[caption id="attachment_2066" align="aligncenter" width="300"] The audience of empowered patients and conscious health care providers in Munster, Indiana[/caption]
I was scheduled to speak in Munster, Indiana at 7pm in front of 300 cancer patients, their support people, and their health care providers. Mapquest said it would only take 48 minutes to drive from the North Shore of Chicago, but knowing Chicago traffic, I left at 2:30pm, thinking I'd avoid traffic, sit and work on my next book in a coffee shop with plenty of time to spare, and show up fully chillaxin’ in a relaxation response.
Good thing I did.
I inched my way east in bumper to bumper traffic, past downtown Chicago into eastern Illinois, until finally - still with 2 hours to spare - the traffic speed picked up. I was cruising along at 60 mph, listening to Pandora on my iPhone, when suddenly something in the road jumped up and blew out the two driver’s side tires on the car I had just borrowed from my BFF from my Northwestern days.
So there I am, at 5pm, in a full on stress response. My amygdala is rightfully screaming “DANGER!” as I try not to careen into the car next to me or get crushed by the car behind me. Full of cortisol and epinephrine, I wrangle the big minivan into control and limp my way to the highway shoulder, where my whole body shakes from an overdose of adrenaline.
Knowing what I know about stress responses from all my research for Mind Over Medicine, I take a moment to assess myself. I know that stress responses only last 90 seconds if we don’t add more stress response-inducing stories to them. As soon as my amygdala realized I was safe, my stress response should have shut off. But then the stories start.
I watch myself in slow motion, like I am an observer, watching myself in a movie, realizing how we let one real, healthy life-endangering stress response spin into dozens of them. ("Oh no, I'm going to miss my speech and I’ll disappoint 300 people! Oh no, it's not even my car! Oh no, how much will it cost to fix this? Oh no, I don't even have my AAA card because it got stolen in Miami!") And so on...
Although I adore my family and it's beautiful up here on Lake Erie in Ohio, the place I’m spending my summer vacation with my mother, daughter, nieces, and nephews isn’t the kind of place I’d choose to hang out left to my own devices. We’re vacationing at a Methodist-owned resort peopled by those who claim to share virtues and religious beliefs, pride themselves in being “old school," and live by the four pillars of education, religion, the arts, and recreation.
It’s all very… I don’t know… Pleasantville. I almost feel like I’m in The Truman Show, the unwitting star of a reality TV show everyone but me knows is fake. Only this is real. Sort of. And as far as I can tell, there are no Big Brother cameras lurking around.