Joy Eclipsing Panic
At 6 pm last Sunday night, after a week or so of meticulous planning, I set sail for Frisco in my Tacoma, towing behind me the smallest of my campers, a handmade teardrop so tiny that it is essentially a mattress on wheels, and so lightweight that I am prone to mistaking it for a rude tailgater when I catch a glimpse of it in my rear view mirror. Despite its diminutive size and feather weight, I still find that lugging it behind my truck prompts intense anxiety as my ever busy mind thinks of all the catastrophes potentially awaiting us. Maybe I’ll get a flat. Maybe the camper will jump the hitch if I hit a bump and cause a major accident. Maybe maybe maybe.
Meanwhile, inside the truck there were other opportunities to spend the drive on the cusp of a panic attack. With me were three of my dogs, among them Milo. I’m sorry to report that Milo’s autoimmune issues have again taken a serious turn for the worse. This means he is back on a very high daily dosage of steroids. Steroid side effects include a need to constantly drink water and, consequently, piss like a racehorse with great frequency, and also to hump the crap out of any and all pillows he lays his eyes upon. I was unsure if he could go the full 3.5 hour trip without stopping for a pee break. As we were driving into the sunset—oh I hate night driving—I really didn’t want to make any stops.
Yes, this trip was eclipse-driven, but not the way it was for a lot of folks like the endless stream of museum visitors I met last week, some of whom had flown halfway around the world to see it. I could have watched the sky darken from much closer to the ranch. But when I heard that Raz was flying over from London to see it up near Dallas, this is when my plan began forming.
Raz is an astrophysicist. We met many years ago through our friend Garreth, another Englishman who now lives in Frisco. Prior to lockdown I was in the habit of taking annual trips to London in large part to spend time with Raz, who has a dazzling mind and sublime wit and I am always delighted to orbit his brilliance. One of the best days of my life—I got a commemorative tattoo—was when he took me for a stroll around his old stomping grounds at Oxford. At my request, he spoke to me in physics whilst we walked and though everything he said was indecipherable, I nodded along as if I grokked every word, all of this purely for amusement.
Because I have, for now, stopped flying, our chances for together time have been greatly curtailed. Hence my 25-hour whirlwind trip, which I did not need to wait for hindsight to clarify was one of the craziest things I’ve done in a very long time. I dropped a lot of money updating the camper’s registration, buying a very expensive spare tire, getting an oil change, and tracking down a cotter pin for the hitch. Then I realized, before I even got out of the driveway, that despite a fantasy I have nurtured for a very long time to one day travel the country living out of my camper, I hate hauling a camper.
By the time I arrived at my destination it was quite late. I transferred the dogs into the camper, locked them up, and went inside to say hello to Raz and Garreth before retiring. We determined I needed to move the camper to a better spot, so G and I set sail through the very quiet bedroom community, taking a long and curving path that would keep me from having to try to drive in reverse. Once we got that taken care of, I said goodnight and prepared to settle in. There was a problem though. A big problem.
Louise was missing. Unbeknownst to me, the camper door is very easy to open from the inside even when locked on the outside. Losing a dog is one of my top three fears in life. Noticing the absence of a 90-lb dog fried my brain. On the other hand, I was utterly amazed that the other two dogs had stuck around. In order to fend off an imminent panic attack, I flipped on my dissociative switch and plunged myself into an eerie calm. I rounded up G and we drove around the neighborhood again, retracing our path as I made myself consider the possible truth that I might never find her, that she was gone for good.
I pushed this thought aside and tried to focus on the positive. She had a collar with my number on it. She is very friendly. We were in a sleepy bedroom community with little traffic. Surely someone would find her and call me. Though it felt like a borderline eternity, we actually located her within a half-hour—she was delighted with her short walkabout, no clue that she’d nearly given me a heart attack, and happily jumped in the truck.
Despite apocalyptic warnings that traffic would be bonkers, that crowds would rival Woodstock, and that we might all go blind staring at the sun, in truth our group—which included my friends’ three teenagers—easily navigated to a nearby park that wasn’t particularly crowded. The dogs napped. A picnic was enjoyed. No one got mad when Milo snatched a burger and swallowed it whole.
The eclipse itself was as magical as promised. For me the magic happened as much on the ground as in the sky. Getting to be with someone who has harbored a celestial passion for a half-century made it that much more special. I enjoyed watching Raz watching the sun almost as much as I enjoyed actually watching the sun, which for the most part cooperated, frequently peeking out from the clouds, offering us a really good view of totality.
And then, like that, it was time to head home. Having not fully unclenched from the journey north, I had little trouble slipping back into a panic adjacent state of mind. At least I wouldn’t have to drive in darkness. Oh, but wait, there was a major storm front and we barreled right into it halfway back. This was a near-zero visibility situation, sheets of rain falling so fast and so hard I couldn’t see an exit ramp. I dropped down to 40 mph with my flashers on, hoping hard no one would slam into me, gripping the wheel, trying to remember to breathe.
[The Old Days. Oh we were so young then.]
It’s going to take me at least a week to recover from all this excitement. That’s okay. Because for all of the stress I experienced, it was the fever pitch good excitement that will stay with me. Even before I headed out on my journey I was surrounded by the buzz of the museum visitors who had traveled so far. We had more people come through for a tour last week than we typically have in a month. Everyone was so happy. At the park where we watched the eclipse we were surrounded by other very happy people. It was truly amazing—given how utterly fraught it is living life these days—to have such a wonderful, joyful respite. I’m hardly the only one who noticed this. There are plenty of stories out there about how this four-minute event temporarily brought so many people together regardless of differences.
In the days leading up to my trip, I told myself repeatedly that should the predicted traffic fiasco manifest, should my GPS suggest the 200 mile journey would take more than four hours, I would skip it. Still I kept getting ready. The night before I decided to go for it, I found myself in the shower literally laughing out loud as I inventoried the ridiculous lengths I’d gone to to plan a trip I might not take. I thought about the man who was the catalyst for all this planning. And then I traced the history of our friendship, how Garreth introduced me to Raz, and how I’d been introduced to Garreth by my long-ago boyfriend Ori, with whom I am still excellent friends.
I was overcome with a full-fledged happiness then. My mind, which is so often on the hunt for things to feel crap about, easily shifted to a montage of joy as it inventoried how many wonderful long term friendships I have and how many crazy adventures I’ve been on in my life. In these moments, gratitude easily eclipsed the sort of regret that often visits me when I remember so many dumb choices I’ve made in my life. I knew then, in the shower, that even if I didn’t go, the planning had been worth it as it led me to this stream of magical memories.
I’m home safe now. Milo did not pee in the car. Louise is still dreaming of her half-hour of suburban freedom. Popo is snoring soundly. I understand I might never go anywhere again. For now I’m okay with that and imagine this, too, is part of getting older. I’m good with staying anchored at the ranch, sliding further into crone-hood, recognizing now is a time to reflect on all of those bigger, crazier adventures of my youth, to be grateful for them all.
NOTES:
Thanks for subscribing y’all. If you can fit it in your budget to subscribe for $5 per month or $50 per year, I hope you’ll consider it. If doling out dough isn’t your thing, you can still help by sharing this substack with someone you think will dig it. One-time tips also gratefully accepted via Venmo: @spike-gillespie.
I have another substack for writers, WriteWithSpike.substack.com, a sort of online writing workshop.
My next FREE in-person writing workshop at Hampton Branch Library in Austin is Tuesday, April 16, from 5:30-7:30 pm. It helps us if you REGISTER.
Thanks for reading y’all. Did you have a good eclipse? I want to know.