Our dog Abby suffered from Astraphobia,
an abnormal fear of thunder and lightning--although she never called it that, at
least not out loud. With the heightened sensory perception all dogs have, Abby
knew when a storm was brewing and would start pacing the house hours in
advance, searching for a safe place to hide that didn't exist. Fearless when it
came to strange dogs or mailmen who dared approach our mailbox, Abby was
terrified of thunder, shaking and quaking under the desk as she pressed herself
against the wall. Even the warm presence of her sister Phoebe hiding beside her
offered no comfort. Holding Abby close, soothing her in a calm voice, had no
effect. The fact that thunder had never caused her a single injury didn't
matter. This pattern persisted for eleven years until Abby succumbed to cancer
one Halloween night.
Abby was as
smart as a dog could be, at least in my limited experience (I hope Phoebe isn't
reading this. Sorry, old girl), but she didn't understand that thunder couldn't
hurt her. She also didn't understand that cancer could hurt her, but that would have been asking too much. I can't
say her fear was irrational as I'm not a dog, but I can say that it was a lot
of wasted energy and unnecessary anguish. It made me think-- what was my thunder?
Don't we each have our own thunder, some irrational fear holding us back, keeping
us from our best possible life?
My mother
was afraid of lightning, planes, and evil people--but not in that order.
Knowing that statistically her fears didn't warrant the time she spent on them didn't
stop her, no, she was determined, a professional worrier with a reputation to
uphold. Nobody was going to out-worry her, dammit. Getting her on a plane was always
an ordeal. She would tell us how she was nervous, or she wouldn't tell us, but then
remind us over and over how much she loved us, as if we were parting company
forever. When I pointed out how silly this was, how she didn't flip out every
time she rode in a car, she would shake her head at my ignorance. At least you
can survive a car accident she would
reply, Needless to say, she didn't die from lightning, planes, or evil people.
It was cancer.
Of course, I
could walk around afraid of cancer; that would be logical, but not productive.
Day-to-day though, what was I afraid of? Failure--that was a big one. Running out of
time was becoming a theme when I realized my mother died when she was nine
years older than I am now. Losing my memory terrifies me too. But fear of not
living up to my own expectations may just be the winner.
What if I
could let go of the fear and seize the joy I know is in there? The joy that
elbows her way out when a baby laughs, a Blue Jay chases a squirrel away, or
someone tells a funny joke. That joy I feel wading in the ocean, sand squishing
between my toes, walking beside my husband and children. It takes practice,
finding joy. It's not like you can wrestle her to the ground and pin her there
like a WWE champ, you have to be gentle, coax her to walk with you. But don't
forget to smile. She scares easy.
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