The past year has been a journey. And we’re all on some kind of journey, sometimes made more difficult than it needs to be by all of the things seemingly happening everywhere, all of the time.

I may not know your journey, or what obstacles you may be facing, but here is mine. For the past six months or so, I’ve been recovering successfully from last year’s terrible flare up of my ulcerative colitis. But I still had a constellation of lingering issues. Most mornings I would wake up in a panic, feeling anxious, with nausea, and a deep sense of dread. I’d have panic attacks during the day, my heart pounding and feeling convinced I was having a heart attack. I was horribly fatigued, all of the time, even though my inflammation was healing. On paper, everything was fine. Even so, I ended up in the ER one oddly snowy March afternoon, only to be sent home with an Ativan and a panic attack diagnosis.

At first, I was absolutely convinced the doctors were wrong, and that something catastrophic was happening to me. That I would never, ever be healthy again. I felt like my body had betrayed me in a way far beyond the colitis. I was obsessed with tracking my heart rate, blood pressure, etc. I saw an endocrinologist and a cardiologist. The endocrinologist suggested talking to my psychiatrist about my medication. “Not that it’s all in your head,” he said, followed by some mush of words that ended with “but this doesn’t seem to be an endocrinology issue.”

I eventually settled on the idea that this was just some sort of new normal for being 42 with colitis. I dug into therapy, unpacking the sources of my health anxiety and trying to accept that I need to live my life while not feeling well most of the time. I began meditating more. We got a cargo e-Bike and I started biking the kids to school and daycare. I tried very hard to accept myself and how I felt. I didn’t get it right all of the time, but I made some progress. My mantra became “maybe my relief won’t come in a pill.” Maybe it was harder work, more interior work.

And despite it all, we still travelled. I still played with the kids. I still went to work.

Still, I had a nagging feeling that I was missing a piece of the puzzle. There was something going on that was making me feel overly anxious and tired. Sure, the world was stressful, sure I was still healing from inflammation, but I just didn’t feel right, and I wasn’t satisfied that this would just be my new normal.

A month ago, I got the shingles (the hits keep coming) and had a telemedicine appointment with my doctor. I almost offhandedly mentioned that I was still frustrated by the mysterious morning anxiety symptoms, and that nothing we’d done had seemingly helped. We also discussed my stubborn high blood pressure. I mentioned that my dad had that as well, but he never got it treated. I also knew he had sleep apnea, which again, was untreated. I said that my wife had mentioned I had been snoring a lot lately. My doctor’s ears perked up and she suggested I take an at-home sleep test. “I’m going to feel stupid if after all of these tests, it turns out you have sleep apnea,” she said.

I took the at-home sleep test and it turns out I do indeed have obstructive sleep apnea. A week ago I received a CPAP machine. While it has not magically cured me of everything, I have more energy, I am in a better mood, and the morning panic is beginning to recede a bit. I don’t know exactly how many of my issues will resolve over time, but for the first time in a year I feel hopeful. And that is a gift. Before I started CPAP therapy, I remember thinking that if this improved my symptoms by even just 25%, it would be a miracle. What would be your 25%?

For me, it was needing sleep. Actual sleep. I needed to be able to sleep without suffocating. I was waking up 18-21 times per hour needing to breathe, my body flooded with adrenaline to keep me alive. I wasn’t just tired, I was ground down and exhausted. And I probably had been for years. Sort of like trying to explain what the color green looks like to me, I had no good way of understanding that the tiredness I was feeling was actually more than should be expected for a parent of young children. The fatigue was worse than what should be expected for someone with ulcerative colitis.

And the relief, ultimately, didn’t come in a pill. It came in a machine that my oldest son says makes me look like a rebel pilot from Star Wars. It came from accepting some things, taking a pause, and listening (me to my wife, and my wife to my snoring).

Our journeys, whatever they may be, are hard. They can be steep, and progress is almost never linear. And sometimes, there’s something behind the scenes that’s making everything much harder. Something you need, or something you need to let go of.

When I was learning how to manage my health anxiety, which is still a work in progress, I started asking myself a question: “Considering everything going on, does how I feel right now make sense?” I found that question to be grounding in a way that was helpful. I hope maybe it can serve you in some way as well.

My journey is not over, and I know in some ways it’s just beginning. I hope your journey, whatever it may be, makes some quiet progress amid a world that too often feels chaotic. May you get the sleep that you need.

As ever,
Dave