Dress Rehearsal

You’ve been trying to tell me for some time. Something is off. The instrument is out of tune. Can you not feel it?

You’ve asked for my attention and I, like an overwhelmed parent swatting at her child’s grubby hand, said:

Not now!

Can’t you see this is not a good time?

Please stop bothering me!

It went on like this for weeks. You were patient and I mistook your patience to mean that you no longer needed my attention. I pretended to forget about you because you tucked yourself, as you often did, in the darkest room of my heart.

I pretended to not see you in that room. I nailed closed the shutters, locked down the doors. You were an inconvenience to my busy life, my to-do-list, to my perfectionism, my need to please everyone (except you), to not disappoint anyone (except you) to see everyone (but not you), to love everyone (and forget you).

But yesterday, you pried the shutters open with your bare hands. You screamed so loud the windows shattered. You pounded at the door I had locked you behind and demanded: See Me!

I ignored you. I slipped on my work dress, the pretty one that fell just above my knees. I showered, brushed eyeshadow on my lids and rouge on my too-pale cheeks, all-the-while shushing you to please stop all that racket. We are fine, I cooed. We’ll walk to work this morning, okay? Won’t that be fun?

Wearefinewearefinebreathinginbreathingoutwearefinewearefine.

We did slow down to watch a robin that morning. Remember? The one serenading on top of the tallest pine tree, a return call coming from another, somewhere across the legislative grounds. Beautiful song, you said. Can we stay a while?

We gotta get to work! I said, my rushed steps giving away my impatience. There are people depending on me. People inside files, their names in numbered code.

We made it up 11th floor in the elevator. Chest tight. Breath shallow. We are fine! The mantra on repeat in my too-full head.

I exchanged pleasantries with the new summer student who had brought in a plant to “brighten” her windowless office.

Wearefinewearefinewearefine.

At my desk, I kept reading the same sentence over and over again, the words on my computer screen a dead language I couldn't decipher. Your fists pounded inside my heart. I could feel it pulsing through my dress. Okay, okay.

I found the doctor's number in my contacts and pressed the cell phone to my ear. “… higher than normal volume of calls,” a recorded voice. “Try back later.” There is no number to press for emergency.

You're taking up too much space in my chest, or my chest is shrinking. Shrinking. Am I in a tunnel?

“GET HELP” I hear you shout from somewhere far away.

I shuffle down the hall to a co-worker’s office. “I’m not well,” my voice sounds strange in my ears.

The sobs won't stop and am struggling to catch my breath. My body shakes.

I hate this fuss and drama.

The firemen arrive. “My name is Ben.” I watch Ben pull on a blue rubber glove and write down my age and name on the side of his rubbered hand. Ben. I knew a Ben once. He was a good kisser.

The paramedics arrive. There is some back and forth about why Ben didn’t give me Aspirin.

They’re talking about me as if I wasn’t there. I’m HERE! I want to shout.

“Chew these!” Two Aspirins inside my mouth. “They’re orange flavored.”

Ativan under my tongue. “To help you calm down.”

I comply.

“Heart rate is fine.”

“Blood pressure a bit low.”

“Oxygenation normal.”

“…we’ll know more once we get you to the hospital for more tests.”

*

In the ambulance. The digital clock flashes 9:11. It’s not 9:11, this I know because my phone alarm just went off. It’s 10:10.

9:11

9:11

The two paramedics keep bantering about Ben. “I hope he didn’t take offence,” the one who shoved another Ativan under my tongue says. “I hope he takes it as a learning opportunity.” I feel sorry for young Ben with my age and name on his rubber glove.

Two sprays of nitroglycerin. My chest tightness is now replaced with a burning in my solar plexus. (Are you building a bon-fire in there? I’m thinking. Are you?) My hands are buzzing so hard I could probably power the ambulance lights.

“What’s happening to me?” I ask the paramedic who had a thing with Ben.

“It’s ok,” she says, not looking at me. “You are just scared.”

In the ER, a nurse pokes another IV into my arm. “The other one was dry,” she explains. I am so out of it I don’t feel a thing.

My co-worker arrives. I’m relieved to see a familiar face. She’s kind and tells me about her stay in the very hospital. “It’s a good hospital,” she says.

My mom arrives. She lets my kids know where I am.

The doctor can’t find anything wrong with me. “You've had an anxiety attack,” he says, studying my chart. “See your doctor tomorrow."

At home: How did I get here? I’m still wearing the pretty office dress. I’m in and out.

Everyone except for Emma has left. She makes me toast with lots of jam and cheddar cheese. “Hey,” I say. It’s the same snack your dad made for me after you were born. Remember?”

Of course, she doesn’t, but she smiles and touches my face.

Sleep comes and stays and stays.

…and you ask:

Can you hear me now?