Why are you still here?

So it's 2013...where did 2012 go? I wonder myself.

How do we deal with anxiety attacks? I've been having this nightmarish experience for almost 7 years now. I've always thought I was strong, calm, and can handle everything. I guess, I was wrong.

It all started on that ordinary morning back in 2007. I was fast asleep....away from it all. When suddenly came the thudding. I ignored it. My heart kept pressing on my chest. It was hard to ignore. I opened my eyes. The room started to swing. Everything was moving in circles. I told myself to stay calm while I prayed. It went on and on, and finally, I decided to wake up Ef. I told him what was going on, and I said that I thought I was having a heart attack. He tried to keep me in calm state. But I started getting scared. The vertigo won't go away. My heart was racing. I could feel the blood run through my veins. Every sound and every movement in the room was magnified a hundred times. That was around 3 AM. A few minutes later, the doctors came with an ambulance. I was rushed to the ER. I had never been so scared in my life.

I was released that very same day. The doctors couldn't find anything wrong with me. They attributed it all to what they decided as symptoms of panic attack. I didn't know whether I should be pleased or more scared. I decided to be pleased. I was healthy, and it was probably a panic attack. No big deal. Next time, I know how to handle it. Or so I thought.

The second attack came a year later. It was just before midnight. I was watching the late night news. Then my heart started to pound again. I felt cold... extremely cold. I started to shake. After going through what felt like a non-stop convulsion for 10 minutes, I decided to call my friend C. She asked me if I could walk. I said, I could. She came 5 minutes later and drove me to the hospital. I was all cold, pale, couldn't breath, heart beating almost thrice as fast. I thought I was going to die that night.

I have outlived the attack. They sent me home, but thought that it was wise to send me to a neurologist. The neurologist didn't find anything. They decided it was possibly a panic attack.

The third one came last year. Two weeks after Ef was buried, I went through the same ordeal again. Only this time, it was a combination of the first and second attacks. And because I didn't and couldn't recognize the symptoms, I called again some friends and had asked them to take me to the hospital. At the hospital, they found nothing. I was sent home. My friends decided to keep me that evening at their place. The next day, I was ok-ish again.

This January I had again another severe attack. I was fast asleep. I woke up with a very fast heart beat. It caught me offguard. I didn't think for a moment that it was another anxiety attack because my heart was beating close to 200 hundred per minute. I tried calling my friends. Nobody was picking up. I called my brother and sister, they didn't pick up. Finally, I decided to call 112 (911). A few minutes later, a doctor and his assistant was at my house.

He took my pulse and blood pressure. He instantly administered an oral medication for the heart. He called an ambulance. He tried to calm me down and sat beside me inside the ambulance. He was asking questions about the Philippines. I could barely talk but I tried giving him answers.

When I was finally at the hospital, they checked everything again. Lungs were normal. ECG and EKG stabilized and back to normal. BP is back to normal. Pulse also back to normal. The cardiologist said there was nothing wrong with the heart and I could go home.

So I went home again. But eversince that attack last January, I noticed that I have panic attacks almost everyday already. And sometimes, even during the day. Because I'm alone and am too freaked out to sleep, I try to stay awake.

So I became and still am a regular visitor at my family doctor's clinic. I have pride of course. I feel like that child who cried wolf. I don't know how to deal with the attacks. I have medicines and breathing exercises. But now, the doctors are treating three things. My anxiety attacks, lack of sleep, and mild depression.

Whenever I go and see my family physician, he would smile emphatically and has only these words to say to me. "Why are you still here? Don't you want to go home to your country?"

You're probably wondering the same thing. I'll tell you what I always tell him. "My story here is not yet finished. My home is nowhere. Help me find it again."

still blogging.

I wonder... Should I write it here? Post it here? Should I blog about my story? Not to make myself look like a victim, but just to tell my story....

When one stands face to face with the wall...
suffers in silence....
When one's pain is unbearable...
one's hope is dwindling away...

There is blogging.

