I wonder what ever happened to Kate Gaws. 

Twenty-odd years ago when Kate’s path crossed mine, I was too immature to truly appreciate what she did for me.  Compassion was still a vague concept I had yet to whole-heartedly embrace and put into regular practice.  I was self-absorbed.  Otherwise, I would have thanked her properly. 

I was working as a waitress at a Bennigan's chain restaurant in Philadelphia.  Kate worked in the kitchen.  She stood at the stainless steel window that divided the wait staff from the cooks' line, directing traffic, playing bad cop when grabby servers put their mitts all over plates that didn't belong to them.  You didn't dare reach into that window when Kate was on duty -- you waited 'til she assembled your tray and called your ticket, or suffered her wrath. 

She was a diminutive person but her presence was huge.  She was stormy --  that's the word.  When she walked into the restaurant to begin her shift, she stormed back into that kitchen.  She walked with a wide, quick stride.  Her eyes were the color of thunder skies, gray and changing, fascinating to watch.  She could shoot you a look that would level you like a cyclone levels a trailer park.  She didn't smile with her mouth; her eyes flashed lightning.  Fleetingly, so that if you caught the sight of it, you felt somehow lucky, because you looked at just the right second, before it dissolved in a blue-white residue. 

She wore her light brown hair in a ponytail, folded her arms often, was not afraid to take up space, and wore boots that looked like they could kill you, even if their leather was soft as butter.  I guess it was the way she walked in them.  And she had a way of talking that made her teeth seem as sharp-edged as a steel spatula.   

Most people thought Kate had a chip on her shoulder. But I liked her. And besides, when she yelled at people, it was usually with good reason. 

I always respected her rules and kept my hands out of the cooks' window. I'd raise my eyebrows to indicate I needed something and her voice would soften slightly and she'd ask, "What do you need?" 

"I need a Salisbury Steak and a Chinese Chicken Salad." 

"One sec," she'd mumble, then boom through the window, "Ticket 2285, I got a Salisbury Steak here, but where's my Chinese salad?!"

"How ya doin'?" I'd ask. 

She'd roll her eyes and kink a corner of her mouth. And then her eyes would flash that glimmer of light. 

* * * 

During the last couple of months that I worked at Bennigan's, multiple crises developed at home.  There was a death in the family, my beloved grandmother had major surgery, and my parents were losing the home I still lived in with them. 

One day at work, I started to feel nervous.  Waitressing was such a high-paced, multi-task-intensive job that it kept my mind occupied  -- too much so for any fear to seep in.  But it changed, suddenly, and in the midst of plunking down ketchup bottles and topping up Diet Cokes, I felt anxious. 

And I felt anxious again the next day. 

I determined it must be the gallons of coffee I drank throughout each shift.  I was sure it was the caffeine making me feel so weird, so I cut out caffeine completely, in every form.  I started drinking plain water instead. 

But that didn’t fix it.  As the days passed I grew more and more tense.  I left for work each day, feeling afraid of feeling afraid again. 

I was perpetually lightheaded.  Something must be wrong with me, I thought.  When I walked, my feet didn’t seem to be touching the ground, but rather landing on air and hovering just an inch above the floor.  Maybe it's white bread, I thought.  I do eat a lot of white bread.  Maybe I should stop eating that and just stick to whole wheat instead.  Maybe I'm turning diabetic.  Oh my god, first my grandmother is sick and now me.  I'm dying.  And I'm so young! 

I remember walking the circular path inside Bennigan's that separated the dining room from the bar in the center, balancing my tray on one hand because it was a rule -- we were never to leave the wait station without a tray.  And as I walked I felt so nervous and the floor felt so spongy and soft under my shoes, and my body kept wanting to tilt towards the wall, so I walked as close to the wall as possible.  Along the path, every now and then the wall was interrupted by a lower wall topped by a brass railing, and I raced through those sections especially fast.  The missing wall at my shoulder, all that open space suddenly at my side, made me feel even more dizzy.  

