Streble

The bell rings ending fourth period, everyone grabs their belongings and bolts out the door into the crowded hallway. I put the completed handout in my folder, stack my books and stand in no rush since my fifth period class - Algebra - is only a few doors to the left down the hallway. "Mr. Patton!" I am startled as Mr. Streble approaches me, his standard disheveled wardrobe consisting of dark dress pants, plaid shirt, wide tie and well-worn brown shoes that I now know are wingtips. "Mr. Streble." "Your paper on Garfield was excellent." He reaches out and hands me the graded report with a nice fat red A at the top. "Thank you, his time in office was limited but he had a long political career before that." The assignment was a biography of a US President - any president. "Yes, your paper provided great details of his time in congress and his poor upbringing." He stands with hands stuffed in trouser pockets and grins. "It was interesting to read about somebody that is never discussed." I did not remember why I had chosen Garfield, but I had found a few books in the school library that provided all the information needed for five pages. "You actually read the books listed in the bibliography, didn't you?" "Sure, your assignment said to use two sources." I take a step back as his infamous coffee breath spreads and begins to fill the space around me. "You are probably the only one in the class that followed those instructions and read the material. You read, gathered your facts and crafted the paper. It is great." "Thank you." I am uncomfortable with the kind words. "I am serious, do not let anyone change the way you approach your work. I am not sure why you are in this level of class, but you are a great student - very smart. None of the others care about any of this." He waves his hand across the room while staring past me. "I do appreciate that." I have no clue what to say. "I am not kidding, keep up the great work, never stop." He leans in close to me and pats my shoulder. I thank him again and float out of the classroom to the next class.

The stranger cont.

I know something is amiss as my feet hit the floor Sunday morning. I look around, I am not alone - it is quiet, too quiet. I rub my eyes and forehead, unable to fully wake. I hear footsteps and then the grandson bolts through the door, landing in the middle of the bed before I can say anything. “Hey Pop Pop, it’s time to get up!” He lies back, giggling, his feet on my back. “What’s the rush?” I seize the opportunity to lie back on the bed, wrap my arm around him with a big squeeze. I just want to close my eyes a bit longer, but these quiet times with the little one are priceless. “Rush?” He whispers unequivocally and look at me. “It means hurry, like why are we hurrying? We have all day, right?” I explain while feeling dryness in my throat. I feel a lump as I swallow. I feel like coughing but somehow avoid it. “Blake at school said the F word Friday and he got in trouble. Nina helped me with math and I gave her one of my cookies.” He whispers facts or highlights from his week with his mother, it is the highlight of my week. I feel blessed to have these moments. “What is wrong with your head?” He sits up, watching me rub my temples. “Nothing really, just a headache, and I need some tea to start the day, maybe with some honey.” It was a small lie, or I think so, as my head pounds. I can close my eyes and count my heart rate with the throbbing. I am not sure if the hot tea will help, but it sounds good. Besides, this is how our Sunday morning talks end. I feel its presence with us, the stranger lurking. He bounces from bed, grabs my hand and I follow, making our way to the kitchen. Oatmeal is his favorite breakfast, so I start the process before grandma (oh yes, she loves being called that) joins and takes over. I shake a couple Tylenol from the bottle (in the back of my mind, I remember all the covid posts on the Web saying avoid ibuprofen), chasing them with water while rummaging though the cabinet for other remedies - the stranger taking over. I lower my increasingly achey body into a chair at the table as the little one finds a seat directly across from me. I smile while examining him, wondering if he had brought the stranger into the house. “You okay?” She sits a cup of tea in front of me while rubbing my shoulders. I mumble something incoherent while shaking my head yes. As I sip the tea (it does feel good on my throat), I wonder if I should isolate - it begins with a sore throat, right? “You don’t look good.” She leans on the kitchen island while eyeing me suspiciously. Thirty years together means a kind of familiarity that cannot be easily explained. “I am tired, and throat a little dry, but this weather is crazy - 70 one day, 40 the next and then all of the rain.” I motion at nothing specific with my hands. “You should go lie down. We’ll be okay, get some rest.” "Pop pop, is Godzilla bigger than King Kong?" The smile flashes in my direction from the other end of the table as he scoops up oatmeal. "Of course, he is the King of the monsters." This is not the first time I have been asked this, I know the answer because he is obsessed with Godzilla. I carry my cup and slowly return to bed. [The new part] The stranger completely consumes me over the next few days. The aches in addition to the throbbing headache explode across my body with fever alternating extreme cold with tropical heat. The covers piled on me and then on the floor and then back again. The only interesting aspect of the ordeal was the dreams - at one point I am walking the dark subway tunnels of New York and playing with rats while a stranger chases us, and then the rats chase me. It was a few days before the fever “broke” and the cough appears. The sleep was something to behold since I am a well-known insomniac. How could anybody sleep so much, but then my body reminded me of the how and why. I push forward with the commitments of my day job, but all of the coughing in zoom meetings was too much. Also, the few times I turned on my camera during calls is met with gasps and genuine sympathy and pleas to go rest and return another day. Eventually, I relent and retreat to bed and long stretches of sleep. At this point, everything comes to a screeching halt with not much fuss. The time leading up to my illness is a time of mounting tensions at home. Like a cliche, we had grown apart, each doing our own thing. “When do you think the stranger will be done with me?” I mumbled this to myself one night riding the wave of a fever. "What did you say?" She appeared at the door, wondering about the chatter. "It was nothing." I did not have the energy to explain. The many days of care somehow reconnected us - providing ample opportunity to demonstrate and accept love. "How is my patient today?" She would push open the door, mask firmly in place and disinfectant spray in one hand. At first, the precautions angered me, but I did not wish to make anybody else sick. In the midst of the covid pandemic, who really knows what to do? "I am good." I always say this even when laying on the floor covered with sweat. She caresses my forehead with a wet rag when the fever persists. She brings me food and drink followed by long talks once I turn the corner and the stranger walks away. These are talks we would never have if permitted to work and follow the routine. There was lots of talk of the many adventures, the sparks return - it is surprising to be reminded of why you are with someone. I shrug off the reminder of how many times I had mumbled the words “I don’t need you” while realizing that was far from true.

