May Contain Traces of Grief
A taste for control
By Kitty
It was a random evening in 2015 as I waited on the couch for my now husband, Nick, to get home from his job working second shift at a pharmacy. I had queued up Netflix, likely to watch Schitt’s Creek or my preferred comfort sequel, 22 Jump Street. To my surprise, he arrived with a little treat—an Almond Joy candy bar—my favorite. I tore into it immediately, and somewhere around the second bite, I felt a strange sensation wash over my body. I excused myself to the bathroom, where I stuck my tongue out in the mirror to make sure nothing was awry. I felt a lump in my throat, and my arms began to tingle. I yelled downstairs for Nick to call an ambulance. “I think I’m having an allergic reaction,” I panicked. He commented that I must be able to breathe since I spoke clearly. Then he asked how a paramedic would find us inside the large condo building that he lived in. The monumental side eye I gave him must have reset my vagus nerve, because that snapped me out of it real quick. It was, of course, an anxiety attack. I didn’t recognize it at first, since these episodes had previously appeared during social situations, not snack time.
My mom had passed away earlier that year, so I no longer had a lifeline to call to talk me off the edge. To clarify, I had plenty of support, but no one who had intimately witnessed my panic attacks like she had. As a child, the physical manifestations of my anxiety were much clearer.
My jaw and knees would tense up, my body would shiver, and then once I threw up on the nearest lawn, I’d immediately feel relieved. My mom was the one who could most often identify whether my distress could be solved through a hug or a chicken quesadilla from the Taco Bell drive-thru.
After she passed away and the too-sick-to-eat feeling subsided, I attempted to self-soothe with my favorite thing—food. I sometimes avoided eating her favorite things, maybe because doing so felt like moving on without her. To this day, I haven’t enjoyed the zesty flavor of a shrimp scampi or cracking the shell of a steamed lobster.
As life moved on and my friends made plans in an attempt to help me regain some sense of normalcy, we scheduled a girls’ night out. I was a couple of sips into a strawberry gin martini when the tingles hit. No amount of staring in the bathroom mirror would fix it, and I asked one of them to drive me home before the apps hit the table. What I had been experiencing in these new moments of panic felt different—a sense of impending doom, and a strange numbness that made me wish I could leave my extremities in a corner somewhere and pick them back up once they calmed the fuck down. Like an umbrella drying in a bucket by the host’s stand at a restaurant. Had my go-to coping mechanism turned on me?
The anxiety I began to experience happened mostly after popping something into my mouth. Whether I was constantly nervous or constantly snacking was a real chicken versus egg situation. Everything around me became a red flag for anaphylaxis and my “do not ingest” list grew from Almond Joys and gin to include pineapple, coconut, peanuts, walnuts, pine nuts, scallops, clams, shrimp, lobster, and anything I’ve never tried before. New foods? Not me!
In trying to connect the dots, I recalled a moment in 2014 when my mom was undergoing chemotherapy treatments. I often drove her to her appointments, which took place at the hospital rather than the infusion center due to a complicated medical history. I was unemployed at the time, thus taking on the role of being one of her caretakers. She was still working, so on most days I’d run the errands needed to help keep her preschool classroom afloat, cook dinner, and prepare smoothies to pack for her morning breakfast. On this particular day, her oncologist was trying a new medication. Within three minutes of the drug being administered, she told a nurse she couldn’t breathe and asked me to leave the room. From the hallway I heard the Code Blue alarm and no less than a dozen doctors and nurses rushed past me to her aide. My stomach dropped the way it does when your plane hits a patch of turbulence the pilot didn’t warn you about. I was acutely aware that I had no control over the situation, or its outcome. I hated the feeling of helplessness, or potentially losing her in such a traumatic way.
They kept her overnight to monitor her post-allergic reaction, and I drove home alone sobbing guttural, boogery sobs that had previously only seen the likes of my shower. A social worker called the house that night to offer me help, and I casually asked if that came in the form of a laundry service. I had become an expert at keeping both the contents of my stomach and all of my feelings deep down within my gut. This inability to express myself with any sort of vulnerability was a skill that I disguised as strength.
In the decade that’s gone by, the panic attacks have subsided but the fear of certain foods still reigns supreme—I’ve just become a master at avoiding them. Even my friends lovingly accommodate my imaginary allergies when dining out or coming over for dinner. Can you believe the shame still isn’t enough to cancel out the nerves? Me either.
What I’ve uncovered throughout the past two years of therapy is that I have a real problem when things feel outside of my control. But I’m not a control freak in a fun, type-A, bachelorette itinerary planning way. I’d imagine that would be a walk in the park. I’ve also learned that my number one coping mechanism is avoidance, and not the salty hit of a drive-thru meal.
In working through my grief and trying to figure out how to live with a body and brain that reacts to loss in unpredictable ways, I’ve tried to face my bullshit head on. Some of the efforts have been small—like admitting out loud in front of other people when I’m nervous or scared. Last month at the dermatologist, I asked one too many questions about the local anesthetic used in routine skin biopsies and told them I had anxiety. It provided peace of mind for me and potential break room fodder for them. In some ways, it’s an act of vulnerability. In others it’s a warning so that if shit hits the fan I can say I warned you. Some of the efforts have been bigger, like knowingly ingesting baked goods contaminated with trigger foods and being totally fine.
I know that one day I’ll be able to move past my maybe irrational but very real fears. In the meantime, I like to imagine myself on an indulgent vacation—sarong fluttering in the breeze as I make a beeline for the raw bar and eat my bodyweight in shrimp cocktail. My phone is tucked away in the hotel room, safely out of reach, so I can’t Google the unfamiliar ingredients listed on the drink menu. Nothing is off limits. There’s an Urgent Care nearby, but I haven’t memorized the address. After dinner, I saunter down to the water, the sun just beginning to set. A server approaches my beach chair and asks if I’d like anything. I smile and say, “Surprise me.” Moments later, I’m slinging back a giant piña colada with my toes in the sand, and in that moment, I’m free.
A special thanks to this week’s illustrator, Violeta Encarnación1. See more of her work here.
Violeta Encarnación is a Cuban, award-winning illustrator based in New York City, known for her vibrant, storytelling-driven visuals across traditional and digital media. Her work has appeared in publications like The New York Times, Sports Illustrated Kids, and The Washington Post. Violeta’s art often explores our connection to nature and each other, inviting viewers to reflect on these relationships.
Kitty this is so beautiful, especially the end. Thanks for sharing xxx