responding to each internal outburst of worry with a deep sigh and, “you’ll be fine,” but also trying to hide my worry from my anxiety.
How do I reconcile the manic, the depressive, the anxious and the adult parts of myself? Knowing is only half the battle. The other is believing yourself.
I did my best to set up way stations of rest throughout the two weeks I would be gone. I flew my mom in half way through, in case of an emotional breakdown. I made sure to stay with family, and to not over-schedule myself. At the last minute I remembered to pack good food for my mind and soul.
A huge boon was Pádraig Ó Tuama’s meditation of saying hello to whatever you meet. I had his book, “In the Shelter” with me and it helped keep me grounded to each place and feeling I was in.
Hello to this room and this machine. Hello to this new experience. Hello to the knot rising in my chest and the cloud brewing in my head. Hello to the discomfort and the waiting. Hello to the funny jokes and delicious food. Hello to the knowing and to all the things still unknown. Hello.
The cadence of greeting changed the experience for me in a revolutionary way. All of a sudden I realized the choice had been to engage or not, to turn toward the experience with curiosity rather than letting my anxious imagination dictate the terms.
In many ways it felt like I was a child again and one of my parents was telling me to acknowledge a guest. Pay attention they would say, don’t be rude. Just stop and say hello.
I am always afraid I will be on the hook for something if I say hello or acknowledge that I have seen or heard. I’m terrified that I can only do everything or nothing. “Everything” in my mind is all the hypothetical situations I can imagine may happen. I create escape routes and try to predict how I will feel in each situation.
To justify this type of mental exercise I tell myself I’m “preparing,” but really, for me, I’m saying yes to burn out. It’s the quickest way to use up all my energy before anything has happened. I’m slowly getting better at catching and reminding myself to simply plan for what I know I will always need: a nourishing book (or podcast), good company, an easy schedule and food.
Engagement, as opposed to “preparing,” I’m finding, is simply looking up and saying hello without having to know “everything.” I would have missed the beauty and enjoyment of the last two weeks if I had insisted they needed to be hard. The truth is, I didn’t quite know what they would be. I knew, however, if I let the gloom of the clouds I was feeling write the story off before it happened, then I would have missed it. Each day was its own experience, and more often than not, the sun broke through the clouds and all went well.