I walked into my office this morning, which is at the front of my home, facing the street. Parked at the end of my driveway was an EMS vehicle. I froze. Anxiety gripped my chest, and I took a sharp, painful breath in.
Suddenly, I was in my living room. It was the final week of August 2021. Two of the largest human beings I have ever seen barely fit themselves through the front door. My dad became lucid for the first time in days.
“Jesus Christ,” Dad said “Look at the size of these guys!”
“Hey Oscar, how ya doin’ buddy?” the gargantuan man asked as he approached my dad.
I stood there rubbing my eyes, trying to be sure that what I saw was real. These impossibly large men were first responders— firefighters— to be exact. I called 911 because I realized my dad was actively dying, and we needed help.
As quickly as this image filled my reality, it was replaced with the hospital parking garage. Now, it was April 2021, my birthday, which also happened to be my dad’s first day of chemotherapy. We had spent several hours in the hospital for his first chemo treatment, and when we got back to my car— he stopped breathing. To say the day wound up chaotic and traumatic is an understatement.
The precise moment I found myself in was when the shock hit. My dad was being tended to by paramedics. I was frozen, staring down an aisle of concrete and cars. The edges of my vision were clouding, and a voice penetrated the dense whooshing and ringing in my ears:
“Sarah… Sarah… HEY… Sarah, hey… HEY… listen, I need you to breathe. Sarah. Sarah, you’re holding your breath. I need you to breathe,” the concerned peace officer’s face filled my line of sight. His arm reached toward me as I began to stagger backward into my car.
Next, I found myself staggering backward in my office. My chest burning from holding my breath for the last god-knows how long. I caught my footing, grabbed the chair and steadied myself.
Today is March 19, 2024. I’m in my office. I see the blinds and curtains. I can see my desk and chair. I can feel the laminate floor beneath my feet. The floor is cold. My feet are freezing. I can feel the slipcover in my fingers. My hands are sweaty. I can hear the cats meowing. One is knocking something off of something. I am here now. I am here now. I am right here right now. It’s ok.
Flashbacks.
Breathe, Sarah. You have to breathe.
One moment, you’re in the here and now— and the next you’ve travelled through space and time. You’re in the midst of a traumatic moment, reliving it. Some triggers are easy to spot. Like today— the EMS vehicle parked just feet from my home— the way it was only 2 and a half years ago as my dad was slowly dying in front of me.
Fortunately, instances like these are few and far between now. I can’t even begin to articulate how grateful I am for that. It’s jarring. And an incredible testament to how powerful our minds are— for better or worse.
Every breath I take right now as I write this feels the same as after a long, hard run. I’ve had to remind myself to breathe several times. Typing out these scenarios vacuumed me into them yet again. So much so, I needed to step away from this for a few hours to gather myself.
"One moment, you’re in the here and now— and the next you’ve travelled through space and time." @Sarah Wettberg, yes! Thank you for sharing this. ❤️ ❤️
For me, some are strongly visual like yours. But the ones that really disorientate me are the ones that are not attached to specific memory, the emotional flashbacks. I get a sense of general age, like I can tell if it's very young age, prepubescent, or teen years, or elsewhere along the timeline. But I don't know what specific event it's attached to.
Sometimes the visual memory will come to me later, or I'll be able to connect it to a visual I already have but I often find myself detached from, like I'm watching it from a distance.
Smell can also bring memories to me, but they are peaceful and pretty magical, mostly of Japan. I don't mind being transported back there.
Taking long deep breaths with you my friend. Thank you for always sharing the vulnerable bits with us, it’s a gift. 🤍