Don't forget to breath

"Have you been practicing your deep breathing? Being mindful?" The therapist looks directly at me, holding an iPad, awaiting my reply. "All the breathing in the world is not going to help." I cover my face with my hands and rub, wanting to scream while avoiding eye contact for as long as possible. I finally lower my hands and watch as she makes notes on the iPad. I feel old that I remember when they held actual paper and pen, but then feel odd that I have been seeing these people for so long. Ancient Greek physician Hippocrates described symptoms resembling anxiety and melancholia, referring to an imbalance of bodily fluids or "humors." "Well, nothing will work with that attitude. Do you actually want to improve?" "I think so. I am here, I showed up, right?" The question is jarring. Of course, I don't want to have a total meltdown that requires me to run and hide in my office until I can gain some semblance of composure. And, does she not realize I don't really want to be here talking to her. "Well, you do still keep showing up, that is a positive. So, what was the trigger this time?" "There was an interview, can't remember if on tv or online, but it was a convicted child molester describing how he picked victims. The guy said he looked for loners, kids without fathers around and those without heavy parental involvement." My face felt flush, I could feel panic sweeping over me, I took another long deep breath - maybe the breathing did help? "Oh wow, so this would definitely trigger you, it took you back to being that little boy? We've discussed this, we need to talk to that little boy and offer help." "There is no help, unless you have a time machine." I lean back and stare straight into the ceiling, willing the tears to remain in my eyes, I stretch my jaw and take yet another deep breath, exhale and return to the moment. I lower my head and realize she is watching me, but then again what else would she be doing. Sigmund Freud, a prominent figure in psychiatry, introduced the concept of neurosis in the 19th century, which encompassed various anxiety-related conditions. Freud's psychoanalytic theories focused on the unconscious mind and childhood experiences as determinants of anxiety. His work played a significant role in shaping the understanding of anxiety disorders. "See the breathing can help, provide some relief." She smiled watching me exhale. "Yeah, it's a life saver." I look at her, but my mind is back to being that little boy. I am helpless. The DSM-III, published in 1980, introduced specific diagnostic criteria for anxiety disorders, including generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorder, and phobias, among others. Initial medications for these ailments included Xanax and Valium. Later, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs), like Prozac and Zoloft, gained prominence. "Well, it is just one of the items available in our toolbox." She makes more notes on the iPad. "Yeah, but the pills cause too many other problems, not worth the trouble." Today, the treatment of anxiety disorders often involves a multimodal approach that combines medication, psychotherapy (such as cognitive-behavioral therapy), and lifestyle modifications. "Are you ready to try another EMD session? I know they are taxing, but the trauma needs to be addressed." She sits back with arms folded across her chest, we keep going round and round on this topic. "Ugh, I dunno, not sure, it put me in a bad place for a week. I was exhausted." I fidget thinking of a past session where EMD was introduced and performed, I felt like I had been in a fight afterwards, but there had been some revelations. I'm just afraid of what else could be uncovered, not ready for more surprises or discoveries as she calls them. EMD therapy refers to Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy. It is a psychotherapy approach that was originally developed to treat post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) but has since been applied to various other mental health conditions.

