Part Six: Emergency Room #2/ Fuck Me

Approximately a year after the events of my previous post, panic symptoms began messing with my head again. I felt the dizziness (vertigo?). I felt chest tightness. I felt impending doom. I asked my doctor for an increased dose of my daily SSRI, and he agreed that it was a good idea as my dose was pretty low to begin with. This is about when my chest pain began.

A dull ache began to arise near my sternum that occasionally manifested as a sharp jab. I tried brushing it off as another symptom of anxiety, but it became clear that it was something different. By this time I was very well acquainted with every “panic feeling” in my repertoire, so I thought it would be strange if a new one appeared out of the blue. I made a lot of excuses for my chest pain. I go to the gym; maybe I hurt it there. Maybe my rib was hurting because a back muscle was too tight. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was nothing but my mind fucking with me. Maybe this. Maybe that. I had no idea, but it was becoming troubling. 

One day while at work, I felt a sudden, sharp jab on the left side of my chest. I lost my breath and my balance. I placed one hand on a chair and one on my chest. I felt my face lose color and my breathing lose rhythm. Something was wrong. Something was different. My coworker saw me and said I looked ghostly. I couldn’t stand up straight and I couldn’t concentrate—my only thought was that I should get to a hospital. I had to do some creative texting to get the rest of my shift covered, but I was able to skip out and drive to the emergency room (again).

The sliding doors of Urgent Care slid open with a hiss revealing a contrasting world than the sunny spring day I stepped out of. The hospital interior was an assortment of soft blues and grays. When I approached the front desk they hailed a wheelchair immediately. Have you ever looked so bad that someone made you sit down? It’s not exactly complimentary. However, the good thing about checking yourself into emergency with chest pains is that because of their potentially fatal nature, you get to skip to the front of the line. 

It wasn’t long before I had was adorned in a hospital smock, given an EKG, blood tests, and an IV. As my test results began to stream in as normal, I confided in a nurse about how bad I’d feel if I checked myself into the hospital for anxiety again. He told me it happened often and reminded me that most people don’t get such thorough testing done on a regular basis; I should enjoy the peace of mind of knowing I was healthy. He asked if I had a ride home, scolded me for driving there in the first place, then gave me some “happy pills”. I drifted into a medicinally induced nap.