Another January, Another Resolution

Here it is January again, and I'm starting fresh. My resolutions haven't changed from the ones I made to myself last year: finish my book; get myself organized; figure out a way to pay my kids' college tuitions. I feel like if I could accomplish resolution number 2 (getting myself organized), the others will just fall into place. Even though I'm not sure how getting myself organized is going to help with the tuition bill. I think it all comes down to clutter: clutter in my house, clutter on my desk, clutter in my brain.

I've been staring at my little home office, trying to envision less stuff. What can I get rid of? And for the stuff I can't get rid of, where can I put it so it's not in my office? I did throw out several wastebaskets full of paper, mostly items marked "to do" whose deadlines expired before I ever had a chance to do them. Then I turned to the closet in the hallway, the one I use to store clothes that the older boys have grown out of and the younger ones haven't yet grown into. As I looked at the clothes, the ones hanging in the back caught my eye. Those did not belong to the boys. They were mostly from a previous incarnation of myself that I was saving for...what?

I pulled out a gorgeous green suit with a scooped neckline and bright dabs of colors all over it in the shapes of flowers. I bought this little number at Saks for a few hundred dollars back when I was flush with cash as a downtown securities lawyer, in...oh God, that was in 1991. I know this because I bought this suit to wear to my sister's wedding, and I looked all curvy in it because I was nursing my 6-week old baby, who is now on the cusp of turning 18. That suit is 18 years old.

Just for grins I put it on. The jacket still fits, but the skirt? No, no, no. I would need several lengths of rope to bridge the space between the button and the buttonhole. And it has shoulderpads. Need I say more?

Next was a navy wool gabardine suit. It has a short very form fitting skirt and a fitted jacket with a single brushed gold button, no lapels, and...shoulderpads. And what's this? The tag is cut out of the suit, which can only mean one thing: I bought this sucker at Loehmann's, in Monroeville, when we lived in Squirrel Hill. I haven't lived in Squirrel Hill since 1993, and Loehmann's closed even before that. Maybe I'm a glutton for self-flagellation but I wanted to try it on. The tag said size 6, and now everything I buy is size 4, so even if I'm not as svelte as I once was, surely the size 6 of yesteryear is approximately equal to the size 4 of 2009. But alas, today's size 4 is more like size 8 used to be. Why? How the hell do I know? Even if it did fit, I can foresee no occasion for which I would need a navy gabardine power suit with shoulderpads. This one goes into the pile with the aforementioned green suit.

And there was the black gabardine floor-length skirt with the slit in the back, and the matching black scoop neck shell that I bought for a firm formal, again back with I was lawyering. Again, the tags were cut out, signaling another Loehmann's acquisition. I was post-partem then too, which explains the elastic waist on the skirt. I tried it on. The early '90s were not being kind to me. Into the pile it went.

Next was a most-treasured blouse, ivory silk organza, with a big square satin collar, plunging neckline, puffy sleeves and pearl buttons. This unique garment even has a lace panty sewn into it so you never come untucked. I remember buying this gem at Loehmann's in Boca Raton, which had much better quality stuff than anything you could find in Monroeville. This one had no tags at all, giving it the feel of a one-of-a -kind find. I did wear this a few times, over ten years ago, and felt all patrician in it. Ah, but like a white orchid craving water, the creamy ivory hues of lady organza have yellowed, and it can be worn no more.

The next one, well, can you say 'hideous'? It's another navy wool gabardine number (what was up with all the gabardine?), again size 6, but this time it's a pantsuit, labelled Jones New York. The jacket is so long and form-fitting, it covers the butt, and has navy piping along the lapel, giving the ensemble a nautical air. The jacket actually still fits me. The pants, though, oh God, the pants! They are wide-legged and high fitting up around the ribs. I swear to you, this was once fashionable. Buttoning the trousers is no longer possible (I tried it on, God help me). But in my past life, yes. I remember wearing this suit, with navy patent-leather flats, not long after I began my solo law practice in 1992. I remember feeling stylish. I don't remember feeling delusional, but when you have a tiny figure, you can get away with a lot. But no longer. This get-up is, in two words, a fashion travesty.