Home

I wake, look at the clock in the still strange room and the clock screams 4:00 AM in red lights. I hit the bathroom and stand at the window, staring out at the street, nothing moving in the darkness. I return to bed, close my eyes and unsuccessfully try to not think or say it - I want to go home. As I descend the stairs, Alison, the Boston College student wishes me good morning as I hold the door for her. We walk and share small talk until reaching the corner when we go in opposite directions. I want to go home. I drop in line with the rest of the commuters, walk down the steps of the Copley station, quickly scan my T card and walk to the platform. The sign says the next train will arrive in six minutes. I want to go home. I squeeze through the doors and find my way to the back of the car, packed like sardines, I'm tall so I can see across the sea of hats, hair, bald spots and heads. I see my reflection in the window at the far end of the car. I know the look in my eyes. I switch trains at the Park Street station and get lucky as the train is just ready to leave, I bound up the steps and find a seat. I lean my head against the window, I want to go home. I exit at the Quincy Center stop, stand on the platform and look out at the myriad of office buildings. I have been going through this routine for six weeks. This assignment seemed like a great opportunity, a couple months in Boston working at State Street Bank. It got old fast, I miss the routine with my wife and son now a thousand miles away. The daily phone calls are nice, but I want to go home. I scan my badge, nod at the security guard and setup in a meeting room. I talk to Patricia about her Ireland trip while grabbing some tea. I sit, waiting for the rest of the team to show up, I wonder about traveling to Ireland. I want to go home. The meeting spins up, I turn and stare out the window, watching a plane emerge from Logan not far away, it turns and quickly disappears. I want to go home. The day goes as usual as the anxiety escalates. As the clock shows 6:00, I am consumed with thoughts of home. People hurriedly leave, heading home to family whereas I stay sitting with nowhere to go, staring into space, unable to move, I want to go home. I return to the platform to reverse this mornings commute with the anxiety slowly escalating in my mind. I see a woman that reminds me of her, suddenly I am going home. I pull out my phone and make arrangements, telling work there is an emergency at home while it is really in my mind. A smile forms on my face, I jump on the train, full of energy, I am going home.

