Catalyst

It's hot. And humid. Your legs feel swollen after running seven miles. Your stomach feels a little off. You realize you shouldn't have taken the last few sips of the energy drink that was sitting in your car.

The idea of the warm, chemical filled liquid that's supposed to taste like oranges makes your stomach swirl.

You keep walking, you're close to home. For some reason you keep clenching your jaw.

It's been a stressful day. You haven't eaten all day. Your boss's foreboding demands hover suffocate you like the humidity that's sweltering over these summer days.

You're closer to your apartment door. You feel nauseous. In fact, you feel like you're going to throw up.

With each step you're sure of it, you are going to throw up. You make it the front door, then head to the kitchen sink. Nothing comes out, you're gagging but it's just bile.

Your head is swirling. You go to your room to lay down. You're in bed, but your heart, it's beating so fast.

Fuck. You're on floor, gagging, and your head is pounding so hard you can't see straight. You close your eyes, which momentarily stops the dizziness, but even the slightest movement makes your heart start pounding, incredibly fast. It feels like butterfly wings flapping against hurricane winds, fragile and bound to break if you move. You start to gag again.

You contemplate calling 911. You type in the number, but don't dial. Am I overreacting? You ask yourself.

You think back to what happened that day. You had four energy drinks. 800 milligrams of caffeine. You ran seven miles. You hadn't eaten anything.

Maybe it's a caffeine overdose. Your mom's stern glares flash in your mind, memories of when she watched you buy those drinks before and tell you they're not good for you. Then, news articles of some gamer kid dying also pop up from your memory.

You moan and decide you'll drive yourself to the ER. You're not dying. You're fine. But you bargain with yourself, you do need help.

You get up. You start to gag again. You head towards the kitchen, and grab your keys. You take a deep breath. Pausing from time to time to keep from passing out as you slowly walk towards your car. You have a trash bag with you, and you spend five minutes just in your car, gagging and trying to calm your heart down.

You drive yourself to the ER, the only one you know. Funny enough, you were here last week, at the medical examiner's office for a story you were reporting on last week. That's the only reason you know that this ER's location is complicated to find. The medical campus loops around, and there's lots of side streets to get lost on.

You had to learn that the hard way last week.

You pull up to the front and park your car, gagging before you head out. You feel like you're going to pass out, in fact it's a miracle you haven't. You've definitely swiped the curb a few times on your way over.

You walk in and head to the front desk. You tell them you're dehydrated, you need help. They look at you and tell you to sign paper work. They're asking all these questions, but you can't even talk. Your voice sounds unrecognizable. You hear it, but it's from a third party perspective, you're floating above yourself at this point. It sounds raspy, and like you've been sobbing. The syllables come out jagged.

The lady keeps asking you questions and you start to get angry - doesn't she see the bag of throw up in your hand? Doesn't she notice the sweat drenching your forehead? You don't know what she's saying, you're just looking at her. You start to throw up again.

She tells you to sit down. At some point another lady calls your name. You look up. Big mistake. A wave of nausea overcomes you and you start hurling in the same plastic bag you've held since you've left your apartment. She calls your name again.

You look at her and want to throw this bag of throw up her way, but you keep it civil. You might meet your maker soon and don't want to have any last minute complications.

You finally get up and head her way. She takes your blood pressure and does some other stuff. She asks you questions. You tell her you're dehydrated. She takes more notes and tells you to go back in the waiting room. You tell her you can't get up. She says you need to. You tell her she's going to have to get you a wheelchair.

She sighs and calls for another nurse to come get you, in a wheelchair. They roll you out onto the waiting room.

You can't even lift your head without feeling dizzy. You close your eyes.

You tell yourself you're going to be fine, but you're going to have to take this second by second.

At some point, your name gets called for registration. You don't even look up, they're going to have to come get you. They call you again and you lift your hand. One nurse sighs and rolls you in.

The lady at the computer behind the desk starts asking you questions. Where you live, where you work, etc. For some reason, you can't remember your apartment's address. You give her your parent's address instead. She asks you about insurance, age, etc. She asks you where you work. You tell her the name of the local TV station. She pauses, and there's a different tone in her voice. You can tell she's curious, everyone has questions once you tell them where you work.

You start to gag and hope she realizes this isn't the time to make conversation. She tells you to sign something, and you lift your head just enough to find the dotted line you're supposed to initial.

They roll you back out to the waiting room. Minute-by-minute, you remind yourself that you'll survive. One of the attending nurses takes your vital signs and gives you water. Every time you sip, you gag.

At some point, the security guard approaches you. He asks if the red car in the driveway is yours. You say yes. He tells you to move it, or you'll get a ticket. You just stare at him. He walks away at some point.

