panic

A panic attack has a particular taste.

I always forget that part. Thinking back on them, I remember the fluttering of a pulse, the shallow and labored breathing, the brightness of colors, the pushing pushing pushing ahead. How hard it is to keep walking. But I always forget about the taste of a panic attack.

Like wine, the flavor of a panic attack is hard to define concretely. It tastes like your dry tongue after you've slept with your mouth open. It tastes like the very beginning of a hot pepper, the first spiciness you know will only grow. It's acrid. It stings.

What am I going to do about this panic disorder? Obviously, the meds are not enough. I wouldn't be too worried, but winter's coming, and the lack of sunlight makes everything worse.

One of the weird synchronicities in my life is that every time I start to feel really bad for myself, like woe-is-me bad, I always see someone who's much worse off than I am. God as I know God has a sick sense of humor, and thus always sends some sort of hemiplegic or quadruple amputee to cross my path.

Walking back to the office after lunch, I actually wondered where my cripple was. God was slacking off. But of course, there in the lobby -- the back of a wheelchair, a slumped-sideways figure.

We rode the elevator together. I don't know where he was going, or what disease he had. He was old to have survived something that would have afflicted him since birth, but he seemed too distant from the norm to be a stroke victim. I held the elevator door for him and he thanked me.

The whole way up to the office -- gasp, release. Gasp, release. Labored, rhythmic breathing.

Sometimes God says, even if your pulse is approaching 150, be thankful that it beats strongly through all your pretty little limbs.