The battle for Joe

I.  The Seizure

      Having a seizure is not a terribly uncommon occurrence. Once you have one, empathizing friends and acquaintances come out of the woodwork with experiences of their own, imparting a sense of normality to the whole experience. Or, at least, it should have.

       On July 29th, 2012, my wife and I retired to our bed, late, because we had just finished having a tearful argument. We resolved our argument, then promptly went to sleep with my tear-stained head resting on her bosom. After about an hour, I was awakened to the sound of obvious distress. My wife, Patty, was having a panic attack in her sleep, or so I had thought. Her whole body was tensed up, teeth clenched, her first closed and her arm flexed, as if expressing frustration at some nocturnal bogeyman that only existed in her dream. The noise that woke me was a forced moan through those same clenched teeth. I was concerned, of course, and I tried to wake her from that bad dream. I touched her face, repeatedly asking, "are you alright?". She never responded. In fact, what happened next has been ingrained into my psyche for the last four months, and I fear it may be there forever.

     After a few moments of trying to rouse her, instead of waking, she went limp. At that moment, I realized something more serious was happening; what it was, I was not sure. Stroke, maybe? Aneurysm? Heart attack? Whatever it was, I thought she was dying, and me with her.  I kept trying to wake her, but for a few terrifying moments, she refused to respond.  I shook her, shouted at her, and slapped her face. I checked her pupils, they were normal.  I checked her pulse, it was highly elevated, which meant her heart was still working.  I was looking for any clue as to what was happening, but couldn't find one. Externally, I was the calm, centered, capable man doing all the right things a man should do in an emergency situation.  Inside, I was shaking apart; I could feel my very self evacuating my body.

    After a few moments of dead eyes, she finally began to wake. She was alive, but she was not herself. I kept asking Patty if she was alright, but for several minutes, she was not able to respond coherently. Initially, all I could get was silence or a low moan.  At this point, I called 911.  I told her repeatedly that she was scaring me.  I kept asking her basic questions, if she knew where she was and the like, and for a short while, all I got was a confused stare.  Eventually, I got her to sit up in the bed and get her to respond, though she was still very confused.  The paramedics arrived a few minutes later, and in that time, I was able to wake Patty enough to get her to walk to the living room couch.  She was awake and mobile.  EMTs quickly surrounded her and began asking her questions, most of which she could not answer.  She did not know  her name, who I was, what month it was, or if she had any children.

     After a few minutes of prodding she started to come around.  How she got into the living room surrounded by a dozen strange men, however, she did not know, but at least she started to remember who she was, who that strange brown man was and why he was holding her shoes.

    One of the paramedics first told us that what Patty experienced was most likely a seizure, and that she would recover normally, but we decided to go to the hospital anyway.  After getting her CT scan and getting sent home, the horrible terrifying experience should have been over, but it wasn't.

II. The Aftermath

    The following weeks after the seizure were filled with appointments and tests; our primary concern, obviously, was to find the cause of the seizure and treat it.  MRIs, EEGs, consultations, time on Wikipedia and Google looking for clues.  Much energy was spent haranguing doctors for test results.  About two weeks later, we got our answer: Temporal Lobe Epilepsy.  We immediately started a regimen of Lamictal, and though we were hopeful, we also were very hesitant due to the nasty side of effects of such drugs.  

    For most people, such a diagnosis after such an episode would be a very negative experience.  After all, what good could come from such a discovery?  It's a terrifying thing, and we were indeed very scared.  What we didn't expect, however, was that the diagnosis and treatment would turn into one of the greatest experiences in our 13-year marriage.  This is because the seizure unearthed a solution to a longtime problem that Patty was dealing with; for more than four years she had been dealing with overwhelming anxiety and panic attacks, and for a good portion of 2012, they were getting worse.  Come to find, the panic attacks were likely miniature seizures, often called "auras".  These auras contributed to a generalized anxiety problem, which in turn made the auras worse.  It was a vicious cycle that was continuously getting worse.  However, once she reached her full dosage of Lamictal, the auras disappeared and the generalized anxiety evaporated.

    For sure, the diagnosis came with some adjustments.  Patty could not drive for 3 months, which resulted on us having to lean on friends and family to make sure everyone made it to school and back on a daily basis.  The fear of side effects still lingered, especially once Patty started hearing things.  For the most part, however, Patty became free.  She was no longer chained to the millstone of anxiety around her neck, and she was no longer chained to my constant support.