A police officer approaches you, offers to move the car for you. You thank him, and give him your keys. Your heart feels for this man, gratitude for this small act of kindness.

He comes back and gives you the keys.

The old lady across from you has also been staring at you. You wonder if she recognizes you from TV, because she's been staring, hard.

You make eye contact with her at some point, and she says "Honey, I hope you feel better soon."

You smile, but then start throwing up immediately again. You feel embarrassed, throw up on your shirt, head barely lifting.

You want to call your mother, but you know she'll freak out. You don't have the energy to explain, and that would scare her even more. You just need an IV and some rest. If you could keep water down, you wouldn't be here. That and the possible caffeine overdose.

The dizziness slowly goes away, but now you have a headache and feel incredibly tired.

You think about work, and wonder when you'll have enough strength to call in sick.You think about work and feel sick.

The people, the pressure, the lack of communication. You're tired in more ways than one.

You think about the man who died when you first started. Had a heart attack while driving into work. Passed away in a ditch in the front of the station. Still had to put on our shows, it's the news, it never stops.

You realize if you passed away the same thing would happen. There'd be a memorial, but after a few weeks, your name would just be a whisper until it's not longer said anymore.

You are tired. Your body feels like it ran a marathon. You start to drink more water. You start to notice the other people around you. One lady is pregnant. She's throwing up.

Another guy has a police officer next to him, with no shirt on, completely tatted. At one point the attending nurse takes his vital signs and he screams at her, he's been sniffling and sobbing, off and on for the past hour or so.

You start to realize you don't want to go back to work. There's been a few issues, but this has been a catalyst. This was bound to happen, the stresses of being overworked and being pushed to the limit. You've been swimming with anxiety the past few weeks, and the work you've put forth hasn't been your best. But that's because your cup has been emptied, metaphorically speaking.

You contemplate the past year, graduating, moving during the pandemic. You don't care about making money, you just care about making an impact. You thought this job was the answer, but it's not. You've been ignoring the warning signs, wanting to follow a more creative path. Well, here it is.

At some point the nurse comes and gets you. You look up at the digital clock and see it's 3:08 AM. You vaguely checking in the ER around 6 PM.

The nurse asks you why you're there. You say you're dehydrated. You like this nurse, she's talking about something but you're not paying attention. She has a peaceful voice - not overtly soothing in a fake way, but just a calm, sure energy about her. Like summer rain.

She gives you another blanket, because she notices you're cold. You tell her you're dehydrated again, and as she looks for a vein to pop in the IV needle, she agrees with you.

She leaves and tells you the doctor will be in a moment. She tells you how to turn on the TV. You ask her for crackers. She asks if you want salty crackers or graham crackers. You pause for a moment. For some reason this question catches you off guard. You decide salty.

She brings you more water and the crackers. You wait for the doctor.

Finally he comes in. You notice he looks young, like a kid. He wears glasses and scrubs, and looks more like a student than an actual doctor. You check his name tag when he looks down at his chart to make sure it has M.D. or doctor listed. It's there.

He asks you why you're there. You tell him you're dehydrated. He asks for the specifics. You don't want to give the specifics, you just want the IV bag, food, and some rest.

He asks you why you haven't eaten all day, and asks you if you realize how unhealthy it was to not eat all day. You're not an idiot, and you feel like you're being chastised. You acknowledge out loud these facts, but the reality is, you don't stop until life throws you against a brick wall and knocks you down. It just happens, the stress of the job, of being isolated, of people constantly making demands of you.

You want to roll your eyes but realize he's just doing his job. He says another doctor will also come in and check in. You wonder if he thinks if you have an eating disorder. Probably.

The other doctor also comes in, a woman with blue eyes and brown hair. You remember the other doctor having glasses, but can't remember his eye color. She asks you the same questions.

You've stopped throwing up and don't feel dizzy anymore. You feel childish for coming in the ER. You tell her that and she laughs softly. She tells you that it's fine, and that I was dehydrated.

You smile back. She gets up and leaves. The nurse and the other doctor come in an out. At some point they took your blood, and tell you they're just waiting on results.

You watch a few comedy shows, old ones that are in syndication. They remind you of when you and your dad and your brother would eat ice cream and watch these shows. You never thought these shows were funny, and you never understood why your dad loved them so much, but you loved just sitting there being with him while he laughed.

Eventually the doctor comes back and gives you the choice to leave now, or when the IV is finished. You decide to head out now, you feel like you're being a nuisance for taking up an ER bed.

The nurse walks you out. It's about 7:30 AM when she takes you to the front doors. You tell her you're craving a grocery store vanilla sheet cake, with buttercream frosting. Like the classic, birthday cakes laid out at parties.

She laughs softly, again like summer rain, and tells you that she hopes you enjoy a slice of cake.