Premeditated Medication

I knew I should have gotten back on my meds when I found out Murray was dying. I had been off them about five years. I wanted to try my pregnancy with Stella meds-free, so I went off before we tried to conceive. I took fish oil pills at the advice of my shrink at the time, which seemed to help especially with the depression and social phobia. After a bout with postpartum depression during which time I temporarily went back on Sertraline, I felt ok, so I went back off the meds, figuring I’d wait and see how I felt and maybe I’d never need them again. I was starting to feel like a success story.

When I found out Murray was sick, I made a mental note to set up a doctor’s appointment for myself as a preventative measure. I didn’t trust fish oil to handle this kind of anxiety. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to take him to any of his doctor’s appointments if my agoraphobic ass kept me inside the house all day.

But it was weird. As soon as I started going over to his house nearly every day to bring him food or smokes or liquor, or just to keep him company, I felt great. I mean, I felt horrible that Murray was sick and unless some miracle saved him he was going to die. But I had loads of energy, I felt like how a marine must feel right when she’s called to action. I was living on the surge of adrenaline that was coursing through my body, keeping me strong to help Murray feel better.

After a couple of months, and through Thanksgiving, our family had that arrangement. I was Murray’s primary caretaker, but his friends, and parent’s of his friends (that is how much he was loved), and whichever other sibling could make it over took him to appointments and came over to bring him food and hang out with him. By mid-December, Walt told me Murray wanted to come live in the ground floor apartment of his and Adrienne’s Carriage House. Walt had called me at work to tell me this – and to tell me they were planning on moving him that weekend – I had to get off the phone and immediately excuse myself for a break.

I started walking the path around the park. I was walking fast. Faster than usual. Faster than ever. I felt like running but my size 42F boobs couldn’t tolerate the pain of that kind of immense bounce. That’s one thing I really miss about being young: flat chest = running is fun. I kept walking faster and faster. It was chilly. I was proud I had my apparent competence façade up after I hung up the phone with Walt. I calmly walked into my supervisor’s office, asked her if she minded if I took a break, grabbed my jacket and left out the back door. I maintained composure, other than huffing and puffing in the cold, damp air, until I got about half way around the park and I started crying. I stopped walking. I kept my head down and turned toward the center of the park, where there is a gazebo and bench. It wasn’t raining, but it was very damp out. The tears running down my cheeks felt warm in the cool air.

I got to the bench under the gazebo. With my elbows on my legs, palms covering my face, I cried. I felt so relieved. The burden was coming to an end. Then I felt horrible and cried more. Murray hadn’t been a burden to me. Well, I mean, I was completely exhausted and some of my OCD compulsions were returning (blow three kisses toward the house or something bad might happen to Hank and Stella while I’m gone…Checking three times to make sure I locked the door. Now where’s my keys? I lost my wedding ring. Found it later in the bottom of the washing machine. I lost my driver’s license. Found it later in my car even though I had previously searched my car before replacing it. I was getting grouchier and grouchier with Hank and Stella and the pets.

I was becoming a mess but I wouldn’t admit it. Even to myself. I was so glad Murray agreed to move in with Walt and Adrienne. They had asked him to before, but he wanted to stay in his own house as long as he could, until we got the letter from the mortgage company that he had 60 days to vacate the premises since the house had been purchased under Cheryl’s name and not his name because of his bad credit, and since Cheryl died and they owed more than the house was worth, it was going back to the bank. Murray was so pissed off he wanted to move the moment Walt read him the letter aloud since Murray’s vision was starting to fail too.

I sat in the middle of the park and stopped crying as I was thinking of all this stuff I’d been through taking care of Murray, working full time, taking care of Stella, trying not to completely ignore Hank, making sure my dogs and cat get pet at least once a day. I stopped crying. I had caregiver’s burnout. Of course. Who wouldn’t? Why was I being so hard on myself for wanting more time to myself? Also, Walt had arranged for hospice care for Murray, and with Adrienne, a nurse, right above Murray in their second floor apartment, he was going to be able to receive much better care than he was getting from my every couple days visits and his friends popping in and out. We’d done a good job of keeping him comfortable with our companionship and love while we could, but his body was shutting down faster now and he needed professional help to stop the pain.

I lifted my head and the cool air stung my hot cheeks. I knew my rosacea was flaring. If someone across the park could see my face they would probably think I had sunburn. I looked all around the park and saw no one though. I was alone, thankfully. I felt quiet. I felt peaceful. I felt like taking a twenty hour nap.