So... I wonder. I understand that speculating is not really a very productive way to stay in the race. I understand that life's not fair. I understand that I'm not a victim. And I understand what Ghandi said about "nobody can hurt me without my permission."  I understand all these things.

And yet.

There are days when I want to run, run, run.
There are days when I wish things had been different.
There are days when I want my grief to go away.
There are days when I want people to listen.

There are those days when I question.

Why are they blaming me for his death?
Why are they taking everything away from me?
Why are they being so cruel to me?
Why can't I even bury my dead?
Why?

And so... my pain
my grief
my agony
my tears

They will always seek justice.
From whom?
From what?
From where?

I don't know.

But there's blogging.... and it's good enough for now.

Grief.

Dealing with grief is perhaps one of the most difficult things in life.

When Hubby met an accident and passed away on April 1st, my life has been on-hold. It has been like that for the past 6 weeks now. Some days are betters days... but there are those days & moments that had been quite devastating and difficult.

In the midst of this emotional turmoil, there are some people who thought they know better and told me how I should feel. There were also those people who had shown greed, pretense, unscrupulousness, and fake compassion.

Others have stayed away like I'm a terrifying leper from the Biblical times. And a chosen few have been so sympathetic and have said & done the kindest thing. Even in grieving, I have learnt a great deal about about life, people around me, and also about myself.

For example, losing Hubby has taught me that my grief is my own. No one knows how I feel or what I should feel. I can't even tell myself how to feel. The pain is raw and it goes with me 24/7.

So how do we deal with grief? That's the big question.

Garden talk.

So I was sitting outside with some new acquaintances in this beautiful garden west of Edinburgh. The sky all blue, the wind blowing everything away, and I was in deep thought when my attention was suddenly caught by someone speaking with a very distinct, Scottish accent.

Lady 1: I was at my GP today. You know what I read on her notice board? An article about angry people being more prone to having cancer.

Lady 2: (wide-eyed)  Really?

Guy 1: That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.

Lady 1: It absolutely makes a lot sense.

Guy 1: Nonsense!

Lady 2:  (somewhat confused now.)

Lady 1: Well, it says in that article that when people are angry, their bodies tend to produce more toxins.

Guy 1:  That's rubbish. Mother Theresa died of cancer. I don't think she's one hell of an angry person, was she?


Everybody fell in thoughtful silence. While I was trying to recall what caused Mother Theresa's death, I couldn't help but smile. This is Scotland, the land of the brave.

Dutch treat.

I posted a status on Facebook about April Fool's Day and how the expression Op een april verloor Alva zijn bril.



"On April 1, 1572 Dutch rebels captured the town of Den Briel from Spanish troops led by Lord Alva. This military success eventually led to the independence of the Netherlands from Spain. A Dutch rhyme goes: "Op 1 april/ Verloor Alva zijn Bril." This translates to: "On April 1st / Alva lost his 'glasses'". "Bril" means glasses in Dutch, but is also a pun on the name of the town, Den Briel. It is claimed that the tradition of pranks on April 1st arose to commemorate the victory in Den Briel and humiliation of the Spanish commander."



I got some reactions from friends who were inquiring about the origin of the phrase GOING DUTCH. So I googled and here's what I found:



A Dutch door (American English), or stable door (British English), or half door (Hiberno English), is a door divided horizontally in such a fashion that the bottom half may remain shut while the top half opens. The initial purpose of this door was to keep animals out of farmhouses, or keep children inside, while allowing light and air to filter through the open top.

It is said that it was from this concept that the phrase "going Dutch" originated, a term that indicates that each person participating in a group activity pays for himself, rather than any one person paying for anyone else, particularly in a restaurant bill. It is also called Dutch date and Dutch Treat.




In the United States, during the advent of second wave feminism, 1960s and 1970s, the Women's Movement encouraged women to pay their own way or to pay for men's meals. It is accepted by some that, on a date between a woman and man, the man takes initiative when it comes to paying the bill, meaning he is the one to pay


In the Philippines, it is referred to as KKB; an acronym for "Kanya-kanyang bayad" which means "pay for your own self".