November 8, 2020- A farewell to anxiety

Photo by Rok Romih on

After two years, I have just rediscovered the pleasure of reading. I had stopped enjoying it for various reasons… feeling nauseous, being blinded in one eye, being tired… But the main reason was anxiety. It’s amazing how difficult it is to read when one is anxious. My right leg would be bouncing, my heart racing, my head spinning, and I would look at a page and try to engage with the story. It was useless. I felt trapped. It was the same with TV, or long conversations. I think it’s what people have described as a state of “fight or flight”. It requires action and provides the adrenaline for it. My best mechanism for calming myself down was to go to sleep- but my restless, bouncing leg would drive me mad, waking me up many times a night. A hot shower was the next best thing, with a little lineup of essential oils for me to smell- peppermint, bergamot, lavender, juniper berry…

The process for getting over my anxiety and be able to enjoy reading again started with the bone marrow transplant. Getting to transplant had been the goal from the beginning. Setback after setback, the months went by, transplant always out of grasp. But it was finally here! Time for productive action! Of course, there was anxiety associated with it. Waiting 40 days for Erica’s cells to engraft (double the amount of time it usually takes) and watching my neighbor and fellow transplant patient engraft at day 15 and go home by day 17 was very difficult. But I felt I could handle the suffering of the transplant. It was nothing new… nausea, diarrhea, loss of appetite, gut pain… the usual chemo side effects. I was fortunate to only have one fever and not end up in the ICU. There was finally progress! I was either going to die in a few days, or I would make it through. No more wasting away on dialysis. No more pre-transplant chemo. This was it. And that felt GOOD.

My struggle with anxiety has also been linked with pain that leaves me stuck, not purposeful pain. Unpredictable pain too, like the gall bladder attack or drowning in my fluids or sepsis- pain that you don’t know is coming, and serves no goal. The depths of pain that have overcome me five specific times I can’t even describe because it is so terrifying to remember. These episodes have lead me to be deeply disappointed in God- I thought we were designed to die before reaching that much pain. After all, aren’t we breakable, fragile, made of dust? Shouldn’t we pass out if we reach unbearable pain? Yes… that would be nice. But it’s not how it goes. At least not for me. I thought birth would be a 10 out of 10 on the pain scale… it turns out the scale can get higher. It’s only 10 out of 10 till you experience something worse. You don’t know how bad it can get until you’re in it. I’m forever changed.

I have learned that pain medicine doesn’t work on me as well as it works on the average person, and that doctors look at how small I am and give me lower doses which definitely doesn’t help. So catheter placements and removals, graftograms, biopsies etc. I feel more pain. Doctors also are not good at predicting how painful procedures will be. I’m learning, however, that I can tell doctors that I want more sedation… at the risk of sounding like a junkie. There’s a high cost to plowing through the pain though, and there’s a cost to not speaking up. The more pain I endured the more anxiety built up. I’m not a hero for suffering more. Quite the contrary. Pain has broken me down hard. The stigma of pain medication being “bad” and only there in case you “really need it”, lead me to not complain. It was embarrassing for me to ask for pain medication. It still is. Sometimes I didn’t know if it was an option… Like when I had a 105 degree fever. I was shaking violently, burning up, feeling like I was doing fast backflips, terribly distressed, breathing fast, death pulling at my feet. Was I technically in pain? I had no sharp pains anywhere… I was certainly in extreme discomfort. But there was no medication to help. I writhed around for hours. Ice chips were my only comfort. Doing dialysis in this state was particularly awful. At the time I had the femoral catheter, which was hard to get working, and all my shaking just made the machine alarm angrily. I had on extra fluid to help control the infection, but that of course flooded my lungs and I couldn’t lie down without being drowned, and kept coughing up blood. If I could go back… if I could be in the room next to myself… I would have said “Sedate this girl! I don’t care how!! You are setting her up for months of anxiety and PTSD… she won’t want to go on living, knowing this kind of pain could be around the corner.”

