I have a very physical reaction to fear and anxiety. I’m not sure this was always true, but life has brought me a significant number of traumatic events and therefore, when I am nervous for any reason, my heart rate climbs, my hands sweat, and my breathing gets shallow. My stomach does flips with butterflies in knots. I am nauseous and feel sick.

When I was younger, I cried. I was particularly expressive if I had to go to the doctor. So much so, Mom wouldn’t tell me we were going until we were pulling in the parking lot. I had the same reaction to the dentist. Just the word “dentist” creates an immediate trigger in my stomach to be afraid. As I grew up, I learned running out of a building screaming is frowned upon. For a long time, once I was an adult, I avoided all doctors and dentists, but I found that only made things worse when I did eventually go.

My dentist commented how calm I was and she wished all of her patients would be like this. I laughed out loud and told her I should get an academy award if she thought I was calm. My insides are in knots. She was surprised and offered me laughing gas. (I hesitated because I am also afraid for anyone to touch my nose. Long story.) She suggested I give it a try. I could always say stop after a few minutes if I didn’t want it. After two breaths, I asked if I could have a tank to take home with me. Or better yet, one for my backpack to carry with me everywhere I go. Unfortunately, that is not allowed. However, now I am only deathly afraid of the dentist until the mask goes on, and then all is well with the world.

If cancer taught me anything, it is that sometimes you just have to do things afraid. The fear will not go away, but you have to do it anyway. So, I told the truth…I am afraid. Then I said…hook up my chemo. This lesson has been one of the more beneficial parts of Cancerland. My life-long anxiety over difficulties didn’t go away, but I learned how to better manage it.

Speaking in front of an audience is one of my anxiety-inducing events. When I was in college, speech was my nightmare class. I got through it, but not very well. Now, as a writer, people assume I am also a speaker. Not true. Or at least, it used to be not true. I have learned that the more you do something you are afraid of, the easier it gets. And the easier it gets the better you get at doing it. Speaking doesn’t bother me as much anymore. In fact, I have gotten good at it. Still, there are certain kinds of speaking that still make my heart race. Eulogies are one of those. I think because there is so much emotion that my throat closes up. Then I squeak and fight to keep on going, when what I really want to do is sit and cry.

People say that my tears make my talks genuine and heartfelt. Not to worry about breaking down, because that is real. I guess that is a good thing, because I am not very good at pretending to be okay when I am not. It seems to me it might be easier not to volunteer to do eulogies of people I love. Problem solved. But not really. My words would be bottled up inside me then. Liable to explode at an unexpected moment. Plus, I want others to know about my person. It is important to stand and to bear witness publicly to life lived. It is a memorial stone upon the altar that says, this person made a difference in the world, just by being in it.

Tomorrow I will attempt to get through Dad’s eulogy. It will be difficult. But like going to the doctor or dentist, once I have painted a picture of my person, there will be relief. But, what comes after? After the loose ends are all tied up on Dad’s life? When there is just empty space? I’m not sure, but thinking about it makes my stomach hurt. My body reacts to the absence of my person. Both my people. It feels like an upcoming doctor’s appointment. My sleep is troubled. My days have a fog to them. The unknown and empty place makes me anxious. My mind is slow to react and limited in the information it can process. Similar to giving birth when I was in a room full of medical personnel, but I was all alone in a world of fog. Time slowed down. Voices were distant. I could hear my own breathing in my ears but nothing else.

I am in that world again. Externally, going through the motions. Internally, in a fog. Waiting for it to lift. Waiting to see clearly again. For now, I get through the service tomorrow. After that, I go forward afraid.