Take a deep breath

I went to bed at midnight and sat up staring at the wall at 2 AM. “Are you okay?” She leaned up, rubbing one eye, clearly having been asleep seconds earlier. “Yeah, just amped up, nervous about going. My heart is racing. Its okay, go back to sleep” It was the truth, but only part of the truth as I felt much worse. It felt like my world was crashing. I walked downstairs for a quick drink of water. “Just stay home if you’re not feeling well.” She was still awake when I returned. I glanced at the clock, the flight was 5:30 AM so only a couple hours of sleep possible besides possibly sleeping on the plane. Not going meant failing and I don't do that. “I’m okay, I just can’t get my mind to stop.” I stopped myself from saying more, from saying I felt panic, that I wanted no part of sitting on an airplane, that I actually wanted no part of anything, that I wanted to run out the front door and keep running. I didn’t mention that I felt like my heart was going to burtst through my chest at any moment, I absently placed my palm on my chest. I was scared, scared to travel, scared to sleep, scared to drive, scared to live, but that’s hard to admit - even to myself. It seems like whining and really made no sense and sounded silly when I repeated it in my head. I pushed it all further down and tried sleep, knowing it would never happen. The 4:45 alarm hurt as much as a punch in the face although I wasn't really asleep. I fumbled with it to ensure it was turned off as my feet hit the floor. I sat motionless staring at the wall, still time to cancel and lie down, perhaps call a doctor, perhaps scream. Nope, I summoned my father and “sucked it up” as he said men had to do. I quickly dressed, grabbed my bag, gave her a kiss and was soon speeding down the highway - no traffic in sight at such an early hour. The option to keep driving North to Chicago instead of going to the airport popped in my head, but I locked the doors in the parking lot and quickly walked to the terminal. I stopped just before the moving sidewalk and tried to do deep breath exercises as I popped a couple Klonopins with no water available. I could feel the nervousness or anxiety building as I rode the escalator up one floor and strode towards to security area. I immediately stopped when I saw my flight delayed on the electronic flight board, people behind me cursed and sighed while making their way around me. The delay escalated the situation as I now had too much time to think. My head pounded and I wondered what my blood pressure could be as my temples pulsated. I found a long hallway to the right and fell into a seat, I wanted to lie on the floor in fetal position. I leaned forward, staring at the ugly carpet, searching for something inside me that could make me move in the right direction. I reached deep down inside me and came up empty handed. I looked up at the faces of the people everywhere, I just knew the panic and pain were clearly visible on my face, but apparently not as nobody stopped. Even the police and health workers walked by and smiled in my direction. My body was covered in sweat, I could feel my left hand shaking and my heart was winning a race with nobody. I leaned forward and almost fell over, fell back to the seat and stared at the ceiling. I suddenly felt the overwhelming need to be out of the airport - chaos erupted in my mind and spread throughout my body. I grabbed my stuff and headed for the exit, finally I was sure of something and it was to get out of that building. I was sitting in my car in no time - the fallout from the last minute cancel would hit me later. I sped out of the parking garage and back onto the highway, windows rolled down even as outside temperatures barely hit forty. For a brief moment, I felt free, but the emotions returned twofold - stopped and forced fed myself donuts and coffee (I never drink coffee) and before long I was lying in my bed, the house eerily quiet, a time of day I was never there and especially not supposed to be there today. I felt guilty for being there, and it was not too late to do what I was supposed to be doing. I fell into a fitful sleep, wild dreams and one hyperventilating episode. Shame washed over me in the late afternoon. I put on a good face for the wife’s return from her workplace - she was able to go, so why not me? “Oh, you decided to stay home after-all.” She greeted me with predictable surprise as I had told her nothing since leaving that morning. “Yeah, it didn’t go well, it’s hard to explain.” I rested my forehead in my hands, I was embarrassed to have no solution. I fixed things and never needed help. “Well, it’s okay, do you still have that number? That card for the therapist? You should give her a call.” She sat next to me, arm around me.

Irresistibly smooth

My world crashed down with a panic attack at the airport a month before the pandemic shut everything down - the stomach issues began as well. That was a horrible morning of dreading the trip, sweating profusely, overwhelming anxiety that I ignored and shoved into the deep recesses of my soul. I trudged into the airport, approached security when I saw the flight board that listed my flight as delayed. You may think that is a good thing, but this just provided more time to dance with the dread. I found a long lonely hallway, sat down and the squirrel caging in my mind amped up ten, twenty, fifty times - it was debilitating. There were several bathroom visits before I finally grabbed my stuff and walked out of the airport, found my car and sped home - the rest of the day hiding in bed. I visited a doctor, then another doctor, downed anxiety medication and then off to the gastroenterologist - the colonoscopy and the endoscopy were scheduled when the pandemic lockdowns eased somewhat - multiple very long Q-tips jammed up my nose into my brain (I'm not crying, it just hurt). Nothing was revealed, the doctor's eyebrows raised. There were more doctor visits and pills and then over-the-counter solutions with lots Internet searches with discussions on IBS, Crohn's, various diets, anxiety and on and on. At one point, I went to the emergency room and the doctor refused to enter the room - peeked in with mask firmly in placed, asked questions and disappeared. After some time, I felt alone as the doctors basically told me to go away and therapists told me to just do yoga and learn how to breath better. It is funny, the anxiety only appeared after the stomach issues arrived. I lost 30 pounds, but I received compliments instead of concern. I found a holistic practitioner, had a food sensitivity test and eliminated a lot of foods. The problems persisted. I took vitamins and supplements, more money down the drain. I'm not big on social media, but I often scrolled through Twitter as the world continued a partial shutdown (what else could I do?) and a post from The J.M. Smucker Company grabbed my attention - an enormous peanut butter recall due to salmonella which could lead to gastrointestinal issues and nausea. My jaw actually dropped, I jumped from my recliner and went to the kitchen - you see I am (or was) a huge peanut butter fan. No, seriously, I ate it ALL OF THE TIME. This was especially true when my stomach ached or I felt nauseous, I would eat a peanut butter sandwich since it was simple and plain. I pulled all of the jars (four) and checked their serial numbers with the list from Twitter - all a match. I immediately texted the wife, she was shocked (I suspected she thought I was losing it). The peanut butter was discarded or returned and yet another food was eliminated from my diet. I had a doctor appointment (check-up) shortly after where I excitedly shared the news, she shrugged and went through her checklist. That was a year ago and while I still cannot eat peanut butter. I tried to join a lawsuit, but there had to be proof of salmonella in my stool (yeah, gross) and it was no longer present (yeah, I had it check, and gross again). The stomach issues have calmed down, not completely gone but I have always been an anxious person so some of it was always there. I've slowly reintroduced long-forgotten foods to my diet and a lot of the weight is back. With all of the trouble and sickness, nobody ever raised the possibility of food except for the food sensitivity test but it identified a bunch of other foods (that was worthless) and it never crossed my mind that I had poison in my cabinet. Upon doing some research, these type of product recalls are common, so now I am always on the lookout. One doctor related fact, all the of the weight loss and diet changes made no dent in my high cholesterol numbers - hilarious.

