SEPTEMBER 26, 2024 – Blogger’s Note: I skipped posting yesterday because I was preoccupied or more precisely, anesthetized, while medical personnel jabbed a foot-long (I might be exaggerating that by a couple of inches) needle into the left side of my pelvis to draw bone marrow samples in a “routine” annual exercise to monitor the presence or absence of rogue blood cells. I’d planned to use the occasion to outline an essay for the blog, but silly me, I forgot that I’d be sound asleep for the procedure. After I was discharged, I had to attend to various matters that took precedent over Write Makes Write. The evening till late was reserved for book club; hence, no post. But for today . . .
The other day one of my readers suffered another anxiety attack. I’m not sure if this unfortunate incident was the result of ineffective medication or simply the absence of it. In either case, I empathize. Years ago I experienced my own spate of anxiety attacks, but fortunately for me, I was able to overcome them—not with medication but by a rather amusing and ironic method that would be difficult to replicate.
I’m not sure what precipitated my panic attacks—work related stress, perhaps? Dietary changes? Who knows. What I do know is that the attacks were real and disturbing; they occurred at unpredictable times and circumstances. They manifested mostly in the feeling that I was about to pass out or worse. I lived in constant fear of kicking the proverbial bucket and creating a serious commotion as the empty steel pail clattered across the room and struck people and furnishings in the legs, triggering a series of personal injury lawsuits against my estate.
What forced me to see a physician was an episode on a day’s end walk from my office building to the surface lot four blocks away. I was hiking along, minding my own business by contemplating the nasty homework that filled my briefcase, when suddenly . . . PANIC! I felt the usual worry about passing out, dying ignobly there on the early evening sidewalk, missing the chance to say good-bye to anyone, even passing strangers. Instead of following my usual route I diverted to the fire station that occupied a corner a block out of the way. Perhaps, I thought, I could time my collapse for the moment I was in front of an open bay. An alert firefighter would see me crumple to the concrete. He’d rush to my side and revive me with CPR while a colleague fired up the EMS vehicle for the quick trip to Hennepin County Medical Center ER four blocks away. I’d be saved or at least have the chance to say good-bye to people who could pass the word on to my family and friends.
When nothing happened as I walked passed the station, I decided to walk by it again—twice—before moving on to my car two blocks away. I drove home without further incident, but the next morning I made an appointment with a doc at our local clinic. The first available physician was Dr. Butcher, two days out. I signed up, happy that she was a GP, not a surgeon.
When I met with her and explained my predicament—and my reticence about taking drugs, particularly ones I couldn’t pronounce—she recommended a certain psychiatrist located in St. Louis Park, a short drive west of downtown Minneapolis. She said this doc had had notable success treating anxiety disorders without medication. Sounded like a good fit.
My appointment with the psychiatrist was a full three weeks out, which left me vulnerable to intervening panic attacks, and sure enough, I suffered a big one. The occasion was my wife’s office party—dinner followed by a performance of Triple Espresso, a long-running comedy shtick at a downtown theater. The dinner went down fine, as did migration to the theater. Our crowd was assigned to seats in the balcony facing stage left. Still fine. Chatter, chatter, chatter. Fine. Lights dimmed and chatter ended. Great. Show took flight—five minutes, ten and more until . . . uh oh! Not fine. I felt it coming on—the anxiety disorder. Just sitting there, I felt as if I’d faint; no, worse. As the feeling surged, I worried I’d collapse into the aisle, triggering a show-stopping reaction. I leaned the other way toward my wife; let her create the commotion. Or did I have enough time and air to stand up, turn around and walk quickly, smoothly up the aisle around the last row of our section and to the exit? Pondering this scenario, I imagined falling in a heap in the lobby. Maybe an usher would see me; maybe not, but at least I wouldn’t be interrupting the evening’s entertainment.
Fast forward to my first session with Dr. A__________. He was of slight build and had white hair. His appearance and demeanor were more professorial than medical. He got right down to business, asked me a few questions, then explained his method, which, as Dr. Butcher had indicated, didn’t rely on medications. Instead, over a series of group sessions with other misfits (my term), I’d learn to “put Igor in jail,” as he described the source of my anxiety attacks and its desired destination. “I’m conducting a study involving this group session approach,” he said, “and I’d like you to participate.”
Anything to up-end my panic attacks, I thought. I agreed to join the group.
“Good,” he said. “The first session is next Tuesday at 4:30 p.m.”
To get there on time I nearly gave myself a heart attack. At 4:00 I was still stuck with higher-ups at the bank in a meeting that was supposed to have ended well before that. As someone droned on, I plotted my precise moves once the con-fab finished: race to the conference room doorway, sail down the corridor to my office, grab my suit-coat off the hanger, grab the _______ folder and WSJ off the desk, jam them into my briefcase and peal out past the receptionist to the elevator bank; press “Parking Level C” (In anticipation of the afternoon’s “group session” at the psychiatrist’s office I’d wisely parked in the office building ramp instead of my usual “cheap seat” on the surface lot four blocks away); sprint to the car, pulling my wallet and ramp ticket out of my coat pocket as I flew; squeal the tires on my way to the exit; once the bar went up, I’d press pedal to metal and drive like a bat out of hell.
I followed the plan to a “T,” but was already late by five minutes when I pulled into the parking lot at my destination. I grabbed a parking spot, dashed full tilt into the doctor’s building and screeched to a halt at the elevators. They took forever, of course, heightening my anxiety. It was not cool that I was late for the first “group session.”
The receptionist led me to the room where everyone was already gathered. As I felt the glare of 10 sets of eyes, Dr. A____________ welcomed me with a mild reprimand for showing up late. I apologized and felt my ears turning red hot.
The session had begun, apparently, with people going around the room describing the particulars of their individual anxiety profiles.
“Okay, thank you Tom,” the doctor said to the most recent guy to unload his burdens. “Bill?”
The man sitting next to Tom started in. As he described his multiple phobias coupled with his fear that “I’m gonna haul off and shoot somebody,” I began to wonder if I’d landed inside some kind of nightmare.
My worry wasn’t diminished by the next person, a woman who described an extreme form of agoraphobia. “Just thinking of having to go to the store triggers a panic attack,” she said. “Then I’m stuck without bread or milk or whatever until I can get someone to go to the store for me.”
At this point—just two people in, and the next person bearing what appeared to be a very unnatural fixed state of surprise—I nearly burst out laughing at myself. “Serves you right,” I chided myself silently. “Make a big deal about your so-called anxiety attacks, and guess what happens? You wind up in a room full of people with honest-to-goodness panic disorders, one person potentially dangerous, and you now have a totally legitimate panic attack over being surrounded by people who suffer from the real thing!
Huge relief swept over me when the session finally ended. I couldn’t get out of the place fast enough. Skipping the elevator, I plunged down the stairwell as if I were on skis shooting down a black diamond run in time to catch the last ride home.
Luckily I’d been called out of town on business on the day of the next group session. I skipped the one after that, which triggered a series of calls from Dr. A______’s receptionist/assistant. Where was I? Was I planning on attending the next session? When she finally caught me and I waffled, I was lectured—first by the receptionist. When that failed to work, I received a call from the doctor himself. He was miffed. When his hard sell met resistance, he let down his entire façade of professionalism and laid things bare:
“You’re screwing up my study!” he said with inappropriate volume.
“Sorry, doctor,” I said, “but here’s the good news: I think I’m cured.”
That was 30 years ago, and I haven’t experienced a panic attack since.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