Next was the unstructured linen blazer, in ecru, from Talbots. Size 6, and in such great condition, I could still wear it. That is if I wanted to look like a scientist. All this thing is missing is the nametag and stethoscope. Why did I buy it? Because I liked linen and I was inspired by non-colors? I don't know, but it is one less item in my closet.

Last but not least was another wool suit, in black, with a big wide black belt. It looks like it came from a funeral in another century. Now that I think of it, it did come from another century, but I don't recall it being worn to any funerals. I found some of my old business cards in the pocket, which had my firm's phone number before they changed the area code. In 1994. I didn't bother to try it on.

There are two things in that closet that I know I will never wear again, but I'm keeping them just the same. One is a sleeveless red polka-dot balloon dress that I bought in 1988 to wear to my friend's wedding. It has little white bows around the bottom. It is the most fun item of clothing I have ever owned, and I got pregnant with my first son the night I wore it. It should be placed in a museum commemorating my life.

The second item that will never see the inside of a Goodwill store is my kilt. I love that thing. It's a size 6, in blue and green plaid of course, that my Mom gave me when I went off to college. It has a giant safety pin adorning the flap. I probably wore it a hundred times between the ages of 18 and 25. Maybe two hundred times. I first saw my husband in the law library when I was wearing it, and I believe it played a critical role in attracting him to me. He was the bee, and my kilt was the honey. When my college-age son was in 9th grade, he wore it for Halloween, dressed as Martha Stewart (with a knife plunged in his chest). The kilt stays.

So I've made some small progress on the getting organized resolution. I've also made a little progress on the tuition problem, by cancelling the NYTimes delivery on Sundays. I will miss it, but it saves me $300 a year. As for the book, just call me Scarlett O'Hara: I won't think about that today. I'll think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day!

An Overreaction? I think Not

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Maybe I overreacted.

On a hot sunny Tuesday, we’re at the beach, the 5 of us, on the first day of our vacation. Around 11:15, Noah stands and says, I think I’ll walk to the pier. I’m not sure how long we’re going to stay at the beach. The temperature is around 90, and, this being our first day, we’re all likely to burn, notwithstanding the 30 SPF No Ad we had slathered on ourselves. I look south toward the pier. It looks inviting, jutting out into the blue Gulf, nothing separating us but a stretch of white sand. It’s pretty far, I say. Around 2 miles. At least. I know from experience.

When I was 20 years old, I spent 2 months in south Florida, waiting tables at a new golf community off Davis Boulevard. I stayed in the house where we’re staying now, which my parents had then recently purchased for family vacations. My cousin’s wife and kids were staying in the house too. One day I decided to walk to the pier with the youngest of the kids. He was around five years old. Although I don’t recall exactly, I probably told my cousin’s wife I was taking her kid to the beach, which was the truth. But when we got to the beach, the pier looked so nice, and not so far away, so we decided to walk. We walked and walked. And walked some more. Finally, maybe an hour had passed, we reached the pier. We walked out on it, looked at the fish, got our feet wet. I must have realized it was getting late so we started back. The boy was tired. I was tired. I carried him piggyback for awhile. The beach was too hot, so we walked up a block and took the sidewalks. He couldn’t walk anymore. I wasn’t sure what the distance was. But I was a college girl, sure of myself and thought we could get a ride. I stuck out my thumb, and a nice woman picked us up and drove us the rest of the way home. We were probably gone two hours. Maybe more. My cousin’s wife was frantic. I didn’t tell her we hitched, but I felt guilty. I’ve never forgotten that the pier is further away, walking, than it looks. That, and college kids do dumb things.

But I’m glad Noah wants to walk to the pier. I’m glad he’s embracing independence since he went off to college. I don’t want to doubt him, or even question him. I want him to know I trust him. Even though I’ve spent much of the last 19 years worrying. He didn’t talk at 2, or even 3. The social awkwardness. The autism diagnosis, changed to PDD at 6, changed again to PDD-NOS at 8. The years of speech therapy. Occupational therapy. IEPs. Callous parents. Thoughtless teachers. A dearth of friendships. Rays of hope: a school dance, camp, the crew team, some rowing medals, learning to drive, a rare but radiant smile. Finally, college. When we visited him there and took him to dinner at a Chinese restaurant, I asked him, are you happy? Yes, he said. This is the first time I’ve been happy in a long time. I’m glad he’s happy, and sad he was so unhappy. But that was in the past. Now is what matters, and now he is happy.

