I Can Admit I'm Afraid, But I Get Choose What I Do Next

The virus has stirred us awake, no longer allowing us to live on autopilot. Before coronavirus, many of us slept walked through life – each day looking similar to the day before. But now we are reminded that tomorrow isn’t promised and we feel fear and maybe a bit of panic too.  

The question is what do we do with that fear. Do we allow ourselves to sit in it? Or do we distract ourselves to the point of numbing? I get it. That’s one of my coping mechanisms too. The problem is eventually we can’t escape it.  What we resist persists – it’s the law of the universe.  So if you’re afraid, try admitting it. I am afraid. Sit in it and see what comes up even if it’s uncomfortable.  I did that this morning, and then realized I needed to journal about it, needing the space of the page to see what was really going on. 

So here’s what I learned: Even though I lost my child when he was nine years old, I have become complacent.  None of us are guaranteed tomorrow, but I often live as if I’m promised it, pushing things off that I don’t feel strong enough, good enough, ready enough to do today.  

Maybe those of us who are scared are the lucky ones because we are waking up. We are reminded that each moment is a gift and we now get to choose to live it more fully.  I can admit I’m scared, but I get to choose what I do next.  I get to tell the people in my life that I love them and why I appreciate them. I get to have those vulnerable conversations, things I usually put off thinking another day will be better. I get to discover and learn and breathe because, in this moment, I am here.  

What do you get to do?

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What I learned from having a son on chemotherapy that can be applied to fear around the Coronavirus

            There is a lot of anxiety right now about what might happen. But we never know what tomorrow might bring.  My oldest son, Christopher, was on chemotherapy from ages three to five and again when he was eight and nine. I didn’t know if he would live or die and often I stressed about it.  

            But all that worry did was move me away from him. Every time I got wrapped up in ‘what ifs’ I mentally and emotionally left him, even though he was right in front of me, and doing well. I thought I’d be more prepared or could control things better by thinking about the worst-case scenario over and over again, but it only made me emotionally unavailable, rattled my nerves, and overworked my adrenal system.  

            Tomorrow is always a mystery, but all that panic and worry do is ruin today.  You might say, but I can’t help it. I get it. I’d had anxiety since I was a little girl. But I had to find a way to get control of it because I wanted to enjoy my children. Regardless of what might’ve happened in the future they wouldn’t be children forever.  

            

So here are my tips to help transcend fear:

1. Stay very close to the present moment. Children do it – that’s why they have so much joy and laughter. There is nothing we can do to change the past – trust me I’ve tried. And we have no control over our future, but in the present moment we can live, breath, love and create. 
2. To stay present, be mindful of what you are doing – feel the sun and wind on your face if you are outside. If you are eating notice the taste, texture and heat or chill of the food.  
3. Pray whether it be to God or the Universe. This life is hard and it’s even harder when we try to do it all on our own. Ask for support and guidance. 
4. Notice your breathing. Often we hold our breath when we are anxious. Take long deep inhales and exhales. 
5. Get up and move. Even if you are afraid still do things. 
6. Do something for someone else. When we are in service to others we take the focus off our worries.  
7. Find gratitude and keep a gratitude journal. Studies show that when you write down what you are grateful for, you place the focus on the positive and feel better. 

                        - Suzanne Andora Barron is working on her first book, a memoir entitled ‘Rising Above Fear in the Face of Death.’  

She is a yoga instructor (RYT) and a certified Jin Shin Jyutsu (JSJCP) practitioner

Finding God at The Inspection Station

           

         “Drive your car up there,” said the female attendant as she pointed to space in front of me.  She was wearing an orange and silver reflective vest. I was at the inspection station in Paramus, NJ getting my car inspected.  It was two months overdue.  “When you get up there, turn off the engine and move over to the passenger seat."

            What? Was this because my car was overdue? I’d never stayed in the car before.  But I did as instructed, turning off the engine and leaving my keys in the ignition, climbing over the center tray counsel into the passenger seat.  I glanced out the window to see a queue of men and women, many dressed in skirts and trousers, waiting on the concrete walkway for their cars to be inspected.  I then twisted in my seat to see a line of empty cars.  Huh? 

