A Down Syndrome Antidote for Panic Attacks (Calgary Herald)

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. I couldn’t breathe. Was I losing my mind? If you’ve been there, you know the feeling. It was the worst experience I’d ever had. I prayed it would never happen again.

Then it happened again, early last Thursday—waves of panic that wouldn’t stop.

My breathing exercises weren’t working. I paced the house, went outside, trying to clear my head—ironically by isolating myself. Changing tactics, I decided to help my disabled son Edward start his day. Instead of isolating I chose to connect, thinking that some hands-on care might be a good distraction.

But it ended up being so much more.

When I entered Edward’s room, I opened my heart and told him I loved him. He jumped out of bed and gave me a 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 me—as though transferring some of his peace to me.

After his shower, I gave 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. Noticing a small bead of red beside his mouth, I realized I’d nicked him. Then I felt something new—a maternal sense of tenderness and compassion. I leaned in to make sure he was okay, whispered a gentle apology, and then finished up. Because of my highly sensitive state, I reacted with a tenderness that surprised me.

Packing his lunch, I felt it again; this time through the tactile goodness of preparing; reaching into the fridge for ingredients and spreading peanut butter with a knife. That I could do anything felt like a miracle—my hands worked, my mind was still ordered enough to organize his day, and I could feel the warmth of Edward’s coffee. Because I was so on edge, I saw the ordinary with extraordinary insight—as it really was. I saw myself for who I was—a person helping another person.

After breakfast, I sat beside Edward on the couch and held my face to his—eye to eye, cheek to soft, smooth, cheek. For most of my caregiving life I’ve believed that Edward humanizes me by being a person I can care for. But that morning, I realized that sometimes he humanizes me by saving me. My high touch, high needs son was the perfect antidote for grounding my panicked reality. His need for attention took all my mine.

Then the panic subsided.

And I wondered about the beauty of what just played out. Am I made to be this vulnerable and awake—so that I can see? If I intentionally lived into my weakness more, would I be more alive? Can I be more hyper-sensitive without being pushed by a panic attack?

When Edward came home from his program that day, I crouched in front of him and looked up to him. “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. But he knew what had happened. He was a helper. Through my panic Edward experienced his giftedness.

This has me thinking about God. In Christianity we believe that Jesus was totally God and totally human—in every way. This means he had a fight or flight response system—a comforting thought. Jesus chose to live a vulnerable life that enabled him to see parables in creation and images of God in ordinary people. Jesus chose to remain open—no walls to protect himself, no walls to block his view.

I wonder if we’re all made to live this way: fully sensitive, able to come right to the edge of things, and experiencing others more deeply. We’re meant for a world that is safe enough for us to be this weak—no more threats, no more fears, everyone wearing their sensitivity on their sleeves, and awake to the miracle of life!

When Edward saved me, I saw him with new eyes—and his disability seemed to disappear. Through weakness I saw his strength. He was more grounded than me and his cognitive disabilities weren’t the main thing. They were only one thing in his very peaceful life. This was the first time I noticed this. I was just a panic attack away, it seems, from seeing my son for who he really is.

PHOTO – courtesy Harjot Singh