Why not let him walk to the pier? Do you have lotion on? Yes, I put it all over. We might be gone when you get back. Do you know the way home? Yes. I’ll walk if you’re gone. OK, have fun. Don’t get burned.

An hour passes, an hour and a half. I walk a half mile toward the pier, squinting my eyes. I don’t see him. I have to trust him, that he won’t get lost. Is it possible if we leave he’ll return but keep walking right on past our beach? Trust him, he’s 19 for god’s sake. Leave him alone.

At 1:30 we leave the beach, and leave a chair with his shirt and flip-flops so he won’t have to walk home in bare feet. He’s been gone over 2 hours. He has no money. He didn’t take his phone. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

I swim in the pool and have lunch. I shower. He’s not back. Maybe he’s lost. Would he think to borrow someone’s cellphone to call? I check his phone and mine for messages. No calls, no texts. I get in the car and drive back to the beach. It’s only about 3 blocks. I don’t see him. The chair we left is folded over on itself, his shirt and flip-flops wedged inside. I open the chair and lay the items on the seat, hoping he’ll see them. It’s 3:00 when I return to the house and tell Jon, he’s lost, we have to go look for him. I’m impatient waiting for Jon. I’m sitting in the car in the driveway, it’s 95 degrees, and Noah’s lost and hasn’t eaten, and he has no money and no phone. I think of Pride & Prejudice, when Darcy happens upon Lizzie just after she’s learned her irresponsible younger sister has run off with the dastardly Mr. Wickham. “She has no money. No connections. I have not the smallest hope.” He’s on medication. For ADD and depression. What if he has sunstroke? He has no ID. What is the effect of overexposure to the sun with Lexapro and Vyvance? And Abilify, just added to the mix? How long does he have to be gone for me to call the hospital, looking for a delirious sunburnt unidentified young man? What will I say to them when I call?

Finally Jon gets to the car. He has a cooler with Gatorade and a banana. Noah will need those, he’ll be hungry and dehydrated. I’m driving, and he says let’s check the beach again first, then go to the pier. He’s not at the beach. We drive toward the pier, stopping every few blocks to scan the beach. He’s not there. We arrive at the pier, and Jon says he’ll walk from the pier back to our beach in case Noah is somewhere in between. I’m going to drive back to our beach and wait, with Noah’s phone. I drop off Jon, and as I’m pulling out of the block, I see a middle aged man in shorts, a tan shirt and walkie-talkie. I hesitate a moment, then call out the window. “Excuse me,” I say, “are you beach patrol?” Yes, he says, and suddenly, without warning, I burst into tears. I get out of the car, leaving it running, walking toward him and I get out the words, “I can’t find my son,” and the tears are pouring out of my eyes like someone has turned on a spigot. He probably thinks my son is 6 years old, not 19. He tells me to move the car off the street, so I back up carefully and maneuver it into a parking spot, reserved for people with beach passes. Do you have a beach pass? He says. Yes. Is it a handicapped sticker? No. Then you’ll have to move it. Move the car? But my son is lost. My son is 19 but he gets confused, I say. Noah’s phone starts buzzing in my hand. I can’t figure out how to answer it but I see the call is coming from “Mom’s phone.” Jon has my phone so he must be calling to say he found Noah. In one minute, he found Noah. Before I’ve figured out how to answer the phone, I look up and see them walking toward me. Really, Mom? Really? Noah says. Don’t you trust me? Jon says, he’s been playing volleyball and Frisbee. With some Cubans.

We get in the car and I hang my head, and tears are now virtually squirting out of my eyes, and I am powerless to stop them. All the grief and worry and fear that’s been welling up inside me for the past 3 hours, for the past 19 years, emerges like a flood out of my face. Noah says he was practicing his Spanish and the Cubans were practicing their English. I get a hold of myself and start driving.