            Would I get in trouble for waiting here even though she told me to?  No one else was in their cars.  Still, I leaned my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes for just a moment, not wanting to be caught off guard when the male attendant got in my car.  Hearing footsteps, my eyes popped open, but there was no one there. I tucked my shoulder-length hair behind my ear, the simple action of lifting my arm exhausting me. I'd just come from a local hospital where I taught superhero yoga to kids on chemo.  I started about six weeks ago.  When I first told my friends about it, they thought I was crazy as it was only recently that I could even bear to be near a child fighting cancer without having a panic attack.  The pain of losing my oldest son, Christopher, to leukemia was just too much. I still wasn't able to enter either of the two hospitals where he was treated. But seven months ago when I saw the opportunity to teach yoga to kids on chemo through Kula for Karma, I felt compelled to say yes as if God was telling me I needed to do this to continue to heal. 

            Yet earlier as I walked through the revolving hospital doors, holding my sparkly hula hoops, I considered quitting.  It was more than just the fact that I hated hospitals, having lived with Christopher in one for almost five weeks. Today so many of the kids were struggling, their bodies lethargic and their faces tight with pain, reminding me of Christopher's tougher days. Perhaps my friends were right—maybe it was too much. 

            The driver side door opened and I jolted upright.  A male attendant wearing the same orange and silver vest as his colleague poked his head into my van and flinched upon seeing me inside.   

            “She told me to stay here.” I twisted my body and pointed to the attendant with the dark wavy hair at the back of the garage.  

            As he climbed into the driver's seat he said, “Well, you must have done something really good today.”  

            I bit my bottom lip. How could he possibly know?  

           He shifted the car into neutral and then dropped his eyes to the dashboard before looking up and saying again, “You must have done something really good today.”

         I tightened my lips, the back of my neck beginning to perspire. Should I tell him? And then the words spilled out of my mouth.  "I just came from teaching yoga to kids on chemotherapy at a local hospital.”

            His eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. “I don’t know how you do it.  I've dealt with animals, but never kids. I guess I have to pass you now.” 

            He looked back down at the dashboard, recorded some numbers on his pad and then looked up at me. In a low voice, he asked, “Have you ever seen a child die?”

            My palms got moist.  How could he ask me that?  Still, I nodded and said, “Yes, my son. He died a few years ago from leukemia.” What possessed me to tell him? I never told strangers. 

            He stopped the car in the middle of the track, looked over at me, his voice hoarse. “How can you do it?” 

            I took a deep breath and said, “I like to try to make the kids happy or at least help them to have some fun while they're there. And I try to help them not be so scared.”  Energy buzzed within my chest and I felt separate from body.  

            He shook his head and asked, “What does your husband say?”

            “He wonders how I do it." I paused catching my breath. "I do it because I know what the families are going through.”

            He stared at me but said nothing. His eyes were bright and glistening.  

            After he passed my minivan, he stepped out and I climbed back over my center counsel into the driver's seat. Through my opened window, I thanked him.  He looked back at me and said, “No, thank you.” 

         As I drove away, I reflected on what had just happened.  Why did the female attendant have me stay in the car? And why did he say, 'You must have done something good today,' not once, but twice?  Maybe he was just making conversation. But those questions he asked. It felt like the two attendants were part of a puzzle to show me that I needed to keep teaching the children at the hospital for them... and for me.  It was a gift from God that I had found this opportunity. And now it felt like God was guiding me again through these two strangers.  And it was all within the short span of getting my car inspected.

Looking Past The Pain

It’s strange. As a kid, I always wanted to sleep in my parents' bedroom.  A countless number of times  I wandered in here after waking from a scary dream, only to be guided back to my own room.  I quickly learned that if I tiptoed in and slept at the foot of the bed or even on the floor, I would have a better chance of staying longer.  Eventually, though I’d be found out and taken back to the room I shared with my sister and told 'Children should sleep in their own beds.'