III.  Unexpected Changes

    Even though the inability to drive created a certain amount of stress, in a lot of ways, things were getting much better. We were better able to discuss things more openly and honestly than ever before. We were able to take new challenges that would have been too difficult previously. Our love life was better than ever. The kids handled the stress admirably, and they were starting to show their own independence. 2012 had turned from a tough year to one of vast personal growth. While the growth for Patty and the kids was becoming easier after years of struggle, my own growth had become painful. It turns out, after focusing on Patty's issues for years, I had neglected my own. Strengths became weaknesses in this new family dynamic. That stable Vulcan-like man was really a mess of a person tied together with duct tape. Why?  Well that's a story in itself.

    The root of the problem comes to guilt.  Guilt for feelings, guilt for having problems that could not compare to other, more serious things that the rest of the family was dealing with. Some of the guilt is cultural; especially coming from a Catholic background notorious for ingraining guilt from a young age, especially sexual guilt.  Societally, there is a lot of pressure for men to be emotionless, since we are expected to be strong pillars on which our families depend on.  Individually, I was not innocent.  I betrayed myself with my own weaknesses, and I was a poor husband and father at times.  I was not understanding of the worsening anxiety that we later discovered to be Patty's epilepsy years later.  I had anger, I had sadness, but I also had passion.  Being an emotional person requires one to draw support from others, and while I grew up as a very emotional person, depending on others is something I loathed.  So I made a choice: I wanted to be the strong person, so I buried every feeling I had.  Not just the bad, but the good, too.  I really convinced myself that my right to have emotions were less important than helping Patty and the kids deal with their problems.

   This evolved me from an independent, flawed person, with my own goals and desires into a person whose only purpose is to support others.  My only goal was to help Patty achieve her goals, which at the time was primarily to deal with the anxiety.  I vowed to myself that I would be the most patient person in existence; if Patty needed to have a tantrum because her anxiety frustrated her, I would be the teflon-coated zen-filled foundation that she could hurl her frustrations at and never be affected.  For a long time, I felt that this made me a strong person; I could carry the burdens of others as far as they needed to be carried.

   The reality is, that did not make me a strong person, it made me a coward.  The seizure wasn't Patty dying, it was me dying.  The seizure set her free; her problems weren't latent psychological issues that offered no respite, that were in constant need of an ever-patient supporter; they were a physiological problem easily dealt with by medication.  She did not need me anymore.  She was free, and happy, and it wasn't because of me.  She could leave at any time and never have to see me again.  She was always beautiful, she always possessed the potent duo of intelligence and common sense, always had the wit to keep anyone on their toes, and even though I told her these things ad nauseam, only now could she finally recognize it in herself.  And, horrible as it is to say, that scared me to death.

    Of course, this feeling didn't happen right away; she still needed me to help her through the seizure aftermath for a few weeks.  I dutifully helped with prescriptions, doctors, driving, and all of the things entailed in the process.  Once that was all taken care of, and Patty could drive again, something changed.  I deteriorated.  I fell apart.  I could no longer hold myself together.  I swung from celebrating Patty's victories to uncontrollable sadness.  Anytime I thought about the seizure, I started crying.  Even on a good day, that thought would bring tears that I could not control.  I started crying at work.  I cried at home, sometimes for hours.

  The sadness evolved into more damaging emotions; anxiety, jealousy, and anger started to make their appearance.  Anxiety came first.  I became insecure about our relationship; I was terrified she could leave at anytime.  Intrusive thoughts invaded regularly; horrible ideas that Patty no longer loved me and secretly wanted to leave; that she might leave at any moment.  I feared that I was completely unnecessary for her survival, and thus unnecessary for her happiness.  I not only feared that I was unnecessary, but an impediment.  Even worse, the lack of control over emotions created a new fear; that this sobbing wreck of a man would push Patty away, having become too much of a burden.

  Jealousy followed, as well as anger.  I started having a difficult time controlling any of my thoughts or feelings.  I crossed the line from thoughts and feelings to actions by checking Patty's text messages.  I logically had no reason to suspect anything was going on, but the anxiety put the horrible idea in my head that they must be.  Rationality stopped altogether; even if I had irrational feelings, I should have been able to deal with them without acting out in a way that damaged our relationship.  If anything was going to chase Patty away, it was going to be this.
 

