The times I've experienced sheer and utter panic are few and far between. Like most people, I have a tendency to get caught up in the minutia and sometimes lose sight of what a disaster really is.
This past Saturday evening, I experienced a panic so profound that words will probably never be able to truly articulate. Edward had driven home after a wine tour to attend to our cat. I stayed up north with friends and planned to return home the next morning. Before he left, I kissed him and asked him to call or text when he got home.
He never did.
The moment that I realized I should have heard from him and didn't felt like slow motion. My brow furrowed, my brain processed how much time had passed since he left and my body was overtaken with a deluge of panic.
I am generally decent in a crisis. I am extra decent when it's someone else's crisis. But I learned this past weekend that the closer my crisis is to ground zero, the more incoherent and useless I become.
Our brains are supposed to protect us from trauma, right? This is why people dissociate and repress. How does it make any sense then that in the least appropriate moment, my brain conjures up images that would make Wes Craven cringe?
My rational self realized that Edward had probably gotten home, forgotten to contact me and fallen asleep. This was very likely. This would not be out of character. In fact, it would be very much within his character.
No matter. The 10% chance that he was unconscious in a ditch somewhere overruled all else. I imagined him in my mangled Honda somewhere in a valley. I imagined him being unable to call for help because his phone had gone missing during the accident. I imagined him having a flat tire and being overtaken by road bandits while putting on the spare. I imagined having to clean out his closet and sell all of our furniture because I couldn't bear to keep any of it.
It seems odd that my brain would start the grieving process so early.
In between mentally sorting out my husband's possessions and preventing my heart from forcibly exiting my chest, my best friend took charge of the situation. She convinced a friend of ours to go to my house to see if he was there. After an agonizing 25 minute wait, Edward called sheepish and regretful. She had woken him from sleep and as we'd guessed, he had simply forgotten.
I was relieved but also angry. However, I also thought sleep was once again a possibility. It seemed logical that I could rest knowing that all was well.
Despite knowing that he was safe, my body refused to cooperate. My heart was still racing and I felt small bursts of electricity running white hot through my veins. At one point, I turned to Stuart and cried my eyes out. I would do the same thing again upon returning home.
Even now, 3 days later, I'm feeling the after effects of so much adrenaline. Sleeping has been difficult and I feel like I've been robbed of my energy. Recently, there have been a number of "life challenges" and although perhaps this should have put things in perspective, it has only served to wear me out.
