Several years ago, I experienced my first panic attack; the first of a series that would upend my life for months. I didn’t understand what was happening. At times I couldn’t breathe. I wondered if I was losing my mind. If you’ve been there, you know the feeling. It was the worst experience I’ve ever had. Once things settled, I prayed it would never happen again.
Then it happened again, at 5 am last Thursday. Like the first time, it was triggered by the congestion of a bad sinus cold. Unlike the first time, I had a better sense of what was happening, was in a healthier place in life, and was able to quickly remind myself that I’d worked through this very unsettling experience before. Already I was on a surer footing. I shared with my wife how, when the panic started this time, I sensed this event was connected to a near-drowning experience I’d had when I was young. That seemed to help. And just being with someone was, of course, very settling.
But still the waves of panic kept coming.
My breathing exercises weren’t working. I kept standing and pacing around. I walked the entire house, trying to clear my head—ironically by isolating myself. Changing tactics, I decided to help Edward get up and get going for his day. Instead of isolating myself I chose to connect, thinking that some hands-on care might be a good distraction.
But it ended up being so much more.
The moment I entered Edward’s room I opened my heart to him and told him I loved him. He jumped out of bed and hugged me, then fell back onto his bed and kicked his legs in the air, and then he hugged me again. All morning I’d been shivering in my panicked state, but then I got this very soft, warm, full-bodied hug. I’d read that one of the antidotes for anxiety is increasing your bodily awareness—breathe deeply, move your muscles, touch something. Getting hugged by someone with Down syndrome fits the bill. His embrace warmed my whole being—as though he was somehow transferring some of his peace to me.
After I gave him a shower, I decided to give him a shave. He could have gone another day, but I needed to do this for me. I wanted to care for him with the kind of focus only a razor could exact. Again, it felt therapeutic and took my mind off of myself. Noticing a small bead of red beside his mouth, I realized I’d nicked him. Then I felt something new, an almost maternal sense of tenderness and compassion. I leaned in to make sure he was okay. I whispered a gentle apology and then finished his shave. Because I was in such a highly sensitive state, I reacted with a tenderness that surprised me.
While packing his lunch, I felt it again; this time through the tactile goodness of preparing; reaching into the fridge for the ingredients, spreading peanut butter with a knife, and cutting and wrapping his snack. Again, it felt like my hyper-aware state enabled me to see and sense things clearly. This task was one I’d done a thousand times before, but on this morning, it was as though I was seeing everything for what it really was. I was a person helping another person. My body could do so many things. That I could do anything at all that morning felt like a miracle—my hands worked, my mind was still ordered enough to prepare him for his day, I could feel the cold air as I opened the fridge, and the warmth of the coffee I’d just made for him.
After breakfast, as I sat beside Edward on the couch waiting for his bus, I held my face next to his. Eye to eye. Cheek to soft, smooth, cheek. I let Edward hold me as long as he wanted—wanting him to hold me longer. For most of my caregiving life I’ve believed that Edward humanizes me by being a person I can care for. But this morning, I realized that sometimes he humanizes me by saving me. My high touch, high needs son was the perfect antidote for grounding my reality. Because he needs so much attention, he took all my attention, and was all I could think about.
Then, as mysteriously as it began, the panic subsided.
And then I wondered about what had just happened, about the beauty of really seeing Edward, and about the activities of ordinary life. Could it be that I was made to be that vulnerable—that awake? If I intentionally lived into my weakness more, would I be more fully alive to life? Is there a way to step into this hyper-sensitive way of being without having been pushed by a panic attack?
When Edward came home from his program later that day, I stopped him in the kitchen, crouched in front of him, and looked up into his face. “Thank you for this morning, Edward. You saved your dad! You are such a good son. Thank you!” It’s rare that Edward maintains eye contact in conversation and rarer still when he tears up at the emotional weight of a moment. He knew that the ordinary routine of his day was important. In that moment he was the helper, and he knew it. As I was panicking, Edward knew his giftedness.
All of this has me wondering about God and the incarnation. When Jesus took on human flesh, he was like us in every way. That means that he had a fight or flight response system built into his body—a comforting thought.
Could it be that God made human beings to be this sensitive; with built in hyperawareness, and hair-trigger fight or flight mechanisms, so that we could sense the world more fully, come right to the edge of things, and experience each other at a deeper level? Think of all the artists who’ve suffered because of their high degree of sensitivity. What makes them great as artists is also what leaves them so vulnerable. Perhaps this is what we’re meant for. Are we meant for a world that is safe enough for us to be this weak? It would be heaven on earth I suppose—no more threats, no more fears, and everyone wearing their sensitivity on their sleeves. Everyone fully exposed to the glory of life!
I think Jesus must have lived this way. Darkness couldn’t dim his light. He stayed open, vulnerable, and sensibly free (whatever the cost). This way of being enabled him to see parables in creation and pointers to God in ordinary human beings. God became ‘weaker’ via the incarnation. Jesus chose to live a vulnerable and highly sensitive human life—no walls to protect himself, no walls to block his view.
For days after that one-off (thank God) panic attack, I thought about Edward’s grounding presence. Because I was so weak, he seemed strong. As far as I know Edward doesn’t get existentially anxious—he’s level-headed and content and knows who he is. As I leaned on him, he seemed different to me. It was as though his disability had disappeared, and all I saw was peace. He was more grounded than me and his cognitive disabilities weren’t of consequence. They were only one thing in his very gentle and settled life. This was the first time I’ve ever noticed this about my son. I was just a panic attack away, it seems, from seeing Edward for who he really is.
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