My arms were tingling and sore. I rubbed at them, rubbing rubbing madly, trying to look nonchalant as I did it in case someone was looking at me. 

My head was swirling.  This was it.  This was death. 

Coming around the circle to my section, I bypassed my tables of guests and descended a short flight of stairs into the outer ring of the dining room, into a small section that was closed.  I made a beeline for the big corner booth that the wait staff had claimed as its own, for lounging during quick breaks and lunch hours.  It was empty.  I pulled a chair out of my way and dropped to my knees, pressing my forehead into the paisley-patterned carpet.  

My friend Mike, a waiter, came to my side and kneeled down, putting a hand on my back. “Kim?  What’s going on, are you OK?” 

“What’s wrong with her?” someone else asked from above. 

“I don’t know, I think she’s sick.  Kim, are you OK?  What do you need?  Should we get a doctor?” 

I was panting.  “No.  No.  No doctors.  I need…crackers.  Soup crackers.  And water.  To keep my throat from drying up.  It’s going to dry up and close.” 

“I got it,” I heard a woman say and felt her leaving. 

“Can you breathe, Kim?  Does something hurt?” 

“I’m going crazy,” I said, my voice breaking.  “Mike, I’m just going crazy.  I’m losing my mind.” 

Some restaurant patrons from a nearby section turned around and looked. 

“Can you get up?  Why don’t you sit up in the chair over here?” 

“No, no, I can’t get up!” I said in alarm.  “I can’t lift my head from the floor.  I have to keep my head against the floor.  It’s the only thing that keeps the room still.” 

“Here you go.”  A handful of cracker packets were dropped on the carpet beside my head and a glass of water placed beside it.  I started tearing into the crackers and stuffing them into my mouth, and guzzling the water awkwardly, lifting my head in short spurts to drink and keeping my eyes squeezed shut each time I did, to keep the vertigo at bay. 

"Kim, listen, I'm going to drive you home.  Can you stand up?" 

In slow motion I lifted my forehead from the rough close-cropped pile of the carpet, careful, though, to keep it parallel with the floor.  I slid one knee forward then lifted it, uncurling one leg to put a foot flat.  Mike offered a hand.  I took it, but kept my head down. 

"It's important that I keep my head in this exact position," I explained hastily.  "I can get up on my feet but I have to keep my face towards the ground." 

Mike helped me onto both feet and I trembled against him as he walked me down to the main floor. 

"Hold onto this door handle and don't move.  I'll pull up with my car and come in and get you." 

My anxiety started to dissipate as we drove away from the restaurant. 

When I got home, no one was there. I walked slowly up the three floors to my bedroom and propped myself up in the bed, in a position that made me feel steady and still. 

Days later I returned to Bennigan's to pick up my paycheck, feeling shameful and freakish.  I had to wait in a chair outside the manager's office, at the back of the kitchen.  People passed by and asked how I was feeling.  I answered with a hollow "fine", but really I only meant, "fine, until I feel like that again." 

Then Kate appeared. "I heard you were sick the other day," she said, arms crossed and one leg tucked behind the other. "Hope you're feeling OK." 

I smiled wearily.  "Thanks." 

She looked to her left, then right, then leaned forward. 

"I think I understand what happened to you," she said quietly. 

"You do?" 

She nodded.  That quick, blunt nod.  "You had a panic attack, didn't you?" 

Those words made me nervous.  Panic attack. I shook my head. "I'm not sure.  I've had them before.  But also, there might be something wrong with me.  I was dizzy.  For real.  It was physical, you know what I mean?  This wasn't just something I imagined.  Maybe it's a blood disease.  It's been coming on for a while now." 

She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her lips, as if remembering something.  When she opened her eyes again, she said, "Panic attacks can feel physical.  They do that to you.  You think you're having a heart attack, or you're going to pass out.  Listen, I want you to know, I've been through exactly what you're going through.  And you don't have to suffer forever.  It does get better." 

