From the age of ten, I suffered terrifying panic attacks. If I wasn’t
having one, I was living in fear of the next one. Despite an assortment
of pharmaceuticals and a frightening amount of therapy, I kept having
them. Naturally, panic attacks are not fun. They can also be incredibly
inconvenient. Like the one I had on the Golden Gate Bridge at rush
hour. After I left my car unattended in the middle of the span to
huddle gasping in a porta-potty—not a good place to be gasping—I
decided I really had to do something.
Spurred by embarrassment, exasperation and a very expensive traffic
ticket, I explored ways to quiet the mind and calm the body. I “Om”ed
in Yoga, “aah”ed in massage and “ow”ed in
acupuncture. I upped my antioxidants. I tried candle meditation, Transcendental
Meditation and behavior modification. I even kicked my three-pint-a-week
Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch habit. My clothes
fit better, but the panic attacks continued.
“What more can I do?” I whined to my therapist.
“Have you considered surrendering?” she inquired.
“To what? Being a basket case?” I asked.
“To not trying so hard. Let yourself just be.”
“Good point,” I said. That weekend, at a “Serenity:
Your True Nature” meditation retreat, I had an attack that necessitated
being taken to the emergency room. Finally dropping off to sleep late
that night, I whispered to God, “You’ve got to help. I
can’t take this anymore.”
At 6:45 my heart started beating so loudly I thought I’d wake
the neighbors. “I am calm and relaxed,” I repeated desperately.
Suddenly the phone rang. It was Bonnie next door. Jesus, I did wake
the neighbors. It turned out she’d forgotten about a parents’
meeting at her daughter’s school that evening. Could I possibly
keep an eye on the kid for a couple of hours? Oh, great. Just what
I needed. But I knew she was a single mom, and I heard myself say,
“Sure, what time?” while I wondered if a ten-year-old
could reach the pedals to drive me to the hospital in a crisis.
After her mom left, Emily put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. Uneasy,
while we waited I asked the only question I could think of, the one
I know kids hate. “How was school today?”
“Great, actually,” she said.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, last week our teacher, like, asked everybody what we
do to calm down when we’re stressed out?” Her voice rose
Valley-girl style at the end so the sentence came out like a question.
“And we made this big list of what we all do?” Now she
had my attention. “Then we took the list home and tried other
people’s ideas. Today we voted for our favorite. Mine totally
won.”
“What was your idea?” I inquired.
“I could show you if you want,” she offered.
“Sure,” I said.
Emily pulled out two blue and white striped plastic straws. She took
a carton of milk from the fridge and poured two tall glasses. “I
like chocolate best, but we’re out of it. Okay, first, take
a deep breath. Then blow bubbles through the straw ‘til you’re
all out of air.” She demonstrated. “Then drink a sip of
milk through the straw. Then blow more bubbles, drink more milk, and
keep going ‘til all the milk’s gone. My friend Casey and
I started doing it when we were little. I didn’t realize it
made me relax until Ms. Chester gave us that assignment. But it really
works. Try it.”
So I did. And sitting at the wooden kitchen table with a ten-year-old,
blowing bubbles into a glass of milk, I felt a very unfamiliar sensation
. . . relaxation. Mind and body at ease. At peace. At last.
Julie Marchasin is a Sonoma County writer. This story
won a merit award in a contest titled “The Last Straw.”