We stop at our beach so Noah can retrieve his beach chair, shirt and flip-flops. He emerges from the beach, washes off the chair at the outdoor shower, and returns to the car. Where’s your stuff? I ask. It wasn’t there, he says. I look closer at the chair. That’s not our chair, I say. He has grabbed someone else’s chair. He returns to the beach, finds the right chair, with his stuff, and I drive us back to the house. We get out of the car and I hug Noah around his thin waist. Noah, I say, if anything ever happened to you, I would never get over it. Never. I know Mom, but I just wish you had more faith in me. I do have faith in you. But I still worry.

I spend the rest of the day inside my head, beating myself up for not having enough faith in Noah, and at the same time trying to grasp the possible reality that he is behaving like any normal 19 year old. He’s having fun. He’s capable of taking care of himself. He’s behaving thoughtlessly. Normal. Normal is all I ever wanted for him.

That was on Tuesday. On Wednesday, after Jon intercepted a text while using Phil’s phone, a text asking about a bong belonging to Noah’s friend, a text that implied they used this bong at the school a block away from our house, we have a conversation with Noah in which we learn he’s been getting high about once a week. For how long, we don’t know, but definitely while he was away at school getting C grades and a D. Getting high while we’re spending $40K a year on his education. Getting high while he’s having trouble concentrating. Getting high while trying to find the right mix of meds to help him manage his ADD and depression. I tell him I don’t accept his getting high, and if I find out he continues to get high, I will take him out of college and I will sell his car. That car is in my name, I remind him, and if you don’t think I’ll sell it, just try me. He doesn’t get why we are upset.

We go to dinner, the 5 of us, and I can’t even look at him.

I go to bed, and I cry for an hour.

I conclude, a mother knows when to worry, a mother’s instinct is never wrong, I was right to worry yesterday at the beach, and I’m right to worry now. Me, overreact? Count on it.

Day 47...Why I Did Not Write Today

I meant to. Really I did. I had a plan for an uninterrupted two hours of writing. I would take my son to soccer practice at 8:00 a.m., then sit quietly, in the car or at a picnic table, pen in hand, contemplating the serenity of a soccer field in Suburbia at an early hour on a perfect late August morning, and, as inspiration would surely wash over me, like a garden hose over a muddy 4X4, the words would flow from my soul, course through my body, emerge from my pen and onto the page, until practice ended at ten. The relief I would feel! The joy of creative expression! I would be as a Genie released from her bottle, ready to perform mysterious and magical feats to dazzle the gentle reader.

But first, I thought as my son left the car I must return these books and DVDs to the library. The library's not open at eight, but they have those two drop boxes, and the parking lot will be empty so I can drive the wrong way in on the one-way driveway so I don't have to take the long way around the back of the building. Then I'll just stop at the grocery store to pick up some bananas and trail mix, which my son begged me to buy this morning on our way out the door. And on the way back from the grocery store, I realized it would really be much more comfortable to write at the picnic table on the back deck at home, because there would be no people there and no soccer playing to distract me, and the back deck at home is just a glorious place to be on a perfect late summer morning, where the only sounds are the chirping of crickets, and slam of the bird feeder when that damn bluejay crashes into it, and the neighbor backing down his gravelly driveway, and maybe the damn dog barking at the damn deer, who is contentedly munching on my hostas at the edge of the woods. That, and the traffic helicopter, which I admit, does disturb my reverie.

But it's beautiful! And, once the helicopter leaves, Serenity itself. The woods are lush and thick, backlit by the risen sun, whose rays seep through the verdant canopy, casting everything in a warm, golden...wait, I have to move. The sun is in my eyes.

Since I'm up, I'll just be right back, just as soon as I put some laundry in and rinse off the breakfast dishes and check email and facebook (I'm pretty sure it's my turn in like six games), and return the chimney guy's phone call (we need a new flue liner), and... Oh, Hell. The helicopter is back.

Panic Attack Part III

The saga continues. Sorry, gentle reader, if I am boring you to tears, but I have to get this out. My physician brother, the one who called my physician sister, was convinced Panic Attack II was caused by the simvastatin, the cholesterol-lowing medication I took exactly once on my own doctor's recommendation. He said our family has a notoriously low tolerance for any drug. He said to stop taking it. But a few days after Panic Attack II, I decided to try it again. I cut the pill in half, so we're talking a measly 10 milligrams of a drug said to have few side effects. I took half a pill one night, and half a pill the following night.

