My first anxiety attack and the “Damn Good” cookie that it produced.

My Facebook post from December 15, 2010 read like this,

So, our first Christmas without Justin was probably not the best time to rework the gingerbread recipe. Was unprepared for the evocative qualities that the alchemy of molasses and spice possess, ghosts of Christmas past crowd the kitchen. Despite the haunts, I believe we have a pretty good cookie. Not great for intricate cutouts, but its got that warm and spicy, crisp yet soft thing happening.

Such a calm post, what follows next is what I didn’t write, the reality of that afternoon.

Cookie baking defined our Advent and Christmas preparations. My mother was of German descent and we grew up with gingerbread houses and boxes of cookie cutters, intricate cutters that required the dough to be just right and endless patience to paint and sugar the designs. We grew up with the three cardinal cookies of Christmas according to my mother, Lebkuchen, Pfeffernüsse, and the queen of the three, Springerle. Many children do not like deeply spiced, not overly sweet traditional recipes, but for us, they were

Christmas. We ground our own Cardamom, that first whiff of fresh Cardamom takes me right back to a table filled with flour and spices. Mom was very particular about sifting and blending, she could feel with her fingers if the texture was going to be right. She allowed us endless hours at the dining room table with egg white, paint brushes, and colored sugars to decorate the cut-out cookies. I dreamed of a houseful of little ones, so that I could do the same thing for my children, to give them a love of cookie magic.

The boys did and still do love cookies. Justin has recipes handwritten in his notebooks, he would sit and ask me questions, always asking did I happen to write down what I did, I always meant to, the little changes, the tweaking here and there of a recipe. They both could be left with a batch of dough and could roll out and bake them as well as I.  As they grew older, my greatest joy was to box up cookies and ship them to wherever they may be, college, a Naval base, I hoped that they could feel the love that went into each cookie, that it reminded them of good things.

That first Christmas after Justin’s death is a blur. I only remember moments. We were still very underemployed, using up our retirement savings, humbled by the gift cards we would receive anonymously in the mail. Charity can be an extreme burden I found. The weight of proper stewardship weighed heavily, I splurged on molasses and brown sugar. I learned a very important lesson, charity is not just about meeting the needs of the body, the soul must be fed also. The instinctive drive to bake was overwhelming, I look back and understand that it was a survival instinct, the kitchen is my safety zone, a refuge. Which made what happened all the more frightening in a way, for grief breached walls that were supposed to be safe.

I had heated the molasses and added brown sugar, few things smell more wonderful than gently warmed sugars, except for when the spices hit that warmth and bloom, the heat releasing the oils and intensifying the aroma. Cinnamon, ginger, allspice, notes of cardamom, crashed around me and my heart took off. I could not breathe for the weight on my chest, compounded by a racing heart, unable to take a deep breath. Shallow breathing intensifies the anxiety, panic sets in from not being able to get a breath from the bottom of your lungs, your legs feel like jelly, your head is pounding, you are crushed. I can remember screaming internally that Justin would never come home again, the scent of the spices and his empty chair, realizing he would never be home for Christmas, there would never be any grandchildren and stories, no dark curly head hanging over the couch with a book. I slid all the way to the floor, panic had set in and I had no where to go with it. Pride prevents you from calling anyone, fear keeps you from honesty. I had been told I was so strong, strong people don’t melt down over cinnamon. Fear of being told that I should call my doctor, they have a pill for that you know. So I sat on the floured floor, with the pup, and the cats, sobbing and wheezing, thinking that if I died from a heart attack, it wouldn’t be the worse thing, death would be release from the pain of loss.

Eventually your breathing slows, your heart stops pounding, exhaustion sets in, the toll that the chemical dump takes on your system is huge. I thought of my mother, she made the most beautiful wedding cakes. We would often tease her about her “tier” cakes, for

there were always real tears involved. She would meltdown, swear, cry, and maybe go to bed, but she would get back up and conquer whatever problem had crossed her. Not one cake ever beat her. So I wrapped my arms around the ever vigilant Micah and got up. I cried the rest of the day, but the dough got made, nothing was wasted. I remember the waves of anxiety that hit me as the cookies baked, that aroma even more intense than the dough, warm and spicy, how that scent would always bring the boys to the kitchen. How paradoxical that a scent that generated so much comfort and security, could evoke such panic and sorrow.

We have hit the perfect recipe this year, I will share it tomorrow. I am grateful for what this cookie has taught me, that it is important to take notes and change only one thing at a time, you cannot hurry the process. Grief is a lot like building a recipe, one step at a time, change one thing at a time and see how it fits, and that it takes years to get to a place where you can breathe. Most importantly I learned that we need people willing to sit on the floor with us, to be helpless, to just sit with the animals and flour, to not fear the mess of life.

I still get anxiety episodes, not as frequent. I try to step outside myself to see where and why it is happening. Often is because I have erred in proper self-care. I have not been true to my needs for rest and quiet, skipped my vitamins, skimped on protein, all those things play a role in our balance. I reach for my lavender and aromatherapy blends, steep herb tea instead of “just one more cup of coffee”, I ignore the “I shoulds” and jingle the leash and go for a walk with my good friend. And I breathe.