And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed (10 page)

“Now boarding, United flight to Denver.”

I’m pulling Robb’s rolling briefcase as my carry-on. It contains my laptop nicely, but it doesn’t roll easily down the aisle. I carry it to seat 13D and tuck the bag under the seat in front of me.

The bag has fourteen thousand pockets, eighteen zippers, and too many places to lose things. I cannot find my iPod. I cannot find my headphones. In my search I find his highlighter and a staple remover—apparent essentials for the traveling corporate trainer. His hands held those. Today mine do. My heart cannot deal with this. Where is my iPod? Please. iPod. Headphones. I need. As the plane takes off, I am folded in half, groping in my bag for these things I need.

Seats 13E and 13F beside me are occupied by a snuggling couple of granolas—tattered crocheted cardigans, holey jeans, Birkenstocks. They can’t sit close enough to each other. They’ve lifted the armrest to allow full accessibility between them. He wraps his arms around her. She snuggles her bare feet underneath her, nearly on me, as she leans into him.

The baby behind me is squirmy and squealing. I have known this problem as the mother of a young, fussy traveler. Now I know this problem as a passenger struggling with posttraumatic stress disorder and the effects of overstimulation. I feel panic creeping in, starting in my jumping knees. My hands are shaking, tremors that remind me of my grandmother’s hands when she shook with Parkinson’s disease. I need an anxiety pill. I have to find one inside the bag.

Again I fold myself in half, inch the bag as near as I can, and feel blindly for the small Tupperware container that holds the answers for a girl like me in a moment like this.

I spill my Sprite in my lap. Cold. Wet. Too much. Please. All of this is too much. I cannot find the pills. The iPod. The headphones. I cannot find. I stop to breathe.
Quiet, you.
All of this is too much.

I find airline headphones in the seat pocket in front of me. Yes, please. That’s a start. I go back to the bag, and I squeeze my laptop out, managing to fold down the tray table, balancing my book and the remains of my drink on the armrest.

My hands shake. My legs bounce. I breathe as deeply as I can. I open the laptop. I open iTunes. Yes. Almost there.

“Ma’am, would you mind letting me out to use the rest room?”

asks Mr. 13F. Oh, if only you knew, sir. If only you knew that I am barely together right now. Please. This is too much. I sigh slowly. It’s not his fault. But this is too much.

I gather my things, fold up my computer, collect my drink and my book.

I stand in the aisle as he climbs over his adoring beloved and heads to the rest room.

I sit back down, holding all my things in my lap.

Little Miss 13E asks, “Are you going to Las Vegas?”

“Las Vegas? Oh, no, I’m going home to Denver. You?”

She smiles brightly. “Yes, we’re going to Las Vegas to get married.” She looks down at her sparkly ring, shifting her fingers to catch the light.

Lovely. Please, please ask me nothing about myself.

“I hope you have a lovely wedding.”
My husband died three months ago. I hope you two have longer than ten years. It went too fast.
“And congratulations.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Smiles. I offer nothing; she doesn’t notice.

He comes back; I stand in the aisle; he climbs in; they canoodle.
Snuggle up, newlyweds. I very nearly hate you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re expecting some turbulence. Please remain seated and buckle your seat belts. We’re using the honor system. We need all airline attendants seated as well. This could get bumpy.”

I need that anxiety pill. I can’t find it. I can’t find it. I’m nauseous now. I pretend it’s a roller coaster. That’s what Robb told me the first time we flew together. “Pretend it’s a roller coaster, babe,” he told me. I pretend. I hear him in my head.

My eyes sting.

The air is too warm.

My hands shake.

My legs bounce.

I can’t catch my breath.

“Flight attendants, please prepare for landing.”

It’s time to land? I have felt trapped in a vortex of time. My thoughts were stuck on a repeating loop, and I felt as though no time had passed at all. I see lights out the window. I hear landing gear. I’m almost home.

Wheels down, soft bump. Landed.

I press the call button. Help, please.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?”

I know what I want to say, but the words are lost inside my mind. “Um, I’m having a panic attack. Please, I need help … getting off … the … plane.”

“Of course, ma’am. We’ll have a wheelchair waiting.” A wheelchair.

Ding, ding … The signal that it’s okay to stand. Everyone around me unclicks their seat belts. They stand in that awkward hunched pose of passengers eager to exit.

I stay seated. Shaking. Jumping.

“You may use your cell phones and all electronics at this time.”

I text: “Mom, just landed. I’m not okay. Bad flight. Panic now. Wheelchair escort. Prepare the boys.”

The plane clears. The bride climbs over my lap. The groom climbs over the back of our row and exits the aisle behind us. I am left.

“Ma’am, may we help you exit the plane? We have a wheelchair for you.”

My legs are locked. My hands are shaking.

“Yes … yes, please.” I feel utterly alone. She helps me stand. She carries Robb’s bag. My heart hurts.

“Ma’am, are you a nervous flier?”

“No, I’m not.” My husband died, and now I never know what will bring panic. But I don’t tell her. Just “No.”