My body did not respond well. My heart palpitated. My mind raced. I had vertigo. But the clincher was a gigantic bruise that bloomed on my upper right arm when I could recall no injury. I studied the insert from the pharmacy, which warned of an allergic reaction, which was supposed to be rare. Bruising and dizziness were signs of an allergic reaction, and if I had those symptoms, I was to seek medical attention "immediately." These words did nothing to reduce the low level panic I had continued to experience over the previous few days. When my doctor returned my call, 4 hours later (yes, HOURS), I was close to frantic. He seemed perplexed, but was willing to believe that I had suffered a reaction since I gave it a second try. He prescribed another medication, pravachol. "I've had good results with this one," he said. I was willing to try it, but I was feeling worse and worse all the time.

I continued to have heart palpitations and a feeling of dread. I felt dizzy and nauseated. I forced myself to go about my day, even to my regular workout at the gym, but all the time worried that that day was to be my last. I allowed myself one half of one xanax on three occasions over the course of the week. It helped, a lot. I just had to make it until Thursday, I thought to myself, and by "make it," I meant "live". Thursday was the day I was to have the stress test and echocardiogram to rule out my heart as the cause of my distress.

I arrived at Passavant Hospital at the designated time, and over the course of 3 hours, I was injected, scanned, plugged in and exercised on a tread mill. The nurse tried to put the IV in my hand but my veins would not cooperate. I was left with a gigantic hematoma that reminded me of when my kids would bonk their delicate foreheads against wood floors or furniture and be left with huge blue eggs like they had been whacked on the head. It was the aspirin, I was told. Keeps your blood from clotting. Between the blue egg on my hand and the colorful bruise still decorating my upper arm, I am sure that more than one person in that hospital thought I was the victim of abuse. Which I was. By my own body.

On Friday I received a message from my doctor that all tests came back normal. I should have been relieved, but by that time I was experiencing what I can only describe as Braxton-Hicks contractions, which I remembered vividly from the many months I had been pregnant over the course of my life. But these contractions were almost like labor, like my uterus was determined to expel something foreign from my body. And it was, I thought. It was trying to expel my very youth. It was like I was wrapped in a vise that was being cruelly tightened by the minute. I used breathing techniques remembered from Lamaze class to get through the contractions.

Saturday was worse. And where was my period, by the way? It was nearly 2 weeks late. Could I have been pregnant? Unlikely, since I am 50 years old and Hubby had a vasectomy 10 years ago. But you hear about people who get pregnant even with vasectomies, and even when the woman is, shall we say, of a certain age. Maybe that was why my body was going haywire. I bought a pregnancy test and took it. Twice. Came back negative. Twice.

On Saturday I lay in a ball under the blanket on my bed, trying different breathing patterns to get through the contractions and heart palpitations. We were scheduled to go to dinner with friends that evening, and I decided dinner with friends would be a good distraction. Maybe it was all in my head anyway.

This was probably the worst thing about this whole episode. I became someone who I am not, and someone I do not want to be. Someone who complains. Someone who people feel sorry for. Someone who's drinking water at dinner when one of her dining companions has generously brought a selection of fine wines. Someone who's drinking herbal tea when her friends are drinking port. Someone who wants only to get in bed and close her eyes and hope to wake up alive the next day, instead of enjoying the good company of friends.

On Sunday my period arrived. With a vengeance. Sunday night I took the new meds. Today is Monday. I don't feel fine but I feel half normal. I feel somewhat rational. I have an appointment with my GYN on Thursday, when I hope to convince her that I need HRT.

And that, my friend, hopefully is that.

Panic Attack Part II

Three days after Panic Attack Part I, hubby and I visited a local lab to have our blood tested. My regular physical was back in October but I never got around to the blood work my doctor had recommended. Hubby had his physical the week before. So, like the middle aged married couple we are, we booked our appointments back to back so we could go together. Just like his parents do, I thought sweetly. The technician took a few vials of blood, I tinkled into a cup, and off we went.