Tonight, for the first time ever, I'm sleeping in here as a grown adult. And as so often happens in life, the anticipation does not mirror the reality. It feels empty – not the way I imagined when I was little.  Obviously, it was never the bed I was after, but the comfort and protection of my mom.   Interestingly enough, tonight, my mom is sleeping down the hall in my old room – apparently, that bed is more comfortable.

As I roll over to go to sleep, I look to my Dad’s side of the room to the photos he hung on the wall years ago.  Two, in particular, grab my attention.  The first is of his mom, my Nonni, feeding my younger brother Anthony in his highchair.   The other is a close-up of my mom’s face. It was taken when she was around 35.  She was leaning her head against her hand, her soft blond hair sweeping gently across her brow, her bright blue eyes staring back. Looking at her, you’d never know that she had already had five kids in six and a half years.

Although I’ve seen these photos hundreds of times, right now they grab at my chest, particularly the one of my Nonnie.   I can’t quite understand why darkness begins to pool in my gut.   Then it hits me.  The last time I last looked at the photos – really looked at them with more than just a passing glance — my Dad was still here.  

It’s been three years since he died, and it isn’t until this moment that I realize that like my Nonnie, I can’t see my Dad outside of photographs.  I feel anchorless.  The pain slices me.  I turn away to escape the blaring view.

In the morning, when I open my eyes, the first images I see are those pictures.  Rather than turning, I force myself to stare.  These snapshots and their prominence next to my Dad’s side of the bed are a glimpse of the fullness of his love for his mom and my mom.  I also realize that photos are just one of the ways I can still “see” my Dad.  He’s still part of so many conversations and experiences, even if I don’t say his name. 

Just last week, as we stopped at Potter Brothers ski store, on the way up to Belleayre Mountain,  to see if they had any discount ski tickets, something my Dad always did, I smiled.  I could see him perusing the clothing racks to check for good deals.  

Later at the Mountain, on the way up the chairlift, I could envision my Dad sitting beside me, singing, while my siblings and I as our younger selves ducked down in case someone we knew saw us. 

So while missing him still hurts, more than I’m willing to show, I know that he is still with me.

I guess my mom’s bed can offer me some comfort as long as I am willing to be brave and look past what scares me. 

A Parallel Parking Surprise

Strangely, I began to get comfortable in the neighborhood surrounding the New York City hospital. We had been staying on there since Christopher, our nine-year-old, spiked a fever from an experimental chemo a few weeks before. He had been diagnosed with an adult-form of leukemia eight weeks earlier.

It would be our home until his immune system recovered which unfortunately was not any time soon as the aggressive chemotherapy destroyed all of his cells – including the healthy ones.

As a “local resident” as I often felt, I came to know the best coffee places, which Tasti D-’lite locations offered the most flavors and how long it took to jog up to Central Park. I even had a temporary membership to a nearby gym – a gift from my friends.

Some days, the strangers on the street felt like neighbors. So I didn’t find anything terribly odd about accepting help from a woman and her mother one Sunday afternoon in June.  My husband, Rich, on the other hand, felt very differently.

It was Father’s Day and Rich was spending the day with Christopher. Ryan, our seven-year-old, wasn’t allowed in Christopher’s room because he was under the permitted visiting age of 12. This rule could only be bent when Christopher didn’t have a roommate, which unfortunately wasn’t often.

More than a week had passed since the boys last saw one another– the longest stretch of time ever. Our plan was to meet in the hallway near the pediatric floor elevators and drag a metal chair or two into the corridor.

It was around 3pm when Ryan and I arrived in the city. As we neared the hospital lobby, Rich phoned to tell me that one of Christopher’s nurses had secured an empty room for us to meet and we could stay as long as we wanted. A huge smile stretched across my face as I shared the news with Ryan.

Once inside the room, the boys found a stray basket of LEGOS on the windowsill and quickly made up a Star Wars story.

Once they were settled, my husband looked at me and asked, “Where did you park?”

“On the street,” I said.

We had been trying to avoid parking garages because they were expensive.

"Did you have any trouble?” He asked, picking some lint off his blue t-shirt.

Parallel parking was not one of my strong suits.

“Well,” I paused. “I got some help. It was taking me forever to park the new SUV and I just wanted to get here...so, in the side-view mirror, I noticed a woman about my age, and her mom walking up the street. They had seen me struggling and through my open window, the younger woman offered to park the car for me.”