Down the aisle. Out of the plane. They put me in a wheelchair. The man with chocolate skin says, “Ma’am, your name please?”

I tell him. He cannot understand. He is new to this country; we cannot understand each other. I feel utterly alone. I show him my
boarding pass. With kindness he nods. He pushes my wheelchair. I hold my head in my hands. I start to cry. Through the terminal. On the train. Up the elevator. I shake, writhe, cry. Breathe. I hold Robb’s bag on my lap.

I see my mom. I see my two little boys.

“Mommy!”

“Hi, guys, I missed you.” Oh, these sweet faces. More freckles.

“Mommy, are you sick?”

“I am, kiddo. But I’ll be okay. Just a little sick.”

“Mommy, why are you riding in this chair?”

“Just for a while, guys. Just for a while. Mommy is okay. This is just for a while.”

My mom has my pink suitcase. My strong Tucker pulls it behind him as he holds her hand. He wants to be like Daddy. Daddy would be so proud. So strong, Tuck. Good job. Take care of Mommy. Tyler rides in my lap, snuggles his face in my neck. I try not to cry on his dandelion head. But I cry anyway.

Mom leads the way as the man with the chocolate skin pushes the wheelchair out the door, down the ramp, to the car.

“Boys, here’s the car. Please climb in and put on your seat belts.”

“But, Mommy, are you okay? Are you coming with us?”

“I’m okay, guys. I’m coming home with you. Mommy is here. I’m okay. I’m here.”

I am escorted to my side of the car, lifted, helped, tended.

The air is warm.

“Mommy?”

“Mommy?”

“Mommy?”

“Guys, Mommy doesn’t feel well. Let’s all just be quiet.”

I roll down the window, needing air. I cry. “I can’t find my pills, Mom. I can’t. I need.”

“I’ll get them for you, Trish. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

“I’m sorry this is hard, Mom.”

“Honey, it’s okay. Just breathe.”

We travel home. I am hot. She is cold. The boys fall asleep. I begin to breathe again, more slowly. On my own.

Home. Home. It’s different now. I miss him.

Dad is waiting at my house. “Hi, sweetheart. Let me help you.”

They carry the bags. They carry the boys.

The shaking slows. I climb into bed. Big, empty bed.

Home. It’s different now.

I visited the emergency room more often in that first year than I had in my entire previous three decades combined. The good news: I met my deductible. It turns out, the part of my brain that responds to trauma is also the part that manages the immune system. When my mind sensed trauma (or a triggered memory of trauma), it threw all its energy into helping me survive the moment. My mind was forced to choose: emotional survival or physical strength. Emotional survival has been the needier of the two choices, and my body has focused its energies into keeping this broken heart beating. Someday I will realize the toll on my body as my soul kept pushing forward.

Also, it turns out this same part of the brain that responds to
trauma is the control center for all the symptoms of aging. This is why I don’t recognize myself in pictures, why those sad, crinkled eyes look unfamiliar. Connect the dots however you like. Trauma is grief is illness is aging.

Anxiety could put me in a catatonic state. One day, when I realized I had been sitting motionless in my car outside Starbucks for forty-five minutes, I thought perhaps I was in over my head. I don’t really remember very much of that day. Jana says this is terribly unfortunate since I had a therapy appointment with her that morning, and she was having a really good hair day. (I adore her.) I do remember some things, like arriving in the ER, the isolating feeling of hearing conversations happening around me, and my inability to engage. People asked me questions. I couldn’t answer. The medical personnel talked about me, around me, over me. I could only communicate with my eyes.

My mom understood that language. She said to me as I lay gowned on the gurney behind the curtain at the hospital, “I know you’re thankful, sweet pea. I can do this as long as you don’t look at me that way. Tricia,
please.
I know. You don’t need to tell me.” I looked away because I was making her cry.

My parents communicated well on my behalf, as this is their story too. And most of the nurses, administrators, and physicians’ assistants talked exclusively to them. Except for one doctor, the chief resident. He talked straight to me. He pulled a stool next to the bed, he took my hand in his, and he looked at me.

“Hey,” he said so gently, “I hear you’re having a bad day, Tricia. I hear you had an episode outside Starbucks. I hear you have a broken
heart. We’re taking care of you. We’re going to help you.” He didn’t check my pulse, listen to my heartbeat, or check my vitals. He just talked to me, and I could only look at him.

If ever I have reason to visit someone who is in a coma, I will talk directly to that person. I will hold her hand. Because it’s really, truly possible that she will be able to hear me.

He was waiting at the top of the escalator at the airport. He wore an Ohio State T-shirt, the gray one required for his college marching band rehearsals, the one with the frayed neck from that pesky five o’clock shadow that came around noon.

I ran to him. I threw myself into him, around him.

He turned into dandelion fluff. I felt like I was hugging the inside of a pillow. He scattered into the air in one powerful exhale. I had forgotten the rules of dreams. I got too close.

The next night I slept in his Ohio State T-shirt, the one with the frayed neck. It seemed like it should smell like him since he had worn it only the night before.