A few days after that, I was looking at the papers I got from the hospital during Panic Attack I, and decided I should probably make an appointment with my doctor to discuss the episode. While I was there, I figured, I'd get the results of the blood work too. I felt perfectly fine walking into his office, just as I had since Panic Attack I six days before.

The doctor seemed perplexed from the events of the previous week. But he wanted to talk to me about my blood work anyway. The results were nothing to write home about. It seems I have an unfortunately high level of cholesterol. He wanted me to have a stress test and EKG. He wanted me to take an aspirin every day. Not the baby kind, the regular kind. He wanted to put me on cholesterol lowering medication. He wrote me a prescription for simvastatin, 20 mg. I was not too jazzed about this but okay, yeah, I'll do it, no biggie.

I went home, called the hospital and made the appointment for the stress test & EKG. I took the simvastatin before bed, and the aspirin in the morning. I ate breakfast. Then things started to feel...out of control. My stomach was churning. My heart was leaping out of my chest. I had a feeling of foreboding. I was going to die at any moment. Of that there could be no doubt. Hubby was getting ready to go to the gym as he always does after breakfast but I wouldn't let him go. "I think I'm having a panic attack," I said, very quietly so my 13-year old didn't hear. Hubby is kind and sensitive so he sat down next to me and read the paper until I felt secure enough to let him to go.

I decided I'd keep myself busy and my mind off the fact that I was going to die at any moment. After my son left for school, I showered, then headed off to the gym. I was just going to walk around the lap at the gym anyway, nothing too strenuous. After which I was going to run some errands, so the shower came first. So far, so good. I did 45 minutes around the track. I talked to people. I tried to push down the anxiety that was raising inside me. I had no pain but I knew with certainty I was about to collapse.

But I made it to Costco, where I saw a woman that looked like a college friend who died over 10 years ago. It was a sign that she was waiting for me. On the car radio, I heard Bob Dylan singing "Knocking on Heaven's Door," and he was almost certainly referring to me. On the front page of the paper I saw a picture of school children looking up, which was captioned something to the effect of, "Children looking toward Heaven." These were signs of my impending demise. I was afraid to eat, lest my cholesterol level skyrocket upwards and kill me even quicker. For lunch I had only a banana and some asparagus. I opened all the doors in the house in case I had to call 9-1-1 and lost consciousness before the ambulance arrived. I walked to the end of the street taking deep breaths, trying to fend off the heart attack I was about to have. At least someone would find my body in the snow, instead of my kids finding me on the floor when they got home. This was a very rational panic attack.

I went to work in the school library, where I volunteer once every week. Surely that would keep me busy and my mind off the fact that people were shortly going to find me dead. Helping the kids check out books would make me happy and distracted. It didn't. I felt faint. I felt dizzy. My heart was pounding. I felt flushed. I told the library secretary that I wasn't feeling well and planned to lie down in the nurse's office until school was over. I just said I felt woozy, and she said one of the kids had just told her he felt woozy too. But, I thought, he's not about to have a heart attack like I am.

I lay down on one of the vinyl beds they have for students in the nurse's office. I confided to the nurse that I thought I was having a panic attack because of the cholesterol problem and the chest pains from the previous week. "What did you eat today?" she asked. "Yogurt for breakfast, a banana and asparagus for lunch." "Not enough protein," she said, handing me some peanut butter crackers. They seemed to help. I confided with her about the upcoming stress test, and she said, "I know what you're going through. I've been there."

I went home and texted Hubby, "Feeling awful. Must you go tonight?" He was scheduled to attend the Pitt-WVU basketball game that evening with some friends, where they had tickets for a luxury box. My phone rang immediately.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I feel terrible."

When he arrived home, I was under a blanket on the living room couch, shivering, dizzy, heart leaping from my chest. I'm surprised he couldn't hear it across the room.

"I'm not going tonight," he said, pulling out his cell phone to call his buddy with the news that he would not be joining the gang in the luxury box. I didn't even try to pretend I wanted him to go. If I was going to expire that evening, I wanted him by my side, not at some stupid basketball game. I called my doctor to report that I was afraid something was very wrong, and was thrilled to find out she had office hours that night and time to see me.

