"You're Doing Everything Right"

I am at the emergency. Again. 

It’s Hallowe’en, 2017. I’ve been off work for about a week now, telling my principal:

Another day.

Another two days.

I’ll be back next week.

It’s what I’m hoping. It’s what I feel I should be able to do. There’s a polite level of support but I know it has an expiration date.

Last week, I had to ask my co-parent to buy our daughter her Hallowe’en costume. If I wasn’t so sick, I’d be grieving this. Making her costume is something I love to do. This year, I’m grateful not to have to think about it. The thought of figuring it out, of making it to the art store or choosing the right colours had me rocking back and forth in panic and dread. I just can’t.

 In this state, I won’t be able to take my kiddo trick-or-treating tonight.

***

 The young doctor is trying his best. He knows I’m desperate.

 His scripted questions aren’t revealing anything useful.

 —No, I’m not under any excessive pressure.

 —No, I don’t use drugs.

 —No, no substance abuse of any kind.

—Therapy? —Yes.

—Exercise? —Yes, swimming and yoga and I walk everywhere.

—Eating well? —Yes, extremely.

 My friend is asked to leave so that I can be asked if I am safe with him.

—Is anyone trying to hurt you? —Nope.

—Friends and family you can turn to? —Yup. 

“Usually, people’s lives are in chaos when they come to us in your state of anxiety,” he notes, more to himself. This information is of no value to me.

His stethoscope moves around my back as I inhale, exhale.

I am desperate to hear, “Wait! What’s this?”

I fantasize about being whisked away on a gurney, straight into surgery. Doctors frantically work on me. I wake up to family and friends by my side and I’m told that anxiety has been removed.

The head surgeon is telling me that I’ve been through a lot but all that is left is to rest and recover. “Work will have to wait,” she instructs. There are flowers and cards from colleagues, students and their parents. 

Instead, predictably, I hear, “Everything sounds normal.”

My time is almost up. There are other patients to be seen. I know there’s nothing this doctor can do in this moment, in this system, and he knows it too. 

He puts his hand on my shoulder, looks me in the eye and says, “You’re doing everything right.”

I leave with my latest prescription for sedatives. I had no other expectations. I may even have some left over in my bathroom cabinet. Still, I had needed to come here. 

There is something about going to the hospital when you are sick—getting assessed in triage, sticking your hand through the hole in the glass to have your admittance bracelet put on, seeing other sick people and doctors and worried relatives. 

This process feels good. It validates my silent, invisible suffering and temporarily soothes my anxiety (and shame, fear, anger, confusion about my anxiety). 

I fill my prescription.*

That evening I take my kiddo trick-or-treating. I am enjoying it. The pills have taken the edge off, which floods my body and brain with gratitude. 

This temporary relief has afforded me the ability to absorb my daughter’s excitement. I watch my fearless four-year-old clamber up knee-high stairs, undaunted by spooky jack o’lanterns.

My daughter sleeps at her dad’s house that night. I go home and fall into a deep sleep.  

The next morning I wake up in panic. I cut the hospital bracelet off. 

***

I haven’t been back to the emergency since that day, two years ago. My ability to manage my anxiety continues to evolve. I remain more committed than ever. One day, I may walk through those doors again. After all, doing everything right in this life doesn’t come with guarantees. There’s no failure here. I know it’s just the reality of my disorder and that’s ok.

*In my experience, it’s because I haven’t taken the sedatives in quite a while—weeks if not months—that they are now able to give me relief. When taken routinely, sedatives leave me groggy and anxious. Ugh.