Simone Gannon on living with chronic anxiety: I was awake but in the middle of a nightmare

When she began experiencing symptoms like slurred speech, tingling limbs and nausea, Simone Gannon was stunned to discover that she was experiencing panic attacks

Sat, 22 Oct, 2022 - 02:05

Simone Gannon

I’m never sure where to start with this story, so I will just start at the beginning.

My family and I had decided to make a move overseas. My husband went ahead of my son and I to get everything set up, while I packed up the house and our life, still working full time. I spent weeks rushing around embassies, government offices, tropical medical centres, and passport offices in preparation for departure. In the midst of this, airports started shutting down as Covid-19 arrived. In the end, we flew out a few days before the airports, and ultimately everywhere else, shut down.

I attempted to homeschool my son in a new environment, with a new school and curriculum. And I continued working. Hindsight, of course, is wonderful. It’s only now I realise how much I had on my plate. The first lockdown lasted approximately three months, and it was intense.

Afterwards, with case numbers low, we were released. But the schools did not reopen. And neither did the airports.

I homeschooled, I worked, and I made friends with neighbours. But I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t see my family. It was tough. I started to get headaches and an odd tingling sensation in my hands and feet, but I brushed it off. I didn’t have time.

Soon after, I started experiencing temperature changes in my hands and numbness in my fingertips. Eventually, the numbness spread to my face, so I went to the doctor. She referred me to a neurologist, who referred me to a Nerve Specialist. Several blood tests, nerve conduction tests and MRIs later, everything was clear. “Are you under a lot of stress?” the neurologist asked. “Moving overseas is difficult, not least in the middle of a pandemic,” he said. “No,” I responded. “No, I’m fine.”

A few months later, in the middle of the summer, my son was involved in an accident while playing with friends, meters from our door. I heard him screaming; I ran outside as he ran towards me, arms outstretched. He was covered in blood. There was blood in his eyes, in his mouth, in his ears. I won’t get into the specifics because, honestly, I’m just unable to.

He was badly injured, but thanks to the quick actions of his friend, a neighbour who drove like a bat out of hell, a stream of doctors and nurses and two visiting plastic surgeons, he was OK.

“Are you under a lot of stress?” the neurologist asked. “Moving overseas is difficult, not least in the middle of a pandemic,” he said. “No,” I responded. “No, I’m fine.” Pictures: Emily Quinn

The days and weeks that followed were a blur, but we all kept going because there was no other choice. Towards the end of the year, the airports finally opened, so I flew home with my son and regrouped at my mother’s house. At this stage, the headaches were severe, and neck pain kept me awake at night.

We flew back overseas several weeks later, at which point the pain changed to weakness so extreme that I feared my head would roll off my shoulders. I wasn’t sleeping, I had shortness of breath, and a constantly pounding head, and the tingling in my hands and feet was getting worse. I couldn’t understand what was happening.

Back to the neurologist, I went. More tests, more scans, more referrals, and nothing. He pointed to the scan and said, “I can see the muscles in your neck spasming.” He prescribed painkillers and sent me off to a physiotherapist. She said I had knots in my shoulders and neck and got to work. When I sat up twenty minutes later, my head rolled backwards involuntarily as my neck struggled to keep it upright. I became hysterical.

How could there be nothing wrong?

The symptoms were soon so varied that I would spend hours Googling various conditions and disorders to check if I met the diagnostic criteria. I was trying, without success, to reassure myself. Anything to make me feel like I was in control of what was happening because surely the doctors were missing something. Extreme dizziness came next, along with nausea, ringing and pressure in my ears, muscle spasms in my face, arms and legs, heart palpitations, brain fog, and slurred speech. It was relentless. But nothing was wrong.

Several times a week, I would wake in the middle of the night, gasping for breath as if I had been holding it in my sleep. Sometimes I woke sitting on the edge of the bed, my heart smashing against my ribs, my ears ringing. Sometimes I was halfway to the bathroom, the room tilting violently, and sometimes, I was standing outside my son’s bedroom door, with screams ringing in my ears. Awake, but in the middle of a nightmare.

I felt like I was losing my mind. Nothing is wrong, nothing is wrong, everyone kept saying. And then, one warm and humid day in February, while making pasta for my son in the kitchen, something happened.

Simone Gannon: 'It was relentless. But nothing was wrong.' Picture: Emily Quinn

As I stood over the hob, a warm, crawling feeling came over my right leg. As I looked down, it spread to my left leg and started coursing up my arms. I struggled to the table to get my phone, and as I reached it, the power went from my arms and legs. The crawling feeling spread to my jaw and head, and suddenly, I could no longer speak, form a thought, or move. On the way to the hospital, my hands turned into claws. My nails dug so intensely into the palm of my hand that I feared they might pierce the skin.

The doctors suspected a stroke and ordered a CT scan. It came back clear. Several blood tests were carried out, then an ECG, but everything was normal. The neurologist appeared, unhappy. “We’re keeping you in,” he said. That night in the hospital, my head bounced on the pillow from the worst headache to date. Painkillers were increased and increased. Nothing worked. Morning came, followed by more tests and an MRI of my brain. Maybe I have a brain tumour, I thought. That would make sense.

The neurologist stood at the end of the bed and looked at me for what felt like a long time. “You’re in great health,” he said. And then he paused. “I think what happened to you was a massive anxiety attack.” I was stunned. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Never an anxious person, never someone who suffered from stress. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t accept it.

Discharged from the hospital, I fixated on a new goal. If it was, in fact, anxiety, which I doubted, I could make it go away myself. I downloaded every meditation app I could find. I did yoga every day. I listened to sleep stories. I went for walks, did breathwork, you name it, I did it. But nothing changed.

Two months later, we finally moved home. My sleep was terrible, the dizziness extreme, the headaches horrendous. I struggled to function and cried frequently. The neck pain was getting worse. I went to see my GP and pleaded with her to refer me for more scans. She refused. “You’re back home now,” she said. “See the physiotherapist, go for long walks, spend time with your family, and try and take your foot off the peddle. If there’s no improvement, come back to me in two months.”

Frustrated, I agreed. For two months, I walked every day and went to the physio every week, which was excruciating. My muscles were painfully tense in some areas and so weak in others that they barely functioned. “Your body is stuck in fight or flight,” he said.

I spent time with family, and I attended therapy sessions. I tried really, really hard. But little changed. Two months later, I was back in her office, bawling my eyes out. I couldn’t take it anymore.

'I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Never an anxious person, never someone who suffered from stress. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t accept it.'

She was sympathetic but stern. “It’s time for you to accept what’s happening,” she said. “You have Chronic Anxiety. You have tried your absolute best, but you cannot do this on your own. And that’s OK.” She prescribed anxiety medication for me that day, and within weeks my life had changed.

I would love to tell you, 18 months on, that I have fully recovered. That this is the final chapter in the story. But it wouldn’t be true. My GP said, “it’s taken you a long time to go down, and it’s going to take you even longer to get back up.” And she was right.

Recovery is not linear or particularly comfortable. But I’m much better than I was and have more good days than bad. And that will have to do for now.

Although what happened to me is unique in some ways, in other ways, it’s really not.

It’s simply a lesson, albeit a dramatic one, in what happens when you ignore every warning shot your body fires. When you take on too much, and push yourself too far, for too long. When you keep going, and you keep going, and you tell yourself that everything will be OK.

Until it isn’t.