I missed the next few days of work and finally my husband dragged me to urgent care when I had been having vomiting and severe diarrhea for four days nonstop. I could barely get out of bed. I was in so much agony. I didn’t want to eat or watch TV or get on the computer or read or play with Stella or watch a movie with Hank. I just wanted to lay there and stare at my ceiling while periodically jumping up to run into the bathroom to either puke or have diarrhea. When we got to urgent care they gave me IV fluids and Lorazepam. I sobbed to the nurse, had diarrhea a few more times, and then, about thirty minutes after the big dose of Lorazepam, I felt a stillness blanket me. I stopped crying. I felt better. I went home with a prescription for some Lorazepam. Dude, drugs.

I looked over the pages of information they gave me. Under diagnosis it said “anxiety attack”. Huh. So that’s what that is. Nearly all of my forty years I’ve had them but I didn’t know that’s what they were. I thought I was just crazy. Or overly-sensitive. Or emotionally imbalanced. Or hormonally imbalanced. Under causes it said, “Tends to run in families and could be hereditary.” I can’t believe it never occurred to me that this could be a genetic trait. I’d always sat on the nurture side of the nature vs. nurture fence. But huh. Maybe I should take a look at what nature has to say. What if we just had a slight defect in our brains and meds really could help correct it? Grandma Ruthanne had severe agoraphobia and bulimia. Mom had two “nervous breakdowns” with electro shock therapy. And from both sides: my dad is the best candidate I know for any kind of anti-anxiety medication on the market, but he would never admit he needed something like that, Goddamnit!

I’m sure the way we treat each other affects how we are. If we’re cared for by gentle, loving, mature adults, we’ll be better off than if we’re cared for by people who didn’t know how to use birth control. But as with most wellness issues, there is a mind-body connection that can’t be overlooked. I’m glad I’m working with my medical doctor for brain-altering chemicals while simultaneously working with my therapist to alter my perception of my trauma through talk therapy, Dialectical Behavior Therapy skills workbooks, and through Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing treatment for people with posttraumatic stress disorder, I feel like my whole self is healing. Oh, and the baths, the park with Stella, the walks through the woods, the blend of physical and spiritual fun I have with Hank, the eyebrow waxes and professional massages. It’s all good for healing.

I feel like one of those women who goes into labor who didn’t even know she was pregnant. Oh, so I have anxiety disorder? I had been diagnosed with depression and OCD when I was younger, but not anxiety. Oh, so that’s why I feel like staying in bed and not facing the world sometimes? I thought that was depression, which it can be, but my therapist said it can also be the response from your body when you become overwhelmed with anxiety and your body forces itself to take a break. Oh, that’s why I scream at the people I love instead of speaking calmly but directly to the person I need to have a conversation with. That’s why I’ve been yelling at the dogs a lot lately. That’s why sometimes it feels like the whole world is spinning and I must sit before I fly off. Oh, that’s why out of nowhere I’m hit with nausea. And I just thought I was pretentious like Sartre’s Antoine Roquentin.

The thing about Murray’s move to Walt and Adrienne’s was they needed a place for Murray’s two dogs. Adrienne was allergic. It was agreed that I would take Noodle, the bigger, younger one, and Hazel would take the smaller older one, Elvira. Hazel’s family was going to keep Elvira since they had a big lot and only one other old female dog.

Since we already had two dogs, a cat and a little kid, I planed on fostering Noodle until we could find her a good home. I placed an ad on Craigslist and asked all my Facebook friends to share my posts of her. Murray had adopted her (well, stolen her) from a homeless man who he had been letting sleep in his basement at night. The homeless guy borrowed $30 from Murray to go get a state ID so he could apply for a job. That’s what he said. When Murray got home, the guy was in the basement smoking weed. Murray asked if he was able to get the state ID. The guy said no, he got sidetracked. Now Murray didn’t care what people do to their bodies regarding drugs or alcohol. But when you borrow money to get something so you can get a job and then you waste it on something that definitely won’t get you a job, well, a legal job, then Murray’s patience runs thin. He kicked the guy out. The guy started to bring Noodle with him since she was his dog, but Murray said, “What are you crazy? That dog can’t live on the streets. Where you going? You don’t know. Leave that dog here until you get settled into a place.”

Noodle was about six months old then, so she was still smallish. When the guy came back seven months later, had a state ID, had a job, he took one look at how big Noodle had gotten, said he had forgotten something at home and he’d be right back, left and never came back.

Murray and Cheryl were good to Noodle. They had become attached to her. They were glad the bum didn’t come back.

So I wanted to find Noodle a forever home that was just right for her, the poor girl who had been tossed from no home to home to no home again. She deserved better.
She got along surprisingly well with our two other dogs. The cat hated her, but I’d think there was something wrong with the cat if he didn’t. He’s that way. She settled into our lives. She barked. A lot. She ate. A lot. She pooped. A lot. She got beat up by the cat. A lot. She’s a sweet dog, but I was ready for her to go to her forever family.

