It was ten days before my wedding, and my mother and I were talking long
distance. I was giving her a preview of the evening's highlights: my
ten-year-old niece's speech about acquiring an aunt instead of an uncle from my
lesbian marriage, and the non-mushy love poetry. Then I mentioned that my
brother had composed a song for me to sing.
There was a pause. "Are you sure that's such a good idea?" my mother
asked. "Won't you be nervous?"
Many authors have proposed types of grief reactions.[1,2] Research has focused on normal and complicated grief while specifying types of complicated grief  and available empirical support  with a focus on the characteristics of different types of dysfunction. Controversy over whether it is most accurate to think of grief as progressing in sequential stages (i.e., stage theories) continues.[5,6] Most literature attempts to distinguish between normal grief and various forms of complicated...
For the previous year, I had been chipping away at my anxiety about singing
in public. Every week I'd dragged myself to a local piano bar to belt out a
tune. I had overcome my fear -- at least enough to find the prospect of singing
at my own wedding reasonable, even attractive. Until that moment.
The worry that soaked my mother's well-meaning query seeped into me. By the
time I hung up, tears had sprung to my eyes. That afternoon when I practiced
the song, I was trembling again.
Hypnosis in a Hurry
"How about hypnosis?" my sister Dotty, a certified hypnotherapist,
suggested. "Sure," I replied. Almost 20 years earlier, I'd used this
method to banish migraines from my life. I knew people used hypnosis to control
anxiety as well as pain, although I wondered whether the technique would really
work in just a week and a half.
Dotty asked me to describe places that I found relaxing and to recall
situations where I had felt calm and proud. Then she crafted a script aimed at
reminding my subconscious of moments when I had glowed.
Because my sister lives 3,000 miles away, she e-mailed the script to my
partner, Karen, and gave her a crash phone course on how to read it.
On our first attempt, my mind rode the slow lava of Karen's voice. She told
me to sink into the chair, to feel it support the back of my thighs. As she
suggested, my eyes grew heavy and closed.
Karen directed me into an imaginary elevator. "You're on the 10th floor.
Feel yourself going to the ninth." Gravity drew down my arms, my shoulders.
"I could open my eyes," I thought, "but I don't want to."