It's one a.m. and I'm driving to the hospital. Actually, I'm casing the place. Driving down Lyon, Bostwick, up Michigan Street, my car almost sliding backwards down the icy hill, again and again, around the block, because I've never been to a hospital in the city and I don't know where to find parking.
There's a drive that goes straight to the entrance to the ER with a valet service, should I just go there? I don't know, I don't think that I'm sick enough to deserve valet service. I feel the squeezing, sharp pain in my side, under my ribs, pangs going up my esophagus. No, I should probably be here.
Fifteen minutes ago I started feeling these awful pains and began to dissociate, I began to panic, I live alone, how far is an ambulance, what if I die here. It's nighttime, everyone's asleep. I'll die alone. I pulled on my boots and galloped down the stairs to my car. I could've called someone, I usually do, but I didn't want anyone to wake up. I don't want them to know that I'm going crazy again.
My left lung feels like it's in a vice grip.
Now, I decide to park on the side street with no name, half a block down from the hospital. I pull my hood over my head and shove my hands into my pockets. The only thing I can hear is the icy wind, freezing my ear drums. I walk past an EMT standing outside an ambulance, smoking. Inside, I'm greeted by more medical professionals.
"Do you have chest pains or any trouble breathing?"
Lucky me, I have both. The single useful part of having a heart condition is you will typically be admitted before anyone else. I surrender my ID and insurance cards.
"Maria? Is that how you say your name?" asks the male nurse at the computer.
"Yeah.."
"And...Katharine?" Oh my god.
"Yep."
"Very nice. That's pretty."
I immediately sneeze; long ropy tendrils of mucus. Gorgeous.
A girl nurse carts me down the hall in a wheelchair, and I keep glancing at the floor. Whenever I look up, people always seem to be staring. I can't figure out why. Maybe it's because I'm not bleeding from the ears, or missing an appendage.
I am delivered to an exam room that has not only a curtain, but its own door. I am not out in the pit, with the rest of the peasants. There is a television here too, like usual, but I don't like to use them. I prefer to pickle in my anxiety.
I take off my coat and shirt and shoes and pull the hospital gown around me. It isn't a triple extra-large this time, which is nice.
The nurse, who looks like Julianne Hough, comes back to hook me up to the heart monitor. "Have you ever had one of these before?"
At least a hundred. I'm shivering, nervous. My hands are trembling, and I'm so aware of the ripping pain in my chest.
Shortly after, my doctor arrives. He's hot. Everyone in this hospital is hot. Well, at least I'm still in full makeup and my hair looks flawless. I'm not going to try to flirt though. I'm wearing a hospital gown, it'll be completely futile.
"Hello Maria, I'm Doctor [some sort of French surname; I immediately peg him as a Canadian]." Perfect. "What brings you here tonight?"
I tell him about the pain, how I can't breathe, how it feels like my ribs are on fire, etc etc. Oh, and I had pains in my legs all day.
"About how long ago did the pain start?" Oh christ. The way he pronounces "about" confirms my suspicions.
I hold back a laugh and tell him the chest pains started about an hour ago. But the leg pains, since I woke up, actually. I'm concerned about blood clots. You know, since I'm on contraception. I don't want to sound like a hypochondriac. Is that what a hypochondriac would say?
The Canadian Doctor nods, and looks up at me. "Yeah, I thought blood clots might be a possibility, actually, when I looked at your chart."
Ha-HA! Knew it. I could be a doctor.
"Well, we'll hook you up to an IV, and we'll get a chest X-ray, do some blood work, rule out the more serious stuff."
My stomach drops when I hear about IVs and needles. Fuck, they're serious. I honestly thought an X-ray would be it, and then I'd get sent off. I hate this. Why did I come here? The pain in my chest is fading, but my heart starts racing instead. I need an Ativan.
The Canadian Doctor does an examination, and comments on the rash that's spread from my chest to my shoulders. Goddammit. "Is that typical for you?"
"Oh, no, it's not. I mean, it usually just happens when I get anxious." It's true. I'm an excellent liar, but the rash is always a dead giveaway. This was unfortunate in high school around people I had a crush on.
He looks at me. "Hey. It's okay. You don't have to be anxious. We'll take good care of you."
Oh. Oh. He thinks I'm anxious because I'm in a hospital and I am, ostensibly, suffering a pulmonary embolism. He has no inkling that I'm nervous because I've already married him in my head and named our future children.
The Canadian Doctor leaves and another male nurse comes in to stick a needle into my arm. He's also extremely attractive. Why? And they all look pretty young. It must be a teaching hospital. I wonder what residents do in their spare time, if they have any. Do they drink often? Come to think of it, I think I might've seen Nurse Julianne Hough at Pyramid Scheme the other night.
The male nurse sucks some blood out of my veins, tapes the IV into my arm, and tells me the test results should be back soon. The X-ray technician arrives, and hauls my boat of a bed down the hall to radiology. I sit cross-legged on the bed while he pushes it down the hall, looking ridiculous in my gown, leggings and bright pink socks. The technician takes some pictures of whatever's inside my chest, and we return to my suite.
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. They left one of the lights off, so it's quite dim in here. My chest pain has dissipated for now, and I feel that heavy, depressing feeling return, when I realize that maybe the reason I'm in here again is nothing at all.
I started graduate school three weeks ago, and the stress is already getting to me. I live alone, in a new city, somewhere unfamiliar. I feel fear rather often, sometimes to the point I can't even leave my house. Making it to class is hard enough. Trying to focus on the tedious, tiresome readings is hard enough. Participating in class discussions? Nearly impossible. I have to take anxiety medication before I exit the parking deck, so when I make it into the lecture hall, to my seat, I've glided into some sort of calm. Even then, it's still a struggle. I've always been a nervous person, but a few years ago, things just got so much harder.