IV. Depression

    Depression is being surrounded by people that love you, but feeling so utterly alone.  It is experiencing a life of positive things, but never being able to recognize any of them ever happened at all.  It is laying next to the person closest to you, as they comfort you while you cry, but not being able to feel them there.  It's a horrible thing, but the worst thing about depression is that the things that you need to do to deal with it are the things that you want to do the least.  There are a myriad of ways of dealing with it.  A hobby.  Meeting with friends.  Talking about what it is that hurts.  Keeping a journal.  Exercise.  All of these things are effective means of handling those feelings, and while simple things, they become tasks so impossible to complete that they are not worth starting.  

   It is sad that I have been so down on 2012, that Patty had to sit me down and recount all the good things I had forgotten.  It was easy to focus on the family troubles, car troubles, poison ivy, leeches, ringworm, seizures, dog bites and injuries, that I completely forgot about the good things that accompanied them; awesome vacations with awesome friends, financial planning that gave us the freedom to buy new cars when we needed them, freedom from family drama, Patty's walls being torn down, sexual freedom, being in my best physical shape since college, playing guitar with Joey, and trying new things like kayaking.  2012 was a very polarizing year, but it wasn't a bad year.  If anything, it has set us up to have an awesome 2013, if only I can shake the despair.

   The one advantage I felt I have had in dealing with the depression is that I feel so used to failure that fear of failure doesn't really prevent me from doing anything anyway.  It's not some herculean will that drives me to exercise, or play music, or talk about it, it's that I just don't care that the task seems impossible.  That, and the acute hatred for this state I have found myself in, have given me the motivation to try and deal with it.  I truly despise myself in this state.  I suppose that attitude does not help my self-esteem much, but it does help me face what I need to do.  I want out of this soul-crushing prison and I am willing to do whatever it takes to escape.

  So I am writing.  So I am exercising.  So I am talking.  So I am playing music.  So I am seeing a therapist.  I am doing these things not only because I want to get better, but because they make me feel better, once I overcome the desire to not do them.

V.  Joe 2.0

   It is important that I see this time in my life as an opportunity.  I have often heard boot camp described as a place where a person is stripped down to their bare essentials so that they can be built back up again.  This is my emotional boot camp; I have already been stripped down, now I get to decide who I want to build myself up as.  Who do I want to be?  That seems to be a vital question for anyone at any given time, but the question has an increased sense of urgency for me, because, well, I don't feel like I am anyone at the moment and time is slipping away.  

   So who do I want to be?  A few things are obvious.  I want to still be a caring husband and father.  I still love Patty very much, and she will always be an important part of my life.  But I also want a life of my own.  I want the strength to pursue interests that she doesn't necessarily share.  This is something I have already started, with the kayaking, hiking, and music, but it is an important to continue.  I want to be strong enough to disagree with her.  I want to be strong enough to tell her things when I think she doesn't want to hear them.  Patty doesn't want a sycophant, and I don't want to be one. 

     I want to be emotionally balanced, to feel things in the right proportions.  No more Mr. Vulcan, no more sobbing mess.  I want to be skilled around the house, to be able to do any task or chore that is needed of me.  I want to write.  I want to create really terrible sounding music that no one will ever want to listen to, in the hope that someday I will create something good.  I want to be able to have a good time in any situation.  I want to be able to converse with anybody about any topic.  I want to have more friends, and more close, meaningful friends.  I want to never be afraid to be honest.  I want to be more empathetic to others.  I want to be eager to learn new things.  

  

VI.  The Rising Sun

   It's been a few weeks since I have fallen apart and started counseling.  I feel like I am on the mend, and am excited about the opportunity to start a new life in a new way with my love, Patty, and my kids.  Thinking about the seizure still makes me sad, but it doesn't drive me to tears like it did before.  I still get anxiety, but it doesn't drive me crazy anymore.  I can breathe through it.  A tear occasionally wells up, but I am no longer sobbing into Patty's lap.  I am finding my footing and re-establishing my personality.  I am booting up.


  Here's to 2013.