Is Valium Approved to Treat Déjà Vu?

When I wrote the date on a letter yesterday, part of me wondered why I felt so uneasy. But my gut knew why immediately. We almost lost our son that day three years ago. He was eight years old and had completed his first week of third grade at a new school. Katy's eight now, and was fortunate enough to get the same teacher Luke had. At Meet the Teacher Night, the teacher reminded us about how Luke became the mystery boy who disappeared after the first week of school. His classmates (who didn't even know him) wanted to visit him in the hospital, but when they found out he was in Houston, they had to settle for making him the biggest package of get well cards I hope I will ever see. Of course, when he finally got back to school, he was known as the cool motorcycle wreck boy with the big long scar.

Before the accident, when I would see an ambulance or an Air Life helicopter, I would do what I have done since I was a child and offer up a little prayer. Now when I see one of those copters, the pit of my stomach burns and I pretend that I'm not dizzy. My lungs take a deep breath for me before I know it. Then I remind myself that he survived. When we experience extreme panic, shock, or helpless fear, a defense mechanism puts us into a surreal out-of-body mode. I think that opens us up to feel an improbable sense of peace during such times. It's the same sort of thing that gets us through deaths and funerals. We hold ourselves up to take care of business and save the breakdown for later. Because Luke eventually healed and came home, I never had any sort of "breakdown" or even thought I had one in me. For one thing, I didn't deserve to indulge in any emotional release that I may or may not have needed. I was simply truly grateful.

The problem with memories and flashbacks of those out-of-body times is that now you're back in your body and no longer cocooned. You are free to look back with a clear head and realize just how terrifying it all was. You are shocked at the truth of it--that your family came within minutes of a heartbreaking and devastating tragedy. I am often haunted by the words of a thoughtless E/R doctor. As soon as I reached Luke's bedside after a long drive to the Houston hospital, the first thing that doctor said to me was, "Your son has sustained some very serious internal injuries, and there is nothing we can do." I can still feel myself spinning backward upon hearing those words, then screaming, "What do you mean there's nothing you can do?" Then he kindly replied, "Oh, I meant surgically, there's nothing we can do surgically right now." Sometimes the whole thing seems like a movie or an episode of E/R (but without the cute doctors). Now I seem to do quite well keeping a lid on my random mild panic attacks (as long as those helicopters stay away). That close-call, near-miss, dodged-a-bullet feeling stays on the inside where it belongs, otherwise I could come up with a thousand reasons (both good and bad) to cry.

While we were stuck at that hospital, we heard the news about hurricane Katrina. Every once in awhile we would catch something on one of the TVs, but we weren't able to absorb anything about the extent of the devastation. I remember a feeling I can't really name. There we were so focused on and concerned and worried about our one child while such a violent and dreadful act of God continued to threaten and drown and destroy thousands. We were too exhausted and distracted to worry about the outside world. Every ounce of energy we spent in a place that became our world for a boy who meant more than the world to us. Sometimes I wish I could have brought that cocoon home.

Maybe my flashbacks are stronger this year because it seems we have another hurricane headed toward New Orleans. I've never cared for déjà vu.