I think about this, and I think about the number of times I've been in this situation, terrified, pains shooting through my chest, ribs, jaw, down my arm. I'm short of breath, my heart races and skips, and I'm dizzy. Who wouldn't think it was heart attack? If you've never had a panic attack, it's hard to imagine what it's like. You feel that you may die. Since my diagnosis of an arrhythmia, it's been worse. With everything I've been through, I never want to take a chance.
That's why I'm here tonight. Because it feels real, and I don't know what to do. This pain is different, though, it's sharp, like someone's slicing between my ribs with a knife. Immediately, I assumed there was a blood clot in my lungs, or that I had ebola, or something equally tragic. Plus, you know, the heart attack. If it exists, I have it.
Now, I crane my head back to see the readings from the cardiac monitor on the screen. My blood pressure is low, as usual, from the beta blockers.
My pulse is elevated. I watch the number, and try to lower it. I breathe deeper, in and out. 72...again, in and out. 69. Again, and again. 65. When I reach fifteen breaths, it's down to 62, where it stays. I am ready for sleep.
I hear a knock on the door. A tall, graying man in the white coat comes in, The Canadian Doctor trailing behind him.
"Hello, I'm Doctor [some sort of Polish monstrosity, I'll call him Doctor Pulaski], I'm one of the supervising physicians here. Just wanted to let you know your x-ray came back fine, but we're still waiting on the blood test results, which will tell us for certain if you're experiencing a pulmonary embolism."
"Oh."
"Now, that is probably not be the cause of your pain, but with the symptoms you described, my associate here was concerned that that may be the case," says Doctor Pulaski.
He also tells me I might have a collapsed lung, which causes me to snort in nervous and terrified laughter. Doctor Pulaski is very kind, though, and reassuring. I like this hospital. I hate that I'm probably wasting their time.
I've been to the ER so many times, and most of the time, it's nothing. But it's always the few cases there has been something really, really wrong that leaves me skittish. Sometimes I think if my heart was healthy, I would be fine. If I'm being honest with myself, I know I'd just find something new to worry about anyway.
They leave me alone in my room again, and I continue to ponder my existential struggles. I take a few selfies.
About an hour later, The Canadian Doctor returns, mid-selfie. "How are you feeling?"
I lower my iPhone in shame. He suppresses a grin. I am too basic for The Canadian Doctor; he will never love me the way I love him.
"Fine, I guess."
"Your blood tests came back fine. No blood clot, nothing that would indicate a heart attack either. You can rest assured that's out of the question."
I sigh. "Oh, good. I thought I was going to die."
He smiles at me. "Well, you're not going to die tonight."
"What about the pain? What's causing it?"
"It could be anything, indigestion, something you ate. Could be stress. You're probably feeling physical symptoms of anxiety." Of course I am.
Indigestion sounds likely, though. But does this imply that I can never eat buffalo sauce again? For the first time, I feel a profound loss.
"I was so worried it was something worse."
"Well, you can relax." He is being so nice, so understanding, and I hate it. I don't understand why no one is furious with me. If this is nothing, I feel guilty for being here. I hate myself, and I hate my habit of emergency room visits for sport. Am I malingering? Is this what malingering is?
"We'll send you off with some peace of mind tonight, you can go home, get some sleep. And if any symptoms get worse, or if you're scared something might be wrong again, feel free to come back in, okay?"
Why doesn't he tell me to fuck off? I have Munchausen syndrome, or, more likely, paranoid personality disorder.
"We'll get you through registration, you can be discharged, and we'll send you home in a few minutes here."
The Canadian Doctor opens the door to leave, but turns back to look at me. "Have a good night, Maria," he says, smiling, "It was a pleasure treating you."
Hah. I'm so sure.
I leave soon after, with some printouts on chest pains and anxiety, and a clean bill of health. I'm relieved I'm not dying, but I'm so tired. It's around three thirty in the morning, and the receptionists smile at me as I leave. Is everyone here Canadian? They're crushingly polite.
Outside, the wind has died down. The air is cold and crisp, and slips through my lungs like silver. In the dark, the city lights are clear, and everything seems sharp. I like walking around at night, even if it's winter.
I pass another ambulance parked outside, two men inside it, eating cheeseburgers and laughing. It's just a typical night for them. I think about the people in the buildings around me, working much different hours than everyone else. Hospitals never close. A couple cars drive down Lyon, and I hear bass thumping in the distance. I can smell the McDonald's further down Michigan Street, and I think it's strange that it's right next door to all the medical establishments.
I understand immediately that I am not alone in the world, in this moment. This is the safest I've felt in weeks. I'm often afraid at night, feeling like everyone in the world is asleep but me. I like the early hours, but they're better when you have someone to enjoy them with. I'm scared of crowds, but I need to know that there's people around. I want to know that somewhere, someone else is awake. Tonight, I feel it.
In my car, I crank the heat up high, and turn on the radio. On the rap station, the DJs are making corny jokes about celebrities in the news. They sound like they're having a good time. I think I would like a job where I could stay up all night and talk shit.
I put my car in gear, and head down the road, passing the hospitals, and back down the hill. Before turning onto my street, I spot the 24 hour Grand Coney on the corner of Eastern and Michigan. It looks inviting, so I decide to pull in. I imagine a cup of warm decaf coffee in my hands, and an order of hash browns sizzling away on the flat top.
My heartbeat is steady, and the tension in my stomach is gone. I feel at home in the world, and I'm not afraid to be awake. I think it will be fine, tonight.
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