Called 2 Love The Uhlmann Story (eBook)

1

Crisis on Aisle 9

“Steve … I’m in real trouble.” My voice was as shaky as my hands as I tried to speak coherently into my cell phone between wrenching gasps for breath. “This is Barbara … I’m at Fry’s Marketplace … Come get me … Quickly!”

My hands trembled so violently I could barely stuff my cellphone back into my purse. I was only a short distance from home, and I knew my husband would waste no time getting to me.

I had no idea what was happening. I didn’t see it coming. I had no warning, no preliminary signs, no discomfort. Just minutes earlier, as I pushed my shopping cart casually through the Fry’s Marketplace aisles, there was no way I could have known that, before I left that store, my life would change forever.

Nothing seemed wrong. Nothing was amiss. Why would it be? It was a beautiful summer day in Arizona. My husband and I had just returned from a delightful vacation, and I was on a routine trip to the store to pick up a few things to replenish our pantry. With no warning of impending disaster, I turned the corner from aisle 8 and entered aisle 9 to pick up a few frozen meats.

That’s when it hit me.

I began to tremble violently. Sweat suddenly poured from my body like water from a compressed sponge, dripping from my head and drenching my summer clothes in seconds. A moment later my knees began to buckle. My breathing became labored, and I gasped for air as if I had just run a mile at full speed. I felt exhausted. My muscles seemed to turn to rubber, and I had to lean heavily on the cart to keep from collapsing. Wheezing audibly and shuffling because I could hardly lift my feet, I moaned, “Oh, Lord, what is happening to me? Please help me make it to the front of the store where someone will help me.”

I managed to reach the checkout area, where shoppers didn’t even seem to notice my distressed condition. No one offered help. I guess they didn’t know what to do. I clung to the cart for dear life and dragged myself to a cushioned couch at the in-store Starbucks, where I collapsed, panting for breath. Still, no one came to my aid. One thought played over and over in my mind: Call Steve! Call Steve! I’ve got to call Steve!

I dug out my cellphone and aimed my shaking finger at Steve’s number, hitting it after the third jab. The phone rang again and again. Oh, please pick up, Steve. Please! Three more rings and then his welcome voice said, “Hello.” I managed to convey my distress, and he said, “I’ll be right there.”

Though it seemed like an hour, it was only minutes before I saw him burst through the door and look anxiously in all directions. When he spotted me—collapsed, shaking, and soaked as if doused by a bucket of water—his eyes widened in shock. He rushed over and lifted me to my feet, and I leaned heavily on his arm as he led me staggering to the car.

It was a five-minute drive to the nearest hospital, but Steve made it in two. He pulled up to the emergency room entrance, and immediately I was whisked away to face a battery of tests, leaving Steve in the waiting room with worry as his only companion.

What was happening to me? All kinds of grim scenarios paraded through my jumbled mind. Could I be having a heart attack? A stroke? Did I have an aneurysm? I had no idea. With nothing to do but allow myself to be probed, monitored, pushed through pulsating machines, and scanned by X-rays, I imagined the worst. I felt powerless—a feeling that increased with each passing moment.

After three hours of tests, questions, and examinations, the doctor finally came to Steve and me with the results. I braced myself for the worst.

“We think you have suffered a panic attack.”

I stared at him for a long moment, unable to process the diagnosis.

Steve, who was at my side, jumped in. “What’s a panic attack?” He seemed relieved that it wasn’t a heart attack, but still puzzled.

“A panic attack,” the doctor said, “is a sudden episode of intense fear that triggers severe physical reactions even though there is no real danger.”

That explanation didn’t help. I couldn’t remember feeling any fear.

Steve looked at me and asked, “What would cause you to have a panic attack?”

“I have no idea,” I replied. I could not wrap my mind around a traumatic event so physically real being triggered by some nonexistent danger. What did I have to be afraid of? How could the placid, benign frozen-food section of a grocery store bring on such devastating symptoms?

None of this made sense to me or Steve. If anything, I should have been more relaxed and happier than ever. We had just returned from the best vacation we had ever experienced. Steve had sold our highly successful business a few years earlier, which allowed him to retire early. We now had the time and funds to fulfill our dreams and live happily ever after. We were supposed to be having the time of our lives.

We had spent three weeks on Maui, one of our favorite places in the world. Then after a brief stop at home, we flew overseas for another three weeks, including a two-week Holy Land tour. Those six weeks of seeing new things, visiting extensively with old friends, and spending time with each other had been rejuvenating and invigorating, both individually and for us as a couple.

Now, just twenty-four hours after returning home, I was in the ER with a doctor telling me I was reacting violently to some intense, violent fear of something that didn’t physically exist. Neither Steve nor I could understand it. We asked for more details.

When the doctor put the diagnosis in clinical terms, it confused me even more. He said I had adrenal stress disorder, chronic fatigue syndrome, and PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).

“PTSD?” Steve repeated, incredulous. “Isn’t that what affects soldiers returning home from horrific war experiences? How could my wife have PTSD? She’s never been in the military, much less in a war.”

“No, of course she hasn’t,” he replied. “But PTSD is not necessarily related specifically to battle trauma. It affects more people than just soldiers. Anyone who has faced traumatic events in the past can have it, and the symptoms can remain hidden for years, then burst out at unexpected times.”

“Well, whatever caused my attack,” I said, “it happened, and it’s over now. So I guess I’m in the clear.”

“No, that’s not the way it works,” the doctor responded. “Your stress trigger needs to be identified and dealt with. If you ignore it, attacks like you had today will almost certainly continue.”

I still couldn’t understand why I would have PTSD. What kind of traumatic stress could I be reacting to? Where was all this coming from, and what could I do about it? Steve took me home. I was in too much of a fog to even think clearly, but Steve did enough worrying for both of us. While I began several months of rest, the engineer in Steve took over. He was driven to understand what had happened to me, so as soon as I was settled, he was on the Internet to learn all he could about this confusing diagnosis, while I began months of rest.

After searching numerous websites, Steve learned that the adrenal glands are the stress managers of the body. Their basic function is to control how we respond to stress. For example, if I were confronted with an external threat, such as being chased by a bear, a chain reaction would be set in motion. My entire nervous system would go into high alert. I would breathe faster. My heart rate would increase. Adrenaline would kick in. Blood vessels in my torso would restrict and push blood toward my arms and legs to give me the extra boost I needed to outrun the bear.

According to The National Institute of Mental Health of Bethesda, Maryland, “It is natural to feel afraid during and after a traumatic situation. Fear triggers many split-second changes in the body to help defend against danger or to avoid it. This ‘fight-or-flight’ response is a physical reaction meant to protect a person from harm.”1 This heightened alert state lasts as long as the danger is present. Once we are safe again, the body is supposed to revert to its normal state.

What can happen, however, is this: If we experience trauma of some kind and fail to address it adequately, especially in childhood, the brain will store the memory, often burying it deep in the subconscious mind. But because the traumatic event has not been resolved, certain situations will trigger the brain to act as though the threat is still present. The actual threat has passed, but our subconscious mind still perceives the danger as a threat even though it has been emotionally buried.

Steve learned that the problem with burying unresolved traumas of the past is that they don’t stay buried. Sooner or later they resurrect themselves in unhealthy ways. I may have suppressed or buried some past hurts and fears, but I buried them alive. The frightening or hurtful experience may be buried, but because it has not been resolved, it continually pushes to get out. The brain doesn’t want to face the emotional pain again, so it submerges the memory deep within the subconscious mind to prevent it from coming to the surface and forcing the conscious mind to relive the pain caused by the experience.

A battle to repress the traumatic memory rages deep within, and a person may not even be...