Hubby took me to the doctor's office. Just being there made me feel calmer. When the heart attack arrived, at least I'd be in the presence of skilled professionals. The nurse took my blood pressure, measured my pulse, gave me another EKG. All of which were normal. I convinced my doctor, teary-eyed (me, not her) to write me a prescription for anxiety. Xanax. She said it was a low dose but to take it if I needed it, and really, I should only need to take half a pill. I filled the prescription immediately, took a whole pill and drank a glass of port.

My sister called. She's a psychiatrist and wanted to see how I was feeling. She had been called by a concerned brother, himself a physician but not a psychiatrist, after his having been called by Hubby, who was very concerned at this point that the easy-going exceedingly healthy woman he married, the one who bore him four strapping sons, had gone off the deep end without a life vest.

Dr. Sister didn't hesitate to diagnose. "It's menopause," she said. "You should be on hormones." She went on to describe patients who thought they were losing their minds, thought they were suffering from depression, thought they were having heart attacks, when all they needed was to adjust their hormones. She explained the flawed studies about HRT that have done a disservice to women like me by making our doctors swear off dispensing of hormones when we need it most. She recommended I pick up a good read entitled "It's My Ovaries, Stupid," so I would understand the biology of the body that was at that moment betraying me.

Our conversation made me feel better in the sense that I began to recognize that it was at least possible that I was not going to drop dead of a heart attack at any moment. Or maybe it was the Xanax. In any event, I slept well and hoped that tomorrow would be a better day.

Panic Attack, Part I

So I'm sitting in my Florence Melton Adult Mini-School class last week, learning about the Jewish viewpoint on artificial insemination. An interesting and somewhat academic discussion, since I have already birthed my four children and, at age 50, certainly am not planning to have more by the regular means, never mind artificially.

About 15 minutes before the class ends, I begin to have chest pain. Nothing major, the kind I've felt maybe twice a year over the past 30 years. Sharp, stabbing, left side, worse when I inhale. I assume it will pass after a minute or two but it doesn't. I begin to feel faint and dizzy and lean up against my adoring husband, who is seated beside me. "Something's wrong," I whisper. "What is it?" he asks quietly. "My chest," I say. "It hurts." I have my hand on my heart. "I have to lay down," I say.

Picture this: we are seated around a large table in a large room located in the basement of our temple. By "we" I mean my husband and me, the rabbi, and about 8 somewhat elderly Jewish people who convene weekly to learn about Judaism, same as me (except for the somewhat elderly part.) They are alarmed. Two of them are retired physicians, and they stand over me, asking questions. "Do you feel nauseous?" "Have you had this pain before?" "Do you have high blood pressure?" I tell them to call someone. Yes, call 9-1-1. So then I hear the rabbi's voice on the phone in the next room, a 50-year old woman with chest pains, send an ambulance. I feel calm, but my chest hurts. Still stabbing pains, worse when I inhale. I tell one of the retired docs I think maybe it's a heart murmur that a doctor said I had some 30 years ago, but that another doctor said I didn't, 15 years ago. "Do you have indigestion?" One of them asks. "My family is legendary for its hiatal hernias," I reply. He laughs.

After about 10 minutes, the pain subsides and I feel....fine. But by then the ambulance has arrived and here they are, telling me to get on the gurney. I say, "Really, I feel better now," but they are having none of that. My classmates are now clustered together, standing on the other side of the room, looking at me with concerned expressions on their faces. Eyebrows raised in sympathy, tight smiles, as I am wheeled out of the room and maneuvered into the elevator, which does not seem to have been designed for gurnies.

Out of the building we go, bump bump bump down the cement steps, where the ambulance is waiting. Now there's a police car there too. I see my husband standing behind the ambulance clutching my coat and my new Coach purse as they shut the doors. The EMT lady puts an IV in my left arm "so you're ready for medication if you need it when we get to the hospital." She puts one of those oxygen tube things in my nose, like you see in the health wing at assisted living facilities (you know, those places they used to call "old folks homes.")

"Is this really necessary?" I say. "I'm feeling much better now."

"It's protocol," the EMT lady says. "You're in an ambulance after having chest pain. That'll get you an EKG, blood work, Xrays, and 23 hours in the hospital."

"I just don't want my kids to worry," I say.

