Feel what you feel

I have always been the one you wanted around in an emergency. The one who would stay perfectly calm. Even as a kid, I was the one my father chose to drive him to the hospital late one night when he was having a heart attack, one of many. He refused to call an ambulance. I just had my learner’s permit and was only 15, but somehow he thought I could do it better than my mother or my older brother.

We calmly swept through the deserted downtown streets of my hometown going far over the speed limit, slowing down but not stopping for stop lights and signs. I saw a police car at one intersection and slowed down. The policeman saw me. Instead of pulling me over, he got in front of me and led the way, silently. He knew in an instant what was happening because he knew my father, who had by that time already had a few heart attacks. It was a small town, and that particular policeman had worked at my father’s barbershop before earning his badge.

I’m the strong one, the capable one. I’m the one who doesn’t move her head in times of great anxiety or worry or fear. You will want me there when your leg falls off and blood comes gushing out. Level-headed, I think it is called.

Or is it numb?

Last week, I saw that identity crumble when we couldn’t reach our daughter, Emma, for two days. Not that I usually talk or text with her daily, but she is one month into a solo car camping, biking, hiking, and climbing trip across the country and she had been checking in daily. For example, she was asked to go on a hike by someone she met while biking in Big Bend, and before going, she turned on location-sharing, told me where they were going, gave me his phone number–all the things we never used to do when I was a kid. But safety first–it just makes sense these days, unfortunately.

A few days later, we were chatting by text when she suddenly stopped responding. For two days, nothing. “She probably doesn’t have a cell signal up in the mountains,” I reminded myself. It didn’t help. My reaction was surprisingly visceral. I felt sick, like swallowing was necessary to keep from throwing up and yet swallowing was difficult. I felt shaky and panicky. It wasn’t rational to feel that way, I kept telling myself, but that didn’t help. I couldn’t eat. I felt a heavy sense of dread. I imagined things I did not want to imagine. I reached out to a few people by text just to voice my anxiety. What if this is it? What if she’s gone? I took the rest of the week off, unable to focus on work. It was so out of character for me that it was confusing.

Finally, nearing the third day, I asked John to call a park ranger station in the huge wilderness where she had been headed. They were responsive, and also underscored the lack of cell phone connection in those mountains of New Mexico.

And then, a few hours later, I got a text. She was fine. There had been no cell service where she camped and it was over an hour’s drive to get back into service, so she had stayed at her campsite, meeting lots of interesting travelers in the natural hot springs she found there.

I couldn’t figure out what had caused me to swerve from my usually stoic stance. Then I saw the statement above: “I don’t know if I’m strong or numb.”

All those times I held things together for other people–burying my father as a teenager, for example, and having the funeral director ask me every question about arrangements rather than my mother–was I strong or just numb?

I strongly believe that what you are rewarded for is what you do more often. Having been the strong one as a child, I made that my identity. Perhaps the numbness is finally melting. But don’t worry: if your leg DOES fall off, I’ll be here for you.

Are you strong? Or are you numb?

I’ve decided the healthiest way forward is to allow myself to feel what I feel.