A mental health pause
After the year I’ve experienced, it’s a wonder to me that I’ve maintained even a shred of optimism, that I don’t flutter my eyes open every Monday morning and contemplate what fresh hell the week holds in store for me.
Earlier this week, I awoke to the news that the FDA and CDC had called for a “pause” to administering the Johnson & Johnson vaccine — the shot I’d selected for myself and received about a week and a half ago. After the jolt of panic subsided, I thought, yeah, that checks out. I chose J&J because I’d had Covid and had heard and seen from enough others in my same position to know that some unpleasant side effects can follow after receiving the vaccine, especially for those who have had Covid. I was prepared for the side effects but preferred to suffer the discomfort just once instead of twice, everything else being equal, or so I thought. My vaccine experience was fine. I had a sore arm, and later that night I began to feel rotten, which lasted for about 24 hours but was manageable.
Far worse last week was my visit to the breast surgeon. Despite my newfound jadedness, I was woefully unprepared for what unfolded. Following my ordeal a few weeks ago of undergoing a breast MRI that led to a biopsy, I was pretty sure my doctor was just playing it on the conservative side when she recommended I see the surgeon and put into play the idea of me seeking genetic testing. “What can we do for you,” I imagined the nurse practitioner at the surgeon’s office asking me, unsure as I was of why exactly I needed to be there. Instead, when she walked in, she quipped that they’d “dug up all the dirt” on me. She proceeded to tell me, kindly, that I was high risk and they recommended that I switch to having both a mammogram and MRI every year, six months apart, as well as incorporating annual visits to the surgeon’s office. Then she proffered an article to ponder whether I might like to start taking tamoxifen prophylactically for five years, as it might reduce my risk of developing cancer. I can think about that and whether I want to pursue genetic testing and discuss it after my follow-up ultrasound later this year. It was all a bit much to take in and less than a week later, I was still absorbing it when the news about J&J hit.
As hard as I tried to stay calm, the new about the “pause” rattled me. I reassured myself about the — as far as we know — one in a million rarity of the blood clots and the fact that it was uncertain whether the vaccine caused the clots. When nighttime hit, though, my anxiety ratcheted up. Were my legs sore from exercise and menstrual cramping or was it a dire sign I shouldn’t ignore? As a lifelong anxiety sufferer, I’ve developed a lot of coping mechanisms over the years and have gotten quite good at managing my symptoms, but between the uncertainty of a few weeks ago with my medical tests and the stress of waiting for results and now this, I was breaking a bit.
Some say that people with anxiety can adopt an “I’ve-been-preparing-for-this-my-whole-life” stance when calamity hits, and since the pandemic began, it’s been one long ride of just that. Now about 10 days out from receiving my shot, I have no indications that anything is amiss with me, and I’m reclaiming my calm a bit. To be clear, I have no regrets about getting vaccinated. Protecting myself and others was easily worth it to me — even if I wish I’d chosen a different vaccine.
In the last year or so, in addition to going through Covid and the aforementioned health scares, I’ve endured the loss of my firstborn son’s graduation and the realization that the only thing harder than sending a child to college is seeing him lose the experience of his freshman year on campus. I learned that my middle son would be delayed in getting his driver’s license because we need to first resolve questions surrounding his epilepsy and medication and what will make it safe for him to drive. That will mean an overnight hospital stay at Children’s and a bunch of tests for him this summer … and him having to wait for this milestone his peers get to enjoy. It’s a blow he’s suffered valiantly, even though the grief and frustration of it still come over him in waves.
Those are only some of the bigger setbacks and don’t include the more ordinary but still devastating losses like the countless hours we didn’t get to spend with our aging parents and all the hugs we’ll never get back. Despite a year that’s felt hellish, the losses my family and I have suffered are not unlike those nearly everyone around me has also endured. This is a time when extraordinary losses have become ordinary.
Since the pandemic began, I have tried to double down on my healthy habits, taking care to eat well and to not let exercise slide. I also tried to strengthen new practices. Meditation, which I had done grudgingly on and off for years, became my saving grace. With the help of the Calm app (the Daily Trip with Jeff Warren is my favorite), I’ve spent more time than ever sitting quietly and trying, with varying degrees of success, to focus on my breathing. My favorite meditation principle is equanimity, the practice of maintaining calmness and nonreactivity, no matter what circumstances you’re in or what difficult emotions you’re experiencing, from fear to panic to rage. In a year that has thrown all manner of circumstances at me, focusing on equanimity has been nothing short of sanity saving.
I hope that in a couple of weeks, I can put worry about vaccine side effects behind me. I also know that when I flutter open my eyes on Monday morning, some new fresh hell could be awaiting me for that week … or the next, or the next. Whatever comes my way, though, my equanimity and I are ready.
