Have you ever had a panic attack? All of us know something about anxiety. We might even know a few tricks for dealing with it. But, I wonder how many of you have experienced anxiety to such a degree that you thought you were going to die. An estimated 2-3% of Americans have panic disorder at some point in their lives. Although I have not experienced anxiety to that degree, Pierce Taylor Hibbs has. He writes about it in his book, Struck Down but Not Destroyed. His anxiety disorder began to develop at the age of 20, when his father died, but it got dramatically worse a few years later.
“I was back at college, waiting on the curb outside one of the dormitories for my girlfriend at the time, Christina, who is now my wife (another impossibility made possible). I remember the comfortable evening air hanging over the campus. As I took in the smell of fresh-cut grass and a hint of smoke from a nearby cigarette, a wave of heat crept down from my head and rushed through my back and legs. My breath grew shallow; my throat closed up, and I couldn’t swallow.
“As she walked towards me, I struggled to stand up in a world that now felt like a great spinning ball. “Um, I’m having a panic attack.” I didn’t even know what that meant; I just knew I needed help—fast. I begged her to drive me to the hospital, thinking there would be some consolation in that, but every step I took towards the car added tension in my chest and shoulders. Within a matter of seconds, the whole world looked black and foreign and terrifying.
I knew it as soon as we started driving: I was going to die, right here in this car on the way to a hospital in Hershey, Pennsylvania. This was it.
I’d love to tell you that I met that moment with resolve, but that would be a lie. I wasn’t brave. I was paralyzed with panic. Something very bad seemed to grip my whole mind and body and squeeze.
The next twenty minutes were hell on wheels. A few miles into the car ride I started yelling and calling out for help, moaning and gasping for air. An eighteen-wheeler churned down the dark country road ahead of us.
“Can you go around him!?”
“It’s a double line!”
Christina was crying, but I couldn’t think about calming down for her sake. Panic makes you blind and deaf to anything except your own preservation. With the little air I had in my lungs, I yelled, “Please, just GO AROUND HIM!” She pushed the petal to the floor, both of us hoping that no one was around the bend in the opposite lane.
I took out my phone and dialed 911. I’ll never forget that conversation with the operator.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“Yea, I’m having a panic attack, and I can’t breathe.”
“Okay, sir. Can you tell me where you are?”
“I’m in the car, on my way to the hospital . . . in Hershey.”
“So, you’re already on your way to the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Alright, well we can’t do anything if you’re already driving to the hospital.”
My heart dropped. I paused for a long second. I was dying. This was really it. I gave up all reservations. No pride. No pretending to be okay. Complete vulnerability.
“Okay, well, can you at least pray for me?!”
“Sir, if you’re already on your way to the hospital, there’s nothing I can do from here.”
“But can you pray for me?!”
CLICK.
She hung up the phone on a “dying” twenty-year-old!
That was the first time in my life I really asked for prayer. It wasn’t the sort of asking that I’d done before: the kind where you don’t really care that much if the person prays or not. It wasn’t prayer as a formality. This was real, earnest pleading. It was lifeline begging. It was all I had: a voice and a question. And even in that moment of raw panic, I was thrown by someone’s refusal to pray. Maybe she didn’t believe in prayer, or in God. Maybe she was just embarrassed or indecisive. I’ll never know. But it brought my crushing that night to a new low.
As Paul is...
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