Panic attacks are sneaky little buggers. They are many things, none of them good. When I become anxious, the first feeling I have is nausea. I abhor feeling sick, more so being sick. My mouth seems to forget it is a mouth and turns drier than the wit of Stephen Fry's Jeeves. My chest feels as if it will not be able to contain my heart, because it is pumping too fast by half. Maybe not literally by half but it is, perhaps, a LOT. Technical.
I am aware, completely, that these feelings are only a panic attack. Yet, when I am in the midst of utter... well, panic, it's the worst thing in the world. Clearly, though, it isn't. There are far more important and terrible occurrences in this world of ours. But at that moment when nausea seems to be turning into actual get-me-a-bucket-I'm-going-to-chunder (and too many times the reflex URGHH action happens. EW...), it seems so much more than that "fight or flight mechanism". I know what it means, I know what happens. I know to breathe slowly and deeply and all that. But still it happens. And
This massive day and situation is happening to my Ma and to us and the day carries on; the window cleaner still cleans windows, the postman still delivers (when I was in the bathroom - typically, there was a packet which needed to be signed for), the cats still throw up and I still have to clear it up. And the British Gas person - hereon known as BGP - will still do their duties between the times of 12 noon and 6pm. Apparently.
When I was in the bathroom, I had to have a cold wash, as the water and heating had been off since about 11am. At that time, my Ma gathered her final accoutrements for her stay in hospital. And just several minutes later, it was time for Pa to take Ma to the hospital. Hugs, kisses, "don't worry"s filled those last few seconds before they left. My brother, J, and I stood at either end of the front room window, like bookends, waving to our wonderful Ma as our equally wonderful Pa drove them both away. J went out of the house to the garage and there was such unnerving, uneasy quiet. The only sound was the clock in the hall, ticking. The pigeons on the roof at the bottom of our garden carry on courting, the squirrels in the loft carry on waking me up at 6am with a ridiculous amount of noise (one is pregnant), presumably making a drey. I very much hope that the foundations of their new home is not made up of the innards of my treasured Zipper Cat. Maybe they're trying on his rollerskates. Perhaps that's why there's so much noise up there.
It is now just past 3pm and the BGP is here. I know, as I type, Ma is undergoing surgery to remove the offending article(s). I'm listening to Kingdom Of Rust by doves. It is an immense album. Again, they manage to make me shiver with delight and awe. They take me to a place of joy and anticipation and stir emotions and thrill me so utterly, as no other band does. Except maybe elbow. They are pretty prodigious, as well. And The Beach Boys. But of the recent, British bands, doves do it for me.
But, as much as I am transported to this other place of wonder, I'm still sat on my own in the living room (there are various cats in here, too but not humans), I'm so tired from lack of (decent) sleep, with growing period/kidney/gut pains, Pa is overseeing the BGP and his work and J is doing something in the garden. All I can think about is my Mum. My lovely, beautiful Mum.