One night Stella and I were getting home late after a long day at work and then going over to Murray’s to take him some food. As soon as I stepped out of the car I could hear the three dogs barking. The windows were shut, but they still sounded like a pack of wild beasts, I kid you not. I started to unhook Stella from her booster seat when – crash – I heard something break. I instantly knew it was Noodle. She had a tendency to stand at windows and paw at them when she sees someone. Problem is, at 80 pounds my old fragile windows couldn’t handle it.

“Oh my gosh.” I said quietly, hoping if I didn’t say it loud enough it wouldn’t be true. I had moved one of our end tables in front of the window to keep Noodle from jumping up there, but it looked like she hand scooted the table away. “Oh no.”

Stella looked at my crinkled face and her face started to crinkle too. “What’s wrong, Mama.”

I said flatly, “I think Noodle just broke our front window.”

We walked up to the house and into the door. There was shattered glass everywhere and the cold air was pouring inside our house. The dogs did not lick our chins like they usually do when they greet us. The just stood back and were like, uh oh. What should we do?

I grabbed Noodle by the collar and started whipping her and yelling, “Bad dog!” over and over again. Stella covered her ears and ran to her room.

I beat Noodle and as I was doing it, I knew I shouldn’t. I knew it was wrong. I knew Noodle didn’t mean to break the window. I knew she was just excited to see her new pack leader. But no rational thought could tame me. Something came over me, something from deep within me I couldn’t hold back. It was as if I turned into a sadist for a few seconds. With every strike I felt less capable of seeing anything but the pain I had been through. I didn’t give a shit about anyone but myself for a few seconds as I beat Noodle’s butt so many times the palm of my hand started to hurt. She didn’t even whimper. She just stood there and stared at me with her tail between her legs and a worried look in her eyes. I stopped and sat down on the futon. The other dogs were quivering in the corner. Stella was in the bedroom crying.

Oh what have I done?

The house was silent. I stood up and walked into Stella’s room. She looked like she was afraid of me. Oh my God what have I done? I stepped over her toys on the floor and picked her up and held her and squeezed her and told her I was sorry I scared her.

She receptively held my embrace. I was so glad. Our bond had not broken. She calmed more with every breath. I sat at the edge of her bed and put her in my lap facing me with her head and arms draped over my shoulders.

“You shouldn’t hurt Noodle, Mama.”

She said it with no hint of judgment. It was as if she was explaining something to someone who had just moved into a new culture.

“I shouldn’t have. No, I shouldn’t have. I was so angry and I’m so exhausted from all these people and pets and bills and work I need to take care of I felt like I couldn’t take it anymore and I exploded.”

“Like when I had diarrhea in my pants that one time?” She asked, very seriously.

“Yes, just like that.” I smiled and held on to her.

We were quite for a few seconds. She was still draped on my shoulders sitting on my lap.

“But you’re right, I shouldn’t have hurt Noodle. I wasn’t really mad at her. I was mad at the whole situation.”

Stella sat up and looked at me. We had both stopped crying, but our cheeks were dewy. “What a situation?

I thought for a minute and almost couldn’t come up with a definition. So I just decided to tell her the truth. “I’ve been very sad and tired of taking care of Uncle Murray. So I was really mad at Uncle Murray for getting sick and I took it out on his dog. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Her expression didn’t change. She was looking all over my face, like someone studying a painting. “You’re still learning, Mama. We all make mistakes.”

We hugged a long time and I breathed her in. I inhaled all her goodness and said a prayer to the Universe or God or the Energy Field or whatever it is that connects us, “Thank you for this girl.”

Then I felt the need to check on Noodle, to make sure she was ok. Stella and I stood up and I opened Stella’s door. There were all three dogs, tongues panting, tails wagging, waiting to reunite with their pack.

When I left urgent care a couple days before, they told me to make an appointment with my regular doctor. I hadn’t gotten around to it. I hadn’t even filled the prescription for Lorazepam yet. I wanted to believe I didn’t need it. After petting Noodle and the other two dogs and telling Noodle how sorry I was and doing all the bad dog owner makeup stuff, I picked up my phone and called the after hours appointment desk. My doctor could see me tomorrow.

Noodle found a forever home a few weeks after that. A friend of a friend. An old country boy who treats this big ole yeller dog like she’s his little princess. My friend sent me pictures of them. She’s lying under the covers in his bed, watching TV on the couch, and snuggling with his daughter. I’m so happy she has a stable family now. I hope she can forgive me for not being better prepared to combat my anxiety.