COTTON BALL

I sat collapsed against a wall by the nurse’s station, delicately holding a cotton ball soaked in lavender essential oil to my nose. The cotton balls were handed out as a post-dinner calming ritual. All us patients had one. Down the hall, my husband was speaking with a nurse in hushed tones. They watched me as I vacantly turned the cotton ball between my fingers.

“I mean, you might as well just tell her,” she whispered. “It really can’t get any worse than this.” Oblivious to what was about to happen, I continued absently dabbing my face with lavender.

We were in the dining hall when he dropped the bomb. “There’s nothing else they can do. He’s officially in palliative care.” My father’s cancer was terminal.

A crater erupted inside me as the words hit. I stood, stupefied, at the edge of the impact, staring down into the chasm, not knowing what to do. We sat in silence as warm tears rolled down my face. I laid my hands out and pressed my forehead down on the cold table.

In the months leading to this psychiatric hospitalization, my mind fragmented to the point thinking was physically painful, my brain seizing like an over-extended muscle. Emotions were like shrapnel spinning through the air, nicking and slicing as they flew past. I was there to help put my splintered brain back together again. But now my complicated father was dying and the pieces of my broken psyche further shattered with the news. I needed to begin the pilgrimage to his deathbed, but was locked in a secured unit after having lost my mind.

Visiting hours ended at 8:00 p.m. and we had to say our goodbyes. What the hell do I do now? I thought as I watched my husband walk through the secured doors.

I felt completely alone. Phone confiscated. Husband gone. Myself too lost and cracked for company. The loneliness was so complete and profound it felt like being abandoned in the underworld. Only, I wasn’t alone. A monster called Grief had scrabbled from the rubble of the news of my father to join me in my cage. This was my company.

All I could do was sob. For my dad. For myself. For my bleak and uncertain future. Grief was thrashing and screaming, its wails echoing back from every corner of my body. I was pinned beneath the enormity of it, left wondering how on earth I’d ever find the strength to carry on.

In my pocket was the cotton ball. I took it out and let a cloud of lavender pass through my senses. It wasn’t much, a small softness, but I was surprised by the comfort. The monster shifted its weight.

Eventually, the nurse’s assistant came by. A young man in his 20s with no idea what to say, so he silently stepped over my legs and went about his job. Heavily sedated on hydroxyzine and lulled by lavender, I fell asleep through an ocean of tears clutching a smashed wad of cotton. I awoke in the morning with a runny nose and Grief perched at the foot of the bed.

I navigated life after the hospital and my father’s passing as a ghost, storing my catastrophic emotions for a later time when, under the safety of mood stabilizers, I could finally face them. Until then, I diligently kept lavender oil nearby at all times, storing little soaked cotton balls in my coat pockets, purses, and car cup holders. Later I would learn the science behind senses and their powerful role in regulating the nervous system, but all I knew in the aftermath of that desperate night was the gentleness I found from lavender made Grief just that much more manageable. So I continued to chase the softness to shrink the monster. It’s been five years since that fateful time, and I still move through life pillowed by lavender.

Life with a broken brain is a battle against many monsters. A sometimes violent game of cat-and-mouse with madness ever nipping at your heels. Despite the impulse to claw your way through, the most effective weapons in your arsenal are often small and unassuming. A warm bath. Self acceptance. The calming smell of lavender.

If you find yourself hounded by monsters of your own, I pray you find your cotton ball.

Editing and content assistance provided by Suzanne La Rue.