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Posts Tagged ‘fear’

  1. This Ride Called Life

    January 20, 2014 by Diane

    Editable vector silhouette of a steep rollercoaster ride

    On this ride called Life, we find ourselves in the first car, or the second, or the third. Someone straps us in, maybe gives us a quick smack on the backside because there’s that first human contact–the doctor’s slap, right? But it’s less of a slap and more of a hearty wake up, kid, it’s about to get exciting. We hang onto the bar and glide from darkness into sunlight. We feel the pull of the track on the steady uphill and there at the top we see something magnificent–the whole world laid out before us. But it’s just a flash, a glimpse, before we swoop downwards, feeling the rush of wind and the force of momentum. Then we’re chugging uphill again before the bottom drops out with a whoosh. And on it goes, until eventually we release our grip on the bar and lift our arms and holler with joy. After a lifetime of ups and downs and leaning into our seatmate as we’re whipped around the curves, we end the ride through a long dark tunnel, slowing down, feeling the exhilaration of having lived every moment to its minutest. And there on the other side, waiting: a loved one, beaming at us, waving, cheering us on, welcoming us home.

    That’s life in a nutshell. An amusement park ride to enjoy.

    If you’re amused by roller coasters.

    I rode one roller coaster in my life. Once. The track was old and wooden and rickety. On this ride I was strapped in, but the strap was loose. I seized the bar, feeling the mounting dread with every clackety-clack on the uphill, knowing what was coming. And sure enough the car peaked and then plunged and I dug my heels in to operate the brake, hollering stop the ride!–squeezing my eyes shut, too afraid to scream. And it was a relief, that dark tunnel. I was shaking, wrung out, feeling…what? A twinge of regret that I hadn’t enjoyed the ride more. It wasn’t so bad from that final perspective. After all, I’d survived.  But no one was waiting. It was just me and my seatmate who had been laughing the whole time, secretly wishing that I had dared to open my eyes and enjoy the scenery.

    That was the trajectory of my life in a nutshell.

    But at some point I asked myself: why not enjoy the ride? Why not open my eyes and have a blast? Loosen your grip on the bar, Holcomb, trust that the strap will hold you. Lean into the curves, accept the ups and downs, find something good to focus on instead of always expecting danger.

    So I did.

    Not all at once, but gradually.

    And one day I realized that the rush I was feeling was excitement, not anxiety. Exhilaration, not panic.

    It was all a matter of interpretation.

    Category Ain't Life Grand | Tags: ,,, | 2 Comments

  2. You’re Good to Go

    November 17, 2013 by Diane

    dentist chair

    When I sit in the dentist’s chair, that Naugahyde faux recliner that slowly motors backwards until my head is lower than my feet, when I grip the armrests to hold on so I don’t slide into the dentist’s lap, the last thing I want is to realize that the man behind the mask is more anxious than I am.

    I don’t want him to peer into my mouth, pause, and say…Uh-oh.

    Or…Oh my.

    Or…Why are your teeth…

    I don’t want him to start prodding my gums with his shiny clawed implements while muttering…Why is this happening?

    My instinct at such times is to hoist myself from the chair and make a quick exit past the potted fichus, snatching a couple of free toothbrushes from the basket on the counter on the way out the door.

    But instead I cling to the armrests, under that bright light, sweating.

    I try to smile encouragingly, but my lips stick to my teeth.

    I shrink as he leans in, sweating behind those giant plastic goggles. And just what are those goggles protecting him from? I don’t want to know.

    This is where visualization comes in handy. I close my eyes. I visualize myself running down the beach in slow motion, twirling in circles with arms outstretched to the heavens, drinking in the sunlight like gentle rain. I try to transport myself to a place other than the upside-down chair and pray that when I come back, when the dentist is done with his prodding and worrying and his running dialogue about the tooth that has twisted ninety degrees—or whatever other paranormal phenomenon he’s discovered in my mouth—I pray that he’ll motor me upright and lower his mask, and with that relieved look on his face, the look that hostages get when they’re released, he’ll say…you’re good to go!

    Good to go.

    Does any dentist say that, ever?

    It’s not that I’m afraid of dentists.

    I’m afraid of what they’ll find.

    I’m afraid of being imprisoned upside-down in that motorized chair and bleeding profusely. Not that it’s ever happened. But that’s the irrational fear I harbor.

    I don’t even mind the needle. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on my toes.

    I just don’t like the murmuring that goes on behind the dentist’s mask. All that murmuring! What’s he saying? Is something wrong?

    Diane, we need to…

    Always “we.” As if I have any part in the situation other than holding my mouth in an unnatural position for forty-five minutes, resisting the urge to chomp through his meaty fingers.