Then she reached into her pocket and fished out a pen.  Looking around, she spied a stack of folded paper towels in a brown wrapper and tore off a corner. "Here." She scribbled her name and number on the scrap and handed to me.  "The next time you feel that scared, I want you to call me.  I can't promise I can be there right away, like if I'm at work or something.  But I will come and get you as soon as I can.  I really will." 

The office door opened and George, our manager, emerged. Kate began to move away and I murmured, "Thanks." 

In the following weeks, I rarely left the house.  Some days were better than others.  Some days I only felt the strangeness in waves.  Other days it overtook me, and I'd feel terrified of leaving the third floor, where my bedroom was. 

Then I felt like I couldn't leave my room.  

Then I felt unable to leave my bed. 

My mind kept drawing safety boundaries around things and the perimeter got smaller and smaller.  When the boundaries couldn't get any smaller than my bed, I crouched down in the corner of my closet with the phone.  I took the receiver in my trembling hands and read the piece of napkin with Kate’s phone number on it by the light of the glowing green keypad.  With unsteady fingers, I dialed. 

“Kate, remember when you said I should call you if I ever got scared again?  Did you mean it?” 

Calmly, she asked, “Are you having a panic attack right now?” 

“Yes,” I peeped.  “I’m in my bedroom closet and I can’t get out.” 

“I’m coming to get you,” she said.  “Tell me how to get to your house.  Is anyone else home?” 

“No.” 

“Are the doors locked?” 

“Yeah.  Well, except for the back door.” 

“All right, here’s what I’m gonna do.  I'll be at your house in half an hour.  I’ll wait in the car in front of your house for ten minutes, and then if I don’t see you, I’ll find the back door and I’ll come in and get you.” 

The idea that Kate would have to find her way through our house, all the way up three flights of stairs to my embarrassingly untidy bedroom and literally pull me from the back of my closet was so humiliating, it motivated me to crawl out of my cave -- slowly, but successfully – and make my way to the living room window to wait for her. 

She met me halfway across the lawn, in dye-speckled jeans, an oversized and untucked man’s white shirt, and boots. 

“You all right?” she asked.  She kept a respectful distance, but the tone of her voice let me know she was there to lean on if I needed her. 

I nodded. “Yeah,” I breathed.  “I feel better knowing you’re here.” 

Kate took me into her home for a week.  She let me stay on the safe island of her sofa every day while she went to work.  When she was home, she talked to me, and listened to me, and was an overall stellar friend. 

I learned what panic and anxiety attacks were.  I wasn't completely convinced I didn't have a brain tumor or at least anemia, but it was the beginning of my understanding what panic and anxiety were -- a necessary precursor to taking the power back from them and becoming the master of my own mind.  Kate did me a huge service. 

It was weird the way I'd developed this sort of shifting agoraphobia, where the safety zones kept being re-drawn, so that Kate's apartment was safe, but anything outside of it wasn't.  I was scared to go outside, but I knew I had to do something.  Someday I would have to leave Kate's sofa.

"There's no rush," she told me kindly.  "You can stay as long as you need to.  But when you're ready, we'll start slow.  How 'bout if we drive down to South Street and take a walk?" 

The apprehension must've been written all over my face. 

"Don't worry, we'll take it one step at a time," she reassured me. "The minute you feel scared, we'll go right back to the car.  Even if you only walk three paces from the car, that'll still be an accomplishment." 

So one day we tried.  Kate's car was safe, but the sidewalk was not.  Nevertheless, I walked beside her down South Street, past trendy boutiques and punk shops and New Age bookstores, and reminded myself I could turn around and go back to the car any time. 

"Ever been in here?" she asked, pausing in front of a shop that sold books on Eastern religion, Buddha bookends and incense holders. 

I nodded.  "They have a pin in there I've always wanted," I said.  "It's a rectangle with the earth on it, and it says 'One World' in Japanese." 

"Wanna go in?" 

I shook my head.  "No.  It would make me feel…trapped.  But if you want to go in, I'll wait for you." 

"You're sure?" I nodded. She pointed a finger at me.  "You call out to me or knock on the window the second you feel afraid." 