Experiences like that one are what have lead me to say to Mike time and time again “Why can’t I just die?” These experiences haunt me. As family members have told me “You can’t just think about yourself- think of Mike and the kids. Think of how hard it would be for them if you gave up and died.” This makes me feel like no matter how horrid my suffering becomes I’m not allowed to stop treatment. So all I can do to comfort myself is project into the future: “Mike, once I’m off dialysis I’m never going back on. If my kidneys fail, I don’t care. I’ll die. No more dialysis.” But here I am still doing dialysis. “Mike, I’ll do one bone marrow transplant, but if it doesn’t work, I won’t do another.” “Mike, I’ll do azacitidine and venetoclax, but I’m never doing big chemo again.” Maybe if I can say preemptively what I don’t want to do he won’t be as crushed when the day comes and I chose death over treatment.

This has been my way of dealing with PTSD. Telling myself “Never again will it happen!” Either because I’ll demand pain meds or because I’ll refuse treatment. And now, months later, my leg no longer shakes, I’m sleeping better, I’m off the anxiety med, and… I can read.

10 thoughts

  1. Heidi, I’m so happy to hear you were finally able to get the bone marrow transplant. It’s great that your anxiety has lessened enough for you to enjoy reading again. I hope you have some good books that capture your imagination and allow you to leave reality behind for a little while.
    I hope your health will continue to improve so that you can eventually get your kidney transplant. You’re always in my thoughts.


  2. I am not great with words… that is your Aunt Jacquie’s realm …but I cannot tell you how deeply thrilled I am that you can now say farewell to anxiety and not (yet…) farewell to us. I love you so dearly, my sweet, wonderful, lovely, dancing daughter Heidi.❣️ ❣️

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Heidi, we care, and how wonderful to find the joy of reading after all the harrowing experiences, the setbacks and your pain explanation which prevented this therapy.
    I have only admiration for your courage, tenacity and perseverance during your huge ordeal.
    I give thanks for your successful bone marrow transplant and pray for God to walk with you towards your successful kidney transplant.
    You are in a good place to box up and send away that anxiety. He helped you get there.
    Love and prayers from Africa for you and your whole family.


  4. I want to tell you how much your suffering has touched me. I want you to know that you are being prayed for by so many. At the same time I can understand why you would think thar you don’t believe that prayer works. I wamt you to know that God loves you even even though what you are going through doesn’t feel much like love. I want you to feel God’s presence and to know that He will never leave you or abandon you. Somehow, in the midst of all that is happening, I am praying that you will experience a miracle of God’s grace that will somehow overcome all that you have and are going through.

    If I could I would just hold you and let you cry. Somehow I hope that you can feel that.



  5. And somehow in the midst of being a dancer, a wife, a mom, a hero, a researcher, a pawn in all this medical trial and error and hoping and praying…you’ve managed to become…. a writer. How your words move and touch is simply awesome. Our lives are forever changed by knowing and being able to not just hear, but in a way, feel, your story. Thank you for your truth and capturing this journey in an accurate way for us, and not just a “I’m still chugging along and everything is ok way.” As always, hugs and prayers and hope you find a beautiful place to escape to in something you read today 🙂


  6. Hallo Heidi

    My thoughts & prayers are with you. I feel for Mike as well as I have experienced stem cell transplants with my late husband, Doy who was always in my daily minutes & over 8 hours away from home, which I am sure is the same with Mike.

    Well done, Be strong & lots of love to you, Mike, your children & parents.

    Marion Freese

    (Mike’s Mum’s cousin)


  7. Looking through your posts, i see you were in Camaroon when you were diagnosed. I have missionary friends there. They have been there for a number of years now.


  8. Heidi,

    You do not know me, but my family and I have been praying for you daily since we hear of your story. We are deeply sorry for the pain and suffering that you and your family have had to go through.
    I enjoy hymns a lot. One hymn (you have probably heard of it) that has been on my heart for you is “O Love, that wilt not let me go” by George Matheson. I pray that you will take comfort in God’s promise of love that won’t let you go.

    Alisha Huffman


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