By Lindsay Davies 
I knew people died. I just didn’t think it applied to us.
Mortality met me in grade two with a punch to the gut when my teacher confirmed casually that, yes, everybody dies.
What do you mean, everybody dies? I frantically thought, but kept my question to myself. Up until that moment, I had quietly believed my family was exempt from that fate. I thought death was a monster that only took other people and left my family alone.
They say all panic has an origin story, and mine began shortly after that realization, fueled by a disconnected phone cord and a brain that chose the worst-case scenario.
At a sleepover, the lesson solidified. While a man on the television show Touched by an Angel was being fixed by divine intervention, my real-world lifeline—a phone cord—had slipped out of the jack. When my parents didn’t answer my goodnight call that evening, I didn’t think “technical glitch.” I thought “orphan.” No angel was coming; my problems wouldn’t be solved in an hour.
I cried guttural tears throughout the night. The kind of tears that take over your whole body and change the way you see the world.
After that night, I assumed the incredibly heavy responsibility of trying to keep everyone safe, and I have never stopped carrying it.
And I wouldn’t let my parents out of my sight.
I remember one day my aunt came to pick me up for a sleepover. My poor parents needed a break from my constant company and worry. I refused to get into her car. There is absolutely no way I am leaving them, I thought.
They physically picked me up while I kicked and screamed, and placed me into the car. I clung to my dad’s shirt as he shut the door; that door closing felt final. I was crying and yelling, unable to understand why they were forcing me to leave when all I wanted was to be near them. I kicked the back of my aunt’s seat repeatedly, protesting this sleepover. I was convinced that if I left my parents, something bad was going to happen to them.
As an adult, I understand it now. I understand why they needed that break.
Around the same time, my mom was going to school to become a dental assistant. We didn’t have a car, so she took the bus every day. Every morning, when I heard her getting ready, the same routine would begin. I would cry, hold onto her, and refuse to let go. I would tell her I was sick so she would have to stay home.
In my young mind, I was convinced she wasn’t going to come back.
I had watched an episode of Sailor Moon where people got on a city bus, and the bus flew up into the sky, taking them away forever. I was convinced the same thing would happen to my mom one morning when she got on the bus.
My anxiety was extreme. Everything set me off. If I went to school and realized I had left my glasses at home, it felt like the end of the world. I would cry as if leaving my glasses at home was the worst thing that could ever happen.
The world no longer felt safe to me.
My world turned into a metaphoric axe hanging above my head, tied to the ceiling with a thin piece of string. The axe represents my fear of death and losing the people I love. It hasn’t fallen yet, but it sways, reminding me that time is passing and the string is getting weaker. I look up to check the frayed edges of the cord, then I check on my loved ones. I am making sure the string is still holding for them too.
Life has given that axe plenty of chances to sway: My mother’s endometrial cancer, followed by leukemia. My father’s thickened blood and emergency gallbladder surgery. My sister’s broken rib and failing thyroid. The “almost” Code Pink when my daughter’s shoulder got stuck during birth. My son’s labored, wheezing breath during a cold that scared me to pieces. My own resting heart rate climbing over 105 and a 7mm obstructed kidney stone that required surgery while I was recovering from a broken eye bone.
Each one is a gust of wind. Each one is a warning: Look away for a second, and the axe falls. Living with that invisible threat has shaped more of my life than I like to admit.
The texts: “How are you feeling?” “Just checking in.”
The need for reassurance: The ritual “Goodnight, I love you” text. Every. Single. Night.
The thing about anxiety is that it rarely announces itself in a dramatic tone. It will hide in moments that are not exactly life or death.
The axe falling represents sudden loss. Someone I love dying without warning. So, I must continue to keep a close eye on that string…never letting it get too weak from those little gusts of wind.
by Brandon Janous 
by Marissa Bader 
by Christie Lynn 
