A Panic Event is the second of four installments of a data-laden narrative. The story follows a parent in the fall of 2018 dealing with the conjunction of crises we face.

People have all these theories about what is best for babies. Attachment parenting, crying it out, in-between methods. I can understand the theories: if you soothe a baby, the baby learns that her people are there, physically and emotionally, to support her. If you let a baby cry it out, they learn to soothe themselves. I consider these things while I rock in the chair to soothe my daughter back to sleep. I extrapolate.

This world my daughter is living in has the patriarchy paying women 83 cents on the dollar to men. India and Pakistan could start the total mutual annihilation process at any moment. Trump-inspired tribalism aided by algorithms is eroding democracy. Will it be better to let her cry it out or soothe?

At least if my wife and I would choose a particular method other than a pragmatic (or wishy-washy?) middle path, we could attribute her failures or successes to a concrete set of actions. “Oh yes, we soothed her so that she would have the confidence to act gallantly in the face of despair and destruction.” Or, “Of course, we left her to tough it out, so now she is tough as nails. Do not mess with her.”

These thoughts lead me into a spiral of despairing speculation. Freaking. Out. No more bees to pollinate. No more food. Resource wars. Martial law. A need for guns, a will to fight and kill. Eating whatever, maybe other people. This world, this horror, my daughter’s fate. I can’t protect her from climate deniers, anti-vaxxers, flat earthers, epistemological meltdown, mass shooters, doctors that won’t take her seriously when she’s in pain.

My thoughts speed like glacial calving, giant pieces falling into the ocean. Greased skids from moulins and melting. Total annihilation of life as we know it. The latest stage of capitalism, and then crashing. Cannibalism, war, starvation, agricultural collapse. All the collapses of ancient civilizations were sparked by major environmental changes. All of them. And here it is.

Gripped, I imagine the world for my sweet perfect little girl that I swore off mountain climbing for. Mountain climbing is predictable compared to the food web changes that will be sparked by the 6th mass extinction. Rocking back in forth in my comfortable glider with my second child, my silly girl. “No funny faces at 3am, baby.” 

I’m familiar with fear. I’ve been climbing longer than most climbers I run into have been alive. Climbing was my venue for learning to deal with fear. Heights, falling, trusting a rope, trusting a partner. I could have died dozens of times, so many that I don’t even consider “could have died” to be worth mentioning. I almost died a handful of times. Ice ax behind a boulder, the boulder moved. And kept moving. Then it stopped, so I didn’t die in the mountains of Peru. Rappelling off a mountain, dehydrated. Tested the rappel anchor, half of it popped out. Because the other half, which was one piece of metal half an inch wide, didn’t pull out, I didn’t die in the mountains in Alaska. 

I’ve even been called brave. During both of those almost-died moments, I baked and froze on the inside with fear. But after half the anchor blew out in Alaska, I told my wide-eyed partner, “That’s why we put in two pieces.” It was some Clint Eastwood tough guy talk if ever there was any. But I wasn’t brave in that moment, and I’m not now. I don’t know how to be brave regarding glacial melt, recession, hyper-calving, and acceleration. She’s asleep. I put her back in her crib and go outside to stare at trees in the dark.

I usually use the tricks I know to deal with fear while I’m tied in to a rope on the side of a cliff. Focus on senses. No extraneous thoughts. Now I bring them to walk the mean streets of the nice neighborhood.

The new halogen streetlights throw colder light and make shadows starker. I find a dark mass of secret-garden-style magnolia. I walk on to a white oak tower and stare at the striated bark. It’s a giant with boughs as large as half the trees in the neighborhood. They stick out at varying angles with impressive crooks. The tree improbably holds itself together, tall and still, so I stand tall and let the stillness seep into my mind.

Back in bed, I relish the imprinted images of the magnolia and oak in my mind’s eye as I fall asleep.