The Stranger

I know something is amiss as my feet hit the floor Sunday morning. I look around, I am not alone - it is quiet, too quiet. I rub my eyes and forehead, unable to fully wake. I hear footsteps and then the grandson bolts through the door, landing in the middle of the bed before I can say anything. “Hey Pop Pop, it’s time to get up!” He lies back, giggling, his feet on my back. “What’s the rush?” I seize the opportunity to lie back on the bed, wrap my arm around him with a big squeeze. I just want to close my eyes a bit longer, but these quiet times with the little one are priceless. “Rush?” He whispers unequivocally and look at me. “It means hurry, like why are we hurrying? We have all day, right?” I explain while feeling dryness in my throat. I feel a lump as I swallow. I feel like coughing but somehow avoid it. “Blake at school said the F word Friday and he got in trouble. Nina helped me with math and I gave her one of my cookies.” He whispers facts or highlights from his week with his mother, it is the highlight of my week. I feel blessed to have these moments. “What is wrong with your head?” He sits up, watching me rub my temples. “Nothing really, just a headache, and I need some tea to start the day, maybe with some honey.” It was a small lie, or I think so, as my head pounds. I can close my eyes and count my heart rate with the throbbing. I am not sure if the hot tea will help, but it sounds good. Besides, this is how our Sunday morning talks end. I feel its presence with us, the stranger lurking. He bounces from bed, grabs my hand and I follow, making our way to the kitchen. Oatmeal is his favorite breakfast, so I start the process before grandma (oh yes, she loves being called that) joins and takes over. I shake a couple Tylenol from the bottle (in the back of my mind, I remember all the covid posts on the Web saying avoid ibuprofen), chasing them with water while rummaging though the cabinet for other remedies - the stranger taking over. I lower my increasingly achey body into a chair at the table as the little one finds a seat directly across from me. I smile while examining him, wondering if he had brought the stranger into the house. “You okay?” She sits a cup of tea in front of me while rubbing my shoulders. I mumble something incoherent while shaking my head yes. As I sip the tea (it does feel good on my throat), I wonder if I should isolate - it begins with a sore throat, right? “You don’t look good.” She leans on the kitchen island while eyeing me suspiciously. Thirty years together means a kind of familiarity that cannot be easily explained. “I am tired, and throat a little dry, but this weather is crazy - 70 one day, 40 the next and then all of the rain.” I motion at nothing specific with my hands. “You should go lie down. We’ll be okay, get some rest.” "Pop pop, is Godzilla bigger than King Kong?" The smile flashes in my direction from the other end of the table as he scoops up oatmeal. "Of course, he is the King of the monsters." This is not the first time I have been asked this, I know the answer because he is obsessed with Godzilla. I carry my cup and slowly return to bed.