My husband stared at me, black eyes wide.

“The mother,” I continued, “stayed on the street while her daughter climbed in behind the steering wheel. Ryan was asleep in the back, so I scooted over to the passenger side just to be safe.”

“Did it ever occur to you that she might steal the car?”

“Yes. That's why I didn't get out.  But truthfully, I felt relieved. Besides, as we were getting out, I saw the woman helping another driver up the street,” I added as justification.

He just looked at me and shook his head.

Later, I wondered at what point I had become so accepting of strangers’ help. Accepting help, even from close friends, was never easy for me.

So why on that Father’s Day in 2007, did I let a complete stranger in New York City park my car?

My priorities had shifted.  All that mattered at that moment, was getting my family together. I also realized that accepting help was not new to me. I had been doing it for months -- from our church members who brought dinners, to the friends who took care of Ryan after school, to the more than 2000 people who got tested at three different bone marrow drives to try to find a match for Christopher.

Accepting help from that woman on the street had become part of my ordinary. In fact, it was among the many blessings I received along this very difficult journey.

On that warm afternoon, when that woman kindly offered, “May I help you,” I was not thinking about what she could take from me, but rather what she was giving to me.

                                                                                # # #

September 11th

Many of us in the New York area can tell you exactly where we were and what we were doing on September 11^th when the first plane hit.   What I have learned is that for those of us who can easily share our stories, there probably is a happy ending.  When that's not the case, it’s no longer just a story, but a tragedy and one that is not readily told.

Although, mine does not have a disastrous ending—thank God—it was still a precarious day as our then three-year-old son, Christopher, was scheduled to receive chemotherapy. He had been diagnosed with leukemia six weeks before. 

My plan that morning was to wake up early and go for a run before my husband, Rich, left for work and we came to the clinic. When I opened my eyes, Rich was already dressed in his running clothes.  As he grabbed his sunglasses and walked out the bedroom door, I almost called after him to say that I needed to run more than he did.  He likely would have relented, but for some reason, I decided I'd skip it that day. 

Around 8:50am, as I was rushing out the door with Christopher, the phone rang.  I told my babysitter to let it go to voicemail.  Later, I would learn that it was my husband calling. He worked in the World Trade Center One.

When we walked through the clinic door, every seat in the waiting room was filled with an adult watching the news when we arrived.  This struck me as both odd and rude as only children’s programs were supposed to be shown on this TV.   Clutching Christopher’s hand, I asked the room, “Can I switch to Blue’s Clues?”

A man sitting against the wall looked at me and said, “You don’t know, do you?” I shook my head.  “A plane just hit the World Trade Center.”  My eyes shifted towards the TV where smoke was emitting from the first tower.   My vision darkened and the words that slid through my mouth muttered “I think my husband works in that building.”

The next thing I remembered is that Christopher and I were taken to a patient room down the hall. There, we were joined by a nurse, and our social worker.  Eventually, Christopher’s child-life specialist came and took him to the playroom.   

Our social worker asked me for my husband’s phone number.  Biting my lip, I paused, then slowly said, “201- 499 - 4.…” I couldn’t remember the rest.  None of my important numbers were written down, as I was always able to memorize them.  My husband referred to me as a walking telephone book.  Now in this moment of panic, my mind was blank.  I couldn’t remember anything.    Eventually, I think she called our babysitter to get his number.

It felt like I was caught in some cosmic landscape.  I was pretty certain my husband worked there, but a part of me wasn’t sure.   Weeks earlier, over dinner one night, I thought he may have mentioned something about his technology team at Lehman Brothers moving to the World Trade Center, but with Christopher’s recent diagnosis, my focus wasn’t there.   

Now, a voice inside me was screaming: How could you not have paid attention?   At the same, I wouldn’t let my brain consider the possibility that he might have been in that tower.   It was just too awful.

Around 11am, a call was patched through from the hospital. It was my husband.  I froze.

As I walked over to the nurse’s station to pick up the phone, I told myself – at least he is alive.   Thankfully, he wasn’t even hurt -- his call had only been patched through the hospital’s main number – and he was on the train returning home.

