Grieving on the Mat, Part One

Nine months ago, in February, I had an emergency appendectomy. (Are appendectomies ever not emergencies? Does anyone ever think, I’m just gonna have my appendix removed as a preventative measure…? )

It was my first time in an emergency room, first time under general anesthesia, first surgery, first time as a patient in a hospital.

It did not go well.

Right before going under anesthesia, I had my first full-blown anxiety attack. I’ve struggled with anxiety before, but not in an acute physical way: pulse racing, lungs closing, can’t breathe, body shaking, mind spinning panic.

The doctor warned me that the emotional state I was in when I went under would likely be the state I’d be in when I came to.

She was right: I woke up from surgery having an anxiety attack as well. Upon crying and gasping and shaking myself awake, I heard the aesthetician say, “We’re just gonna give you a little more time,” saw him adjust something running through my IV, and then I was out again.

I healed from the physical part of the procedure just fine. The doctor said I could go back to normal exercise within a week. Pretty much anything was allowed…except yoga. The only thing I could not do was yoga. For a month.

Of course, yoga is a huge part of how I manage anxiety and mental health. So, after the hospital visit, I began having more panic attacks, often in public. I would sense one coming and bolt–to the car, or the bathroom, or outside–and had my attacks where no one could see.

The first time I went back to yoga after the hospital visit (after 3 weeks–I just couldn’t wait any longer), I was feeling pretty good. I told my teacher, Erin (my most consistent regular), that I was back for the first time since surgery. She was cool, supportive. I was trucking away, feeling positive and strong…

…and then we got on the floor.

In one of the early floor poses, I felt a strain around the incision and stopped cold. It felt shocking. It felt like I’d been hit by a car. I stopped what I was doing, sucked in my breath, and the memories of being in the hospital flooded me.

I had trouble breathing. The room started to spin. I felt like the walls were moving in on me, getting closer and closer.

I looked up at my instructor and started crying. I just wanted to collapse. I felt so much anxiety coming and thought it would be a good idea to bolt for the bathroom.

“Come here,” she said, while everyone else was holding the pose.

And I did. I let her embrace me and I sobbed.

“Stay on your mat,” she whispered.

“Lay down on your mat and breathe and don’t run away.”

“I want it back,” was my reply, even though I didn’t know what I meant as I said it.

“What do you want back?” she asked.

I didn’t know.

I laid back down on my mat. I just laid there and sometimes whimpered out tears, but otherwise just breathed. I heard a bit of whispering, no doubt my classmates wondering what in the world…?

But I also felt a boatload of concern and love and empathy sent my way: no judgement or annoyance. This class was legit full of grace.

At the end of class Erin said something I’ll never forget:

“Old stuff, old bodies. Who needs ’em anymore?”

I realized, later, when I’d said “I want it back,” I could have been referring to my goddamned appendix.

But I think, really, I wanted me: me, before that shitty hospital trip and surgery and anxiety.

Isn’t that how it works each day we keep living? Shit happens. And it’s traumatic and changes you. And it’s painful, so it seems bad and the changes seem bad.

But by telling me to stay on my mat and not run from the grief, Erin taught me that trying to hang onto the past is a futile effort, blocking space for what is now and what is coming.