We ward them off with a smile on our face; with sleeping pills; with best-laid plans.
Some of us, vulnerable to anxiety's Machiavellian maneuvers, have learned to ignore the whatifs, or rather deny them. We stay busy to hide from them. We run. We play. Or we use exhaustion as a means of defense (they can't attack while we sleep).
Still, the whatifs are patient - content to lie in wait, satisfied knowing they soon will have the chance to stretch their tentacles, regenerate and multiply.
A movie theater shooting. A marathon bombing. A child abused by a teacher. An autistic girl found face-down in a lake. A friend diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer.
Each of these tears down our defenses and allows the whatifs to burrow in...stronger, scarier, realer.
 |
| Shel Silverstein/Where The Sidewalk Ends |
It's much harder to combat whatifs when they've become so real.
The whatifs no longer are about my own mortality or suffering. They dance around the people I love. Whatif something endangers them? Or prevents me from protecting them? How can I shield my nonverbal daughter from a predatory world? Whatif my son doesn't make it to the hospital in time when his shunt fails? Whatif I abandon them, or rather, WHEN I abandon them in death? What will happen then?
Anti-anxiety techniques and exposure therapy can't possibly hold up against a parent's soul-deep love and worries for a dependent child. It used to be easier to quell the whatifs because they seemed so far-fetched. Maybe not outlandish, but definitely far away and distant. Something to think about in the future.
Suddenly, I'm over 40. Childhood friends are dead. Co-workers have cancer. A neighbor's heartbeat ceased in his sleep.
We logistically prepare as best we can: we write wills, we create trusts; we explore guardianships. But there's not much we can do to prepare emotionally. We feel helpless and terrified.
A friend tells me, sweetly, that whenever she struggles with the emotions of special needs parenting and feels ready to succumb to the whatifs, she thinks of me... "because you somehow always have a smile on your face."
Later, I consider her observation. Of course I'm not always happy. Yet the expression is not forced ... so I don't think my smile is false or inauthentic. I guess it's more about self-preservation. Like a shellac, protecting the rough insides.
Maybe I smile because...whatif I don't?
NOTE: I'm proud to once again linkup with Yeah Write - a writing challenge for "writers who blog and bloggers who write." If you like to read or write, click on the circle above to enjoy some truly exceptional blog posts. Thanks for reading!