"Better worried than grieving," she says, and to that, I have no retort.

Once at the hospital, they do just as the EMT lady said: EKG, blood work, Xray. All of which return as normal. One of the questions they ask, before my husband gets there, is "Do you feel safe at home?" I want to laugh because I have a ridiculously happy marriage. But then I think that it's a sad society when a woman comes to the emergency room and a standard questions is, "Do you feel safe at home?" A topic for another day, but suffice it to say, yes, I feel safe at home.

My husband enters and tells me he has called the kids and said I was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. "I wish you hadn't told them that," I say. "They'll be worried."

"Why don't you call them now to tell them you're OK?" he says, handing me his phone. I call, and son #3 answers. He's 17, a shining light in my life. Just looking at him is a joyful experience.

"Hello?" he says.

"Hi Phil, it's Mom."

"Are you OK?"

"I'm fine. I just didn't feel very well so they're running some tests. We'll be home soon." An audible sigh of relief. "Were you worried?"

"Well, Dad said he'd call if anything was wrong, and I saw his cell number on my phone..."

"Sorry honey, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sure I'm fine and we'll be home probably in half an hour or so."

They send me home with the following instructions: whatever pain you are experiencing is not coming from the heart. To be cautious, rest for the next 24 hours and follow-up with your doctor. Continue with any current medications.

I am not on any medications.

Call me crazy, but these are not the most illuminating of instructions. But I do make an appointment with my doctor, because I should be following up with him on my blood work from a recent routine physical anyway. Which leads us to Panic Attack, Part II.

Not Sleeping

Twelve hours ago I woke up. It was three a.m. Usually when I wake up and can't fall back to sleep it's because I'm worrying. Is my teenage driver safe? Did anyone bring the dog inside last night? Am I ever going to finish writing my book? Get it published? How are we going to pay two college tuitions this year? But not last night. I just laid there, awake, for no apparent reason. Did I take a nap yesterday? No. Did I work out yesterday? Yes. Did I have coffee in the afternoon? No. According to all indications, I should have kept sleeping. And yet.

Usually if I have trouble sleeping, I tough it out and stay in bed. Really it's not so bad being awake in bed in the middle of the night. The house is quiet and dark. I can turn my head to see out the window at lightning bugs, or the moon, or the shadows of trees. Hubby is sleeping soundly next to me, emitting enough heat to solve the energy crisis. I have a sheet, a cotton quilt, a down blanket, two kinds of pillows, so I have at my disposal every possible sleeping configuration for maximum comfort. So usually I stay in bed and eventually fall asleep.

But not last night. After an hour or so, I gave up trying and came downstairs. I checked email to see if there were any messages from my son, who would shortly be boarding a flight home from Rome. I made myself coffee and breakfast (2 eggs over easy and italian bread toast). I was just about to sit down in my solitude to enjoy this breakfast and read the NYTimes online, when I heard someone on the stairs. I assumed it was Hubby, since he often rises at a ridiculously early hour, but instead it was son #4. At age 13, he's all legs, ribs, collarbone, shoulderblades. He grew 5 inches in the last 12 months. He's standing there on the stairs wearing nothing but boxers. God his legs are long, like someone has been stretching him on a rack as he slept. It's 5:00 a.m.

"I couldn't sleep," he says.

I hug him around the waist. He's so skinny my arms could go almost twice around. His skin is warm and smooth. Not a hair on his body (yet), aside from his head. "Everything OK?" I ask.

"Yeah. My phone was making noise. It scared me..."

I made him breakfast: scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast. We sit across from each other, as I try to read the paper online and he asks questions apropos of nothing. What are Hispanics? Where is Sam's plane now? Jessie's [the dog] still asleep. Should I run this morning?

A golden moment. The birds start singing and I see the sky turning pink behind the dark outline of the trees. At 5:30 Hubby arrives in the kitchen, shortly followed by son #2. At 19, he has to be at work at 7:00 a.m. He's at a loss to find us up and eating breakfast before him.

"What've we got here?" he asks, smiling. I make him breakfast: 2 eggs over easy, 3 strips of bacon, some Italian toast.

I guess that was worth the sleepless night, having breakfast together, so ordinary, so special.