    We need to saw through this area here, and drill down to the jaw bone and extract some…

    Okay, I’ve never heard that phrase. But I fear it.

    Like most people on the planet, I don’t enjoy going to the dentist.

    Well…except for the free toothbrush. I take my time choosing. The green? The blue? The pink? The yellow? And then there are all those miniature tubes of toothpaste. Should I take the one for sensitive teeth? The one that whitens? The gel? The cream? And what about the miniature bottles of mouth wash? Should I take the one that promises minty breath for twenty-four hours, or the one that removes plaque?

    I’ve learned that if I hover over the basket of freebies long enough the dentist will give them all to me. As much as I can carry. So I stuff my purse, my pockets, and take two fistfuls and he needs to open the door for me, follow me to my car. Then there’s the matter of the key. The key is at the bottom of my purse. He rummages around in my purse to unearth it and…well, here’s the best part about going to the dentist. He pulls out a tampon. Maybe accidentally sets off the pepper spray in his face.

    Okay, none of that actually happens.

    But I dream about it, imprisoned in that chair under the bright light, my jaw permanently locked in an open position.  And nine times out of ten, because I brush after every meal and floss every night, all I suffer is a little scraping and a good motorized polish with a gritty substance that tastes like warm Orange Julius.

    Not bad.

    Not bad at all.

    Category Fer Cryin' Out Loud | Tags: ,,,,,,,, | 6 Comments

  3. Lions and Doggies and Me Oh My

    August 11, 2013 by Diane

    retro cartoon frau

    For three months in winter, after a lay off and with no foreseeable income in my immediate future, I grab my father’s generous offer and hole up with him, my stepmother, their rambunctious dog and a parakeet that sings the tequila sunrise song repeatedly until someone yells “shut up!” To clear my head, I bundle up and take long walks in the Sierra. This is the country of tall pines and air that I can bite and snow—lots of snow—and dogs that lunge and growl and bare their teeth as I pass by.

    I encounter what appears to be just such a dog on the final lap of my hike one morning, the moment I turn onto my father’s street. I see it crouching under one of those tall pines halfway between me and my father’s house.  It’s large. It’s yellow. If my reptilian brain was hazarding a guess—and it is—this large yellow doggie just might possibly be a mountain lion.

    I mentally review what to do when confronted with a Big Cat.

    First off, if a mountain lion decides it wants to eat you, you’re not going to know in advance. It won’t saunter in front of you and face off. These are ambush animals. They hide in the brush waiting for their next meal, and attack quickly. This animal isn’t hiding. It’s boldly waiting to devour me. So, Rule Number One: never walk alone.

    Too late.

    If you are walking alone, don’t bend down or limp. You don’t want to look like an easy target.

    I puff out my chest and stand tall.

    Rule Number Two: When you walk with a group, don’t peel off, for all the reasons cited in Rule Number One.

    I stand taller.

    Rule Number Three: If you are attacked, fight back. Gouge it in the eye with your thumb or finger. Yech! Slit its throat if you have a knife handy. I don’t. Bash it over the head if you have something really heavy and not just a stick.

    I scan the vicinity. There’s a good-sized twig in the underbrush, but I’d have to bend down to pick it up.

    Better yet…use pepper spray in its eyes.

    I make a mental note to buy pepper spray.

    Rule Number Four: If any member of your group peels off and bends down and gets attacked, refer to Rule Number Three.

    Which was?

    Rule Number Five: If by some miracle a mountain lion happens to wander across your path and takes the time to stare you down… Yes! Yes! …make yourself look really big.

    I’m only five feet four!

    Raise your arms.

     I do.

    Make loud noises and shout.

    “Scoot! Scat!”

    Don’t run away, especially if you limp. Hopefully this will make it go away. If instead it decides to sail twenty feet and sink its jaws into your face—which is what they do, they go for the head—give it an arm instead.

    How about the finger?

    Then refer to Rule Number Three.

    Which was???

    Thankfully, a man lumbers out of one of the houses. He looks up the road, sees me waving my arms, and waves back. Then he heads straight for the lion. Watch out! The animal springs into action.

    It wags its tail.

    It offers a friendly bark.

    Suddenly everything is clear.

    I’m facing off with a large golden retriever. An ancient, arthritic large golden retriever.

    I drop my arms and lower my head and wait for the man and his dog to disappear. Then I slouch onward, wondering if all my fears are nothing more than ancient arthritic golden retrievers.

     

    Category Fer Cryin' Out Loud | Tags: ,,,, | No Comments

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