Apparently, he was on the ferry when the first plane hit.  He was late for work because he had gone running.  

In fact, he was more concerned that we were at the clinic and wanted us to leave immediately.   There was so much uncertainly and who knew where the next target might be.

After I hung up the phone, I turned and saw Christopher walking down the hall, now clutching a black lab stuffed puppy. He too was ready to go home.  We found his nurse, Noreen, and asked if we could just do the chemo another day.  Surely this wouldn’t be a problem, I thought, given what was happening in the world.  

Once again, I was reminded of the seriousness of Christopher’s condition.   We could go home, after he received his treatment. 

Now as I sit on my deck wrapped in a blanket, I think about that day eleven years ago.  The worries of this morning seem to pale in comparison.  So much has transpired since that day. 

Sadly, I’ve learned there is a difference between sharing a story and recounting the tragic moments of your life. The latter is not given away easily.

But I am thankful that on September 11, 2001, we were lucky enough to have a story that is not too difficult to tell. 

Remembering the details: How could I have been so wrong?

Over the last few years whenever I looked at this photo of Christopher with his full chubby cheeks and his round belly sitting with my sister Elizabeth on the blanket in our backyard, I felt such sadness in my heart.  Sheer pain ripped through me with each glance. Until just last week, I thought I had remembered the day so clearly.  Now I wonder, how could I have been so wrong? 

It was August of 2001 when my younger sister, Elizabeth, came from Colorado to spend time with us after Christopher was discharged from the hospital.  Three weeks earlier, on July 23, our seemingly healthy three-year old was diagnosed with leukemia.  Every moment thereafter was a struggle to live in this new space – a place I never visited even in my darkest nightmares.  Kidnapping was always a fear.  Cancer? Never.   

With each day, our hearts broke a little further as the life-saving treatment took effect on our child’s body.   His naturally skinny and energetic body became round and fatigued from all the steroids and chemo.

“Mommy, can I go upstairs and rest in my bed?” Christopher asked during dinner one evening the week after he came home from the hospital. I turned to him, my face full of anguish and said, “We can go with you.”   “No Mommy. It’s okay.  Stay with Ryan,” he said as he pushed the wooden chair back and climbed out of his booster seat.

Walking became difficult so often Christopher would just lie on the couch.  Eventually I had to carry him the few feet from the kitchen to the living room.  He didn’t even have the energy to fight with his little brother, Ryan. 

Over the years, the image of this photo would appear in my mind from time to time and I would wince internally. Then last week while rummaging through some old journals, I found an entry that described the day the photo was taken. 

I realized that my overall pain had overshadowed the reality of the day.  It wasn’t a day of sadness and suffering, but rather the first time in weeks that Christopher felt strong.  Here is the journal entry from that summer day:

Christopher is so cute – he has full chubby cheeks and they jiggle when he laughs and he laughed a lot today.  At lunch time, he suggested, “Mommy let’s go on a picnic in the backyard.” Elizabeth laid out a sheet on the grass in front of the jungle gyms and we carried our lunch of sandwiches, animal crackers and juice boxes outside. Later, Christopher said, “Let’s take a walk.”   We only got as far as the driveway, but still he wanted to go out.  I love the fact that despite all that Christopher is going through, he is still the same little boy.

Wow, what a difference.  My memory was incorrect on almost every account.  Somehow my brain recalled only the harsh side effects of the treatment and forgot my little boy’s amazing spirit. Maybe it was my sister’s visit that encouraged Christopher to want to celebrate, but somehow he found the strength to do so.   

Now, when I look back, I remember the hope and joy I felt that day and how we sought to live each moment.  

How could I have been so far off in my memory?  

Is this the case with other memories any of us may have? 

Do we just apply a general feeling to our past memories?  If it was a hard time, then do we mostly remember the struggles?  I won’t kid myself into denying how incredibly difficult that first month was.  But how did I forget the joy on that sunny afternoon?  Thankfully, I have other journals to remind me of the truth.   But this experience has helped me to realize how important it is to not only record our lives in picture but also in print.