Today, I was reminded of my medical trauma and that it applies to anyone sick in my life-including Sophie.

Most of my readers know my history. My dad was shot when I was 12 years old and spent the rest of his life facing a series of challenging health problems. When I say challenging, I mean repetitive episodes of heart failure, ventricular fibrillation, and ultimately two heart transplants. Understandably, I feel a lot of trauma related to those experiences. I have noticed my heart rate elevates as soon as I enter an emergency room. When I see sick people-particularly cardiac sick, I have the urge to run away.

As my kids were growing up, my medical anxiety manifested anytime my little ones were sick. James really cornered the market on sickness having both repetitive ear infections and asthma. I learned how to manage my feelings mostly by being really vigilant and listening to those around me who who reassured me that his stuff was all pretty normal.

Ultimately, I taught myself to under-react to James’s asthma which, because of its acute nature, was really triggering. On one occasion, I can remember taking him to the pediatrician when he was struggling with a cold and respiratory difficulties. The entire ride to the doctor I imagined James’s dad rolling his eyes and asking me if I was overreacting to a cold. I was just able to stop myself from apologizing to the pediatrician for bringing him in when she calmly told me he needed to head to the hospital immediately. You can imagine how horrified I was. Luckily, he was a healthy boy and was able to get better quickly.

Now in middle age, I give myself some grace for my feelings. Truthfully, I have earned this anxiety legitimately. There were times when I was banging on my dad’s chest, calling 911, and ushering students out of the house after his internal AICD had triggered, sending shocks across the room. Living with and near my dad for the final 25 years of his life made me fearful of sickness and preoccupied by death.

Apparently this is not just limited my human family. Sophie reluctantly got up yesterday and didn’t touch her breakfast before heading back to bed. At first, I told myself she was just overtired from a long day at the beach. After, hours of increased lethargy and noticing she wasn’t taking water, I started to panic. She was not herself at all. I made rice and chicken and she wouldn’t even sniff it. Following my instincts, I put her in the car and brought her to the vet’s in Gorron. I knew they were closing soon, so I just scooped her up and went in.

The woman at the front desk, told me it was too late and she would schedule me an appointment for the next morning. With all my might, I tried to communicate in French how concerned I was. It worked! The lovely vet came out and asked me to bring her back for an examination. He was able to see that she had significant abdominal pain and a temperature. She wouldn’t take water so he injected her with an antibiotic/pain killer and sent us home with oral antibiotics and a chalky fluid to ease her stomach pain. He told me if she didn’t eat or drink the next day that I would have to bring her back for x-rays and bloodwork.

We returned home and I got some chalky stuff down her throat and she ate a bit of rice and drank some water. I spread out towels on my bed, and she climbed in next to me. We lay next to each other and I woke up no fewer than 7 times to check that she was still breathing.

Today my girl is wagging her tail a bit more and she ate her breakfast. My anxiety has started to diminish. I’m not going to give myself a hard time for feeling so freaked out. I am a product of my experience and my medical experiences have been pretty extraordinary.