A Common Condition

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life" –Steve Jobs

I have been working in health care for over thirty five years as a licensed chiropractor and a certified medical hypnotist. I have observed and treated, both as a chiropractor and a hypnotherapist, a common condition. This common condition is a result of anxiety that is mostly chronic but often can be acute and very intense. It is known in hypnotherapy circles as a trance state or waking hypnosis.

This tranced state causes us to feel overwhelmed and often powerless to make the changes that we know deep inside— need to be made if we are to ever realize our full potential. Information overload and feelings of overwhelm lead to this tranced state and often manifest as various ailments including neck and back pain but—they are also responsible for most injuries and accidents that send people to emergency rooms— or even worse.

As a hypnotherapist, my first and foremost responsibility is to get my clients out of hypnosis and then teach them how to stay out of hypnosis during the so-called— waking hours. Because clients are almost always in a state of waking-hypnosis or trance the first time they see me, I have to take them out of hypnosis before I can put them back into hypnosis— so that I can install positive ideas and suggestions for the changes they want—into their Subconscious mind. As crazy as that may sound, my colleagues have the very same experiences with their clients.

I had observed this tranced phenomena for many years in my patients— and just about everywhere else but— until the night of February 23, 2010—when my life would be changed forever— I did not fully understand how dangerous and devastating it could be. My wife Terri and I were getting ready to leave our office near Lake Tahoe in the mountain town of Truckee. It was getting late and I was feeling significant anxiety because we had a one hour drive ahead of us to our home, north of Truckee, and, it was beginning to snow. I was finishing up with my last patient and looking out at the snow from my treatment room window. It was showing no signs of letting up.

My heart was beating faster and my face flushed as a feeling of dread began to move up from my stomach to my solar plexus. I fought to push it down but —it was too late. My sympathetic nerve system's fight or flight response had been triggered. As my receptionist and my wife Terri were finishing up with shutting down the office, I stared out the window at the steady snowfall. My anxiety had now elevated to mild panic as I hurried to get the last patient out the door so we could close up the office and get on the road.

We were putting on our ski jackets and loading the office laundry and our assorted bags of paperwork into the four-wheel drive Toyota Tundra when the snow began coming down in big soft fluffy flakes—at an ever increasing rate. We quickly finished loading the Tundra, locked the front doors to the office and then, settling in for the long drive home, we drove out of the parking lot and onto the road that lead to Hwy 89 going north— to the little mountain community of Sierraville.

That night, and on one of the most dangerous twenty-five mile stretches of mountain highway in the state of California, all the cars were moving cautiously at twenty five to thirty miles per hour. The white and yellow lines on the road were being quickly obscured by the big, sticky snow. The temperature of the road was low enough not to melt the falling flakes and it was accumulating fast as the storm brewed. The pine trees on each side of the road were now frosted by an ever-thickening layer of new snow with each mile we drove.

My feelings of fear had now risen to a level probably not unlike those of a soldier who would be going into battle—at any moment. I was hyper-vigilant and prepared for all possible scenarios—and the heavy, wet Sierra snow slowly and steadily gathered depth. Terri and I were used to driving in snow-country because we had lived here nearly fifteen years but— this drive— on this night was somehow, different.

Many times and for many years we had driven over thick ice and heavily snow-covered highways— even in blizzards and white-outs. Many times, and for many years I had always felt some anxiety or what I would think of as— healthy vigilant awareness —but never had I felt such a gripping terror arising from deep within me like I did on this particular night. I had been dreading the day when the snow would come and I would have to make that drive for nearly two years and now— it had finally arrived.

Two years earlier, we had moved from our home in Truckee to the northeast Sierra Valley. We had decided to move to the Sierra Valley for several reasons, not the least of them being the cost of living which is much lower than Truckee and Reno, but, the incredible beauty of the Sierra Valley is breathtaking. Later we would come to know that the people that live there—are much like the land. We had both felt that the fifty plus minute commute would be worth it because we had already established a small practice in the town of Loyalton. Loyalton is almost exactly half-way between Truckee and Reno, where we did most of our shopping. So, after moving our home we had expanded our lives and made new friends, once again.

But this night would be the first time in nearly two years of commuting to and from Truckee that we would be driving home— on this particular road—during a snow storm. We frequently saw patients up until seven pm so our custom was to stop and get a protein snack before making the commute home, even if it was just a taquito from the local Taco Bell— but not this night. I was feeling such an urgency to get on the road before the storm got worse, we did not stop to get our snack. We had gone too long without eating and were cranky with the weather and each other.

As we drove on, our moods were not improving. We both were watching the snow falling as it was steadily increasing. There were several other commuters driving behind us that night and we were all driving slowly, up and down and around blind curves of treacherous Hwy 89. The snow continued to fall more heavily. I drove as attentively as I'd ever driven during a snow storm on mountain roads, without talking, until about half-way into the twenty-five mile stretch between Truckee and Sierraville.

Approaching one of the worst parts of the road near Sage Hen Creek we both saw the headlights of a vehicle driving around the curve...