My family and I were 9,000 feet up in the Rockies, having a great time as usual. It always takes me a day or so to adjust, but water, Advil, and acetazolamide shorten the altitude’s negative side effects. This time, however, I just wasn’t feeling like myself. I was short of breath and fatigued to an abnormal extent. I made a mental note and went on with the fun.
Upon returning home, I continued all my activities, but something was amiss. I asked my general practitioner what might be wrong, and he sent me for a cardiac calcification test. The CC test takes all of about five minutes and is easy peasy. Since I was having no angina, we expected everything to be fine. Anything up to a score of 100 is mild calcification and no big deal. A score up to 400 means you need to change some practices. Above 400 indicates severe calcification and requires further testing. I’ve always been an overachiever, and my score was 850. So, I went to see a cardiologist, who said we would skip the traditional radioactive stress test and do an exploratory heart catheterization to see what was going on.
I wasn’t excited about a camera running from my groin to my heart, but I also wasn’t overly concerned. The procedure was a story fit for a sitcom. I was too awake most of the time and kept asking them to knock me out. I could also hear them talking, and that was entirely unpleasant as they chatted about strategy while I was in an anesthetic stupor. What was supposed to be 30 minutes ended up being 2 ½ hours, and I woke up with three brand new springs around my heart! (Stents) It turns out my left anterior descending artery was 100% blocked in one place and 85% blocked in two more places. I was a walking time bomb!
Oh, the stories I could tell about recovery. Everyone else was out of it—moaning, complaining, belching, and passing gas—and they rolled me in, sitting up and waving like a homecoming nominee on the back of a convertible. I spent the night in the hospital so they could monitor me since they literally drilled (new tech) through the 100% blockage. The next day, my surgeon came in and told me I was very fortunate to have avoided a major widow-maker heart attack. He also warned me that sometimes heart procedures can bring on anxiety problems. Ha! I don’t do anxiety.
A couple of months later, I was driving to work when a dark, ominous cloud entered my truck. My heart was racing, my chest was hurting, and I was sweating. I pulled over to the side of the freeway and called my wife. She informed me that I was having an anxiety attack (she’s a P.A.). I informed her right back that I wasn’t having an anxiety attack but that I was dying on I-20! I drove to Big Baylor and checked in through emergency. They took me in, wired me up, drew my blood, and did an EKG. As luck would have it, my surgeon was there. He sashayed into the room with a grin and said, “I told you anxiety might come to visit.”
Anxiety! Me? Anxiety is for the weak, right? I’m a “pull myself up by the bootstraps” kinda guy. Unfortunately, it kept happening. It never asked my permission, and it was totally unpredictable. Even worse, nothing was wrong, and nothing was bothering me (except for people asking me what was wrong!). I always knew anxiety was real, but I had no idea of its power. I finally asked my doctor for help, and he put me on sertraline. Anxiety handled. He told me to exercise. Done. He told me to eat better. I did. He told me to lower stress. Well…
I had to take off my mask. I had to quit pretending I was okay and that I had it under control. It was necessary to ask for help. The shame I felt for “being weak” was the voice of ignorance at least and the voice of the devil at most. We don’t tell our pancreas to get it together when we require insulin for life. We don’t tell our livers to “pull themselves up by the bootstraps” when we need statins. We don’t call people wimps when they need an inhaler for asthma. So why do we tell folks to “just get over it” when their brain needs a little help? The brain is an organ, and sometimes organs of all types need support. I can’t tell my eyeballs to just move on and man up. Those organs need glasses!
This Halloween season, we’re going to see some scary masks. But the masks that cover up struggles with mental health are the spookiest of all because they keep us stuck behind a façade of “I’m okay.” It’s all right to be vulnerable, to be human. We all experience stress, anxiety, sadness, burnout, and more. The stigma of struggle keeps us trapped behind masks of shame and embarrassment. Asking for help is not a display of weakness but a show of strength and courage in facing struggles head-on.
Here are a few tips for protecting your mental health:
- Break the silence. Talk with someone you trust.
- Acknowledge your feelings. Feel and process.
- Seek professional help from your doctor or therapist.
- Set some limits. Create boundaries. Learn to say no when needed.
- Practice self-care. Exercise, read, do yoga, fish, sit on the porch, vacation.
- Support and validate others in their struggles.
My daughter was a high school dancer, and her senior year we did the annual father/daughter performance dance. That year, I had to wear a mask. I couldn’t see a dadgum thing. My vision was totally distorted. I was faking my way through.
This Halloween season, I encourage you to take off the mask. Embrace your mental health with courage, honesty, and strength. Throw the shame and stigma in the trash. Create for yourself an environment of openness, healing, and vitality.
Blessings,
Eric Cupp