Sunday is the 2-year anniversary of making the decision to take my husband off life support and Monday is the anniversary of his death. I call the two back-to-back days “the d-days.” The first d-day is also my birthday, and this year it’s Father’s Day, too, so a real doozy of a day.

I’ve been giving these dates on my calendar the side eye for a while now. A few months ago, I arranged to spend the Friday night and Saturday at my sister’s, both to low-key celebrate my birthday and to not be alone, and I made plans to be with another widow on the evening of my birthday.

Once I made all those plans, I largely put the dates out of my mind, but I was vaguely aware that they were getting closer. In the meantime, I went about my life as usual, which has been pretty wonderful lately. I’m back at work after a very rewarding sabbatical, I’m surrounded by supportive, generous people, and I’m just generally feeling happy and optimistic.

Yesterday was a particularly lovely day. I spent time with my sister and then later had dinner with my mother-in-law, her husband, and my daughter. I spent most of the day laughing. When I went to bed, I was feeling very loved and connected, so I expected to fall asleep blissfully.

Just as I was about to drift off, right in the middle of a deep breath, there it was—panic. Suddenly I was kicking the blankets off, sweating, unable to catch my breath. My body reacted as if I were being physically threatened in the moment: my hands were in fists, my whole body ready to spring into action to thwart an attacker. Only the attacker was my own thoughts:

My husband is dead and I will never be with him again, I thought. I will be alone for eternity, my brain continued. He’s alone in the dark crevasse of death and eventually, I will be too, my brain told me, delivering the coup de grace.

These are not even thoughts I believe. When I’m not having a panic attack, I feel my husband all around me and I feel deeply connected to him still. I don’t think of myself as being alone and I have (at least for an introvert) a very active social life. I don’t normally feel that death is a lonely place—like many Buddhists, I believe our spirits live on beyond our physical bodies.

I reminded myself of this, but my brain remained convinced that I was in danger. I tried tapping and listening to a meditation. I reminded myself of the Pierre Teilhard de Chardinquote I love: “we are spiritual beings having a human experience.” I reminded myself that everything is temporary and the panic will pass.

My brain wound itself tighter into panic, swatting each of my calm reminders away.

My brain said, “You’ll be alone forever.”

I patiently responded, “Nothing lasts forever.” And “I am not alone.”

But still, my heart pounded, my legs shook, and my breathing remained shallow.

I read recently that the best way to protect yourself in a fall is to relax. This idea aligns with the concept of relaxing into difficult emotions. I tried to relax into my panic. I said out loud, “Hello, panic, my old friend. I know you are trying to protect me. Thank you for looking out for me, but I am ok.”

My panic responded with a snarl and bared teeth, and I took a Lorazepam. I consider Lorazepam a last resort because of its habit-forming properties (my mother was an alcoholic and daughters of alcoholics are more likely to become addicts, so I’ve been on high alert regarding addiction my whole life) but if I wait too long to take it, it doesn’t help me sleep. A classic Catch-22 situation. So I have to declare the situation “a last resort” a little earlier than I would usually like, but once I made that call, my panic eased a bit just from having the decision made.

This was my first panic attack since February, which is the longest I’ve gone between attacks since I started having them.

This week’s to do list now includes being extra kind and patient with myself through the d-days and celebrating the win of going almost four months without a panic attack.