Meltdowns I Have Known
Meltdowns are humiliating, especially if they happen in public, as they so often do.
One of my more spectacular meltdowns occurred during a parent-teacher conference at Younger Son’s school. He was in third grade, so this was eight years ago.
It was the Monday after my second chemo treatment ever, back in the winter of 1998. I worked from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m., ran a couple of errands, then went to my son's school for a 2:30 p.m. parent-teacher conference. The family in the time slot ahead of us arrived late, and then took 50 minutes for their 20-minute conference.
And I fell apart. I started crying, and complaining to the teacher that I was just too tired for this and it was really unfair to make us wait so long. It was so humiliating. But I couldn’t help it. Classic meltdown.
The causes, of course, are pretty clear. I was too tired. I was fatigued from chemo. I had already done too much that day. I should have left, rather than wait for more than an hour, but when I suggested leaving, Robin started to cry. So I stayed. And then I cried.
I’ve had a few smaller, garden-variety meltdowns more recently, in the grocery store. I was there, despite being tired (read: exhausted, chemo-tired) because Younger Son (he’s getting all the bad press here, but he was not responsible for my meltdowns, just a bystander) insisted that there was NO FOOD IN THE HOUSE, and I, even though I knew I was too tired, went to the grocery store with him.
There is something about grocery stores when you are exhausted—the lights are too bright, there is too much stimulation (all those products shouting “buy me!”), too many choices (blueberry bagels, or plain?), other people are frazzled and in the low-blood-sugar zone, making them push and shove to get to the green peas or the soda.
So there I was, pushing a full cart while my son ambled along doing nothing, and I just lost it. Just like that. I said to him—in the produce section—“Either you help, or I am walking out of the store and leaving you here.”
He did, and we got the food and made it home, where I retreated to my bed to collapse.
The lesson: I knew I was too tired to go out again that day. But I was being a mom, and pushed myself past the point of no return. Now, when I’m tired and Younger Son demands food, I hand him a twenty and point him toward the store.
I also had a smallish meltdown on the day my dermatologist called to tell me the mole he had removed from my arm was melanoma. Actually, this meltdown started as soon as I got his phone message, “Ms. Sather, I need to talk to you about your test results.” When the test results are fine, they ALWAYS tell you so in the voice mail.
So I was already a wreck before I even dialed his number to call him back. But of course, doctors can never come to the phone when you call them, so then I had to wait for a return call. And waiting for bad news is so hard. It never gets any easier, and I’ve had a lot of bad news over the past eight-plus years.
I immediately put in calls to two of my closest friends. One talked with me on the phone, and the other came over to walk the dogs with me. That was enough to take the edge off of it, but I was spacey and weird for a couple more days. Shocked. Reeling from the simple fact that I had a second cancer.
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@ Jeanne Sather 2007.
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