I was proud of myself for being able to stand still for so long, in perfect serenity, and let people and cars and troubles and thoughts just pass by and fade away as I remained in place, waiting for Kate. 

She emerged with a green paper bag. 

"What did you get?" I asked cheerfully.  She pulled out a book on Wicca.  I smiled.  I'd memorized the titles from her entire Wicca bookshelf in her apartment, with so many hours to kill while she was at work.  Then she reached into the bottom of the bag and pulled out the earth pin. 

A part of me wanted to cry, but I remained composed.  I withheld so much in those days.  I don't know why.  But I had enough gratitude and social grace to thank her as I took it into my hands. 

I did go home soon after, and my panic rebounded severely, to the point where my safety circle dictated that I had to stay on my bed with my legs elevated on the edge of my dresser – or I'd die.  It was terribly inconvenient.  I thought, "This is ridiculous" and with terror flooding my body and every part of me trembling, I dropped my legs from the dresser's edge and made my way down to the first floor of the house. 

"Mom, you need to take me to Dr. Kimmel.  I'm having panic attacks and I can't function.  I want medication." 

Her face blanched but she followed my directive, with few questions. 

After a deep medicated sleep, I woke up the next morning feeling like someone in a laundry detergent commercial, sitting up and raising my arms joyfully to the sky as I stretched and bounded out of bed into a beautiful day.  The world was still.  My body and mind were calm.  It was a pharmaceutical miracle. 

It's embarrassing for me to admit this even now, but the next couple of times I saw Kate after that, I felt dreadfully awkward.  Things came out of my mouth that didn't even sound like me.  I don't know what possessed me. I don't remember that clearly and it makes me cringe to even try, but I seem to recall being in Bennigan's as a customer months later and seeing her walk by, and gesturing her over and jokingly berating her for not calling me.  But it came out sounding much harsher than I intended and I sensed she was taken aback. 

And I remember calling her on the phone and "joking", again, that I'd been back to Bennigan's, and now that I knew she'd switched to the cook's side of the window, I hoped she wasn't working the dessert station, because my Death by Chocolate really sucked.  Again, sounding harsh and obnoxious, and not even understanding then why I couldn’t just relax and be a kinder, gentler self. 

Maybe I felt awkward because I let her see me at my most vulnerable, and I let her help me through it.  Awkward too, perhaps, because deep down I didn't think I deserved the kindness she gave so unselfishly, and I wanted to prove myself right.  Maybe that, mixed with the reality of not being very well-practiced in receiving such unabashed caring.  Maybe I hated myself for being vulnerable and I took it out on her.  Maybe I was projecting some resentment onto her that was really meant for my mom, who should have been the one doing the job Kate was doing. 

So let me say now to Kate Gaws, wherever she is, what I was too muddled to say back then: Thank you, Kate, for having the heart to reach out to me when you recognized the nature of my crisis.  Thank you for letting me past that tough exterior and letting me see a glimpse of the loving, generous spirit inside, even if the girl I was didn't deserve your efforts.  Thank you for putting your own heart on the line for me by reaching out.  Thank you for letting me into your home.  Thank you for walking with me on South Street.  Thank you for your patience.  And thanks again for the pin. 

The spirit I am now holds a space for the spirit you were then.  Within the vast universe that is my heart and mind, there's a bubble, like a little protected phone booth-like bubble floating out to the right, and that's the place where I keep my gratitude and regard for you.  If I could go back and do things over, I'd say all of this, and more.  I'd say, "I don’t know if you're much for hugs, Kate, but can I hug you?” And I'd give you the warmest embrace ever, and put my hand atop your feisty little head, and tell you we must always, always remain connected.  I'd ask you if you felt comfortable enough to sit with me someplace beautiful, so I could transmit my thanks to you through the silence, through my breath and the beating of my heart, in thrum with the pulsing world around us.  I'd take both your hands in mine and say, "Never doubt that while you were on this earth, you didn't understand the meaning of friendship.  It's something you do well." 

Last I knew, Kate went into the military and was working towards becoming a nurse.  But she saved at least one life long before she packed her duffle bag.