I See London, I See France

London, England Part 3

My mother has a severe anxiety disorder called agoraphobia. People think agoraphobia is a fear of going to public places, but that's not totally it. Agoraphobics are afraid of being out in public and losing control, so they prefer to stay in places they think of as safe.

That's how my father explained it anyway.

When my little sister and I were still in elementary school, my mom always asked my dad to drive, and we were always the first to leave events, but she still came to our school plays and book fairs and teacher conferences. She worked from home since she's a children's book illustrator, but she still left the house. She didn't love it, but she did it. She and my dad argued all the time. He wanted to go for more dinners, more parties, to meet more people, see more things. She wanted him to slow down and pay attention to his family. He liked to be out. She liked to play Monopoly and watch TV. He wanted to see a marriage counselor. She refused. Her aunt was a therapist, and she thought her aunt was a total kook.

So he went without her. And then when I was in seventh grade, he moved out without her. Without us.

After she and my father got divorced, everything went downhill. She was driving us to my middle school's winter carnival when she had a panic attack. I was in the front, and my sister was in the back seat. We were at a red light when the light turned green and my mom didn't move.

"Mom?" I said, and then noticed that her face was white and her hands were shaking. "Mom, are you okay?" She didn't look okay. She looked like she was about to pass out.

The navy Taurus behind us started to honk. Once. Twice. Again. HONNNNNK.

What was happening?

"You have to drive, Mom," Addison piped up from the back seat. "You can't b-b-block the road!" Addison had developed a bit of a stammer. Stress, her teacher said. She was only in the fourth grade.

"I . . ." My mom's voice cracked. "I don't feel well. I think I'm . . . my chest hurts."

Was she having a heart attack? My own heart started to race.

HONNNNNNK.

"Mom? Mom?" Addison cried out.

"Pull into the Dunkin' Donuts over there," I said suddenly. I put my hand on top of her arm. It was cold and clammy.

She pressed her foot lightly on the gas, crossed the lane, and drove into the parking lot, her hands still gripping the wheel. She put the car into park.

"What are you doing?" Addison asked, her voice rising. "You guys are freaking me out!"

"Does your chest still hurt?" I asked.

My mother nodded. She continued to shake. An Adele song played on the radio.

It was a heart attack. My mother was having a heart attack. I had to do something. What could I do? I needed help. We had to go to the hospital. "Should I . . . should I call an ambulance?" I looked for her purse. Where was her purse? I needed her phone!

She shook her head no, but didn't speak.

"Mom? Where's your purse?" I asked. "I need to call an ambulance."

"No," she said finally. "Don't. I'm just . . . nervous."

What did that mean?

"Nervous?" Addison asked, and then squeaked out a laugh. "About the winter carnival?"

My mom closed her eyes. "Syd. Run inside and get me water?"

"Okay." I jumped out of the car and into the cold, relieved to have something constructive to do. I watched them through the store window as I waited in line. My mother's hands were no longer gripping the steering wheel, and her door was open slightly. She seemed to be taking deep breaths.

A minute later I got back in the car, opened the bottle of water, and handed it to her. "Do you feel better?"

She took a long sip. "A little."

"It's for sure not a heart attack?" I asked.

"A heart attack?" Addison screeched. "You think Mom is having a heart attack?"

"I'm not having a heart attack," my mother said quickly. "I'm fine. It's just a panic attack. I had them when I was younger. Just give me a minute."

We sat still, the radio continuing to play.

"Okay," my mom said after a few songs.

"We don't need to go to the carnival," I said. "Do you want to go home?"

"No!" Addison squawked. "The carnival has c-c-otton candy."

I wanted to yell at my sister but didn't want to stress my mom out even more.

My mom's lower lip trembled. "I wouldn't mind lying down."

I put my hand back on her arm. "It's okay. It's not that important."

For the next few years, my mom wouldn't drive anywhere unless I was in the passenger seat. She said she liked having me beside her. I calmed her down. Addison and I started taking the school bus to and from school, and I went along with my mom to her appointments, to the mall, to the grocery store, to the pharmacy, to wherever she or my sister needed to go. She was worried that without me there she would have another panic attack, and somehow lose control of the car. I liked knowing that I could help. That I could make my mother feel better.

When I was sixteen-and-a-half and I got my license, I started doing most of the driving. That way my mom could relax in the passenger seat and not have to worry about having a panic attack at all. I didn't mind: I felt needed. I hated that she worried so much, and that her world was getting smaller and smaller, but I was glad I could help and I liked driving and that I basically had my own car. I got to take it to school and wherever I wanted. I also had to pick up Addison after swimming and take my mom to the grocery store.

Until we stopped going to the grocery store. One minute my mom was studying a frozen lasagna in the freezer section of Safeway and the next minute her hands were shaking and the lasagna was on the floor. She was sweating and hyperventilating, and she needed me to take her out of there, take her outside right away before she fainted. I grabbed her hands, we left the groceries in the cart and the frozen lasagna on the floor, and I found a bench outside. I told her to take big breaths, that she was going to be okay, that I loved her, and she was going to be fine.

She hasn't been back to the Safeway since. You can order online from Safeway, and they deliver in an hour.

My mom was pretty sure she'd have a panic attack at our high school parent-teacher nights, so couldn't my father go to those, he didn't live that far away, and then he could tell her what they said? He liked doing stuff like that. Surely he could do at least that after moving out on all of us. He could. And he did.

He also asked her to see a therapist.

She said she'd be fine. She'd had a few panic attacks as a teenager, but they had gone away. She ordered some books with relaxation techniques.

When they still didn't go away, I begged her to at least ask her regular doctor for help. She finally agreed.

I drove her to the appointment and read Ned Vizzini's It's Kind of a Funny Story in the waiting room. Her doctor told her that she had to learn to relax, and prescribed an antidepressant. My mom took it every day for a month but said it made her brain cloudy, and then she still had a panic attack when she tried to take us to see a movie. So she stopped taking the pills.

That was two years ago.

These days she doesn't drive. Or go to the grocery store. Or to the movies. Or to shopping malls, or go on trains, or planes, or take cabs. She won't see another doctor, or try another medication. She doesn't want to feel drugged out. I'm not sure what else I can do to help her, but it's hard to watch her in pain. So I do what I can to keep the panic away.

My mom will sit in the backyard, and even go for walks, but she needs me to be with her when she leaves the house to keep her calm. She doesn't want to risk panicking and fainting and god forbid hitting her head on the concrete and bleeding all over the sidewalk without anyone to help her.

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