Part Two: Panic at the Food Court

Let’s set the scene. I am visiting my hometown for a wedding. Things are good at this time. Traveling had been relatively stress free.

(By the way, don’t get me started on all the issues I had with traveling. Seriously, it sucked. I booked flights based on how close to the bathroom I could sit. I stared at the fasten seatbelt light in a cold sweat, unsure if I would make it until it turned off to get to the bathroom. Of course as soon as the light flickered out I was fine—no need to use the restroom at all. Anyway, I’ll touch more on traveling in a future post. Okay, back to it.)

I had some butterflies in my basket, but overall, I felt pretty okay at this time. It never really crossed my mind that anxiety could be a culprit to my various new neurosis. Anxiety means stress, right? But my life was going great! I had moved to a new city with my loving girlfriend and obtained a fun job. Nothing was causing me any stress at all, and again—stress leads to anxiety—right? I was ignorant and uninformed.

The wedding was typical. We drank. We danced. We drank a little more. Enter a black curtain drawing across my memory and opening again to the light of the next day. Anyone who has ever had a hangover knows the basic desires that flood your mind the moment your eyes flutter open. Hunger and thirst consumed me. There are not a lot of choices for vegan food in my hometown, so I ended up at a Mongolian grill in the local mall. My last supper before my life would tilt shift into absurdity was actually pretty amazing. Unfortunately, I didn’t enjoy the contentedness that comes with a freshly filled hungover belly.

As we were leaving the mall, I felt a sensation hit me that I had never experienced before. In fact, calling it a sensation would be a gross understatement. I experienced dying, or so I thought at the time. The best way to describe the commencing experience would be someone shoving me from behind unexpectedly. I instantly felt the gravity of the universe pulling on me. I lost all my breath. My heart felt like it had stopped. I shriveled to the floor, sure I was having a heart attack or some other cardiac failure-to-operate. I’d heard stories of athletes’ hearts suddenly stopping despite being in perfect health. I could visualize my obituary. And then it was over—as unexpectedly as it started. I sat on the floor panting. The friends I was with were, understandably, confused and concerned. One friend happened to be a nurse and did wonders comforting me, talking me down by reminding me that I was likely dehydrated from the wedding and in need of water and rest. That didn’t feel true in my heart, but I accepted it as fact and went on with my day, shaken but resilient. 

I experienced my true last supper the following afternoon. (It was lunch, but let’s not allow that to ruin my analogy.) I was with a dear friend and his wife for an Americanized Mexican meal when my body began to feel abnormal again. It’s difficult to articulate the physical symptoms I was experiencing, but a general chest discomfort might be an acceptable start. My heart began to feel different. I felt chilled, short of breath, and pardon my vulgarity: really fucking shitty. Cancer, probably. Or so I thought. I called my mom and told her how I was feeling and she insisted I go to the hospital. I argued because I was out of state and really didn’t want to pay the hefty bill, but eventually she insisted and offered to help with the money. I politely returned to the table and casually asked for a ride to the emergency room—if it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.

“I think I’m dying. Please and thanks.”