The Last Many Months

Late summer 2016…I am reminded that the parents of a long-time friend of mine are professional writers/editors. They graciously accept my request to edit my manuscript.

A week before they return it (the old fashioned way – on paper, which I appreciate) my Gramma, my mom’s mom, surprises us by deciding to let go and passes away during minimally invasive surgery. She was 89. On my way to the hospital, to which I have forgotten the way, I have a panic attack in my car. I actually feel myself leave my body. I get dizzy. Sweaty. I go temporarily blind. Briefly, everything goes black but luckily I had put that long-time friend of mine on speaker phone and she talks me back into my body. Guides me to the hospital, magically, from her remote location.

The next day, I find out that the day before – the same day my Gramma died – another woman in my extended family…a woman I had promised I would help care for into her old age, had also decided to leave us. I have my second anxiety attack in less than 24 hours. This time, I can actually feel the shock electrocute my brain. Something feels fried. I phone my long-time friend again, this time screaming, panicking, not breathing.  She tells me to get my feet on the floor. To get my head between my knees. My whole body convulses. My brain goes off-line.  So this is what it feels like to lose control.

For the next few weeks I am a zombie. I feel dulled. A lot like what I would imagine post-concussion syndrome to feel like. Images of Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over a Cuckoo’s Nest come to mind. We postpone my Gramma’s funeral indefinitely because I am so out to lunch that I cannot participate in its planning. I can’t focus enough to read. I can barely work. I can’t even bring myself to listen to music. I certainly cannot edit my book.

I feel like my life has been burned down.  It conjures images of the black, lifeless lava fields in Hawaii. Scorched earth. Everything just looks so…different. My first optimistic thought in weeks reminds me that from ash grows the lushest vegetation. Phoenix rising shit. So, I decide to go there. I book a trip to Maui, alone, and rent a hut in the middle of the jungle, hoping that some solitude will spur me to finally edit my book.

Then, 2 weeks before I leave, my Granny, my dad’s mom, passes away. She was 98.

I board the plane without my manuscript. I can barely make sense of the seat number on my ticket, never mind make decisions about syntax and grammar.

I am absolutely exhausted. I try my best to enjoy the island but I am profoundly fatigued, still off-line, and very, very lonely. I cry a little, alone, in the jungle, but not nearly enough.

I come home and find out I am anemic. At lease there is some small explanation. The medication makes me nauseous but I desperately want to feel better so I take it anyways.

I lay on the floor of my new apartment and meditate for hours a day. It’s the only thing I have the energy to do. And slowly…slowly I start to feel better.

Miraculously, I find the motivation to start a 12 week program called The Artist’s Way – it is designed to “recover creativity”.  To unblock the writer. To get me back online. And, 3 weeks in, it seems to be working. I’m writing you this blog post, aren’t I?

Stay tuned.

Love, Love, Love. XOXO