of alcohol, anxiety attacks, and ambulances

It started innocently enough.

The Mr. had band practice. One of my best friends came over. We watched a movie and drank some wine. It was fun. We were having fun.

But I was also trying to pretend that I didn't notice the undercurrent of anxiety running through me like electricity. 

So one glass of wine turned into two. Two glasses turned into three. The movie ended. The Mr. came home. My friend left. I had another glass of wine. Then another.

Five glasses of wine on an empty stomach is not advised.

I remember suddenly realizing, Shit, I think I'm going to throw up. I was in bed. I don't remember getting in bed, but that's where I was. I crawled out and sat in front of the toilet. The Mr. came over, concerned. I couldn't throw up because my phobias are often stronger than I am. I remember laying on the floor of the bathroom and trying to convince the Mr. to let me sleep there.

He wasn't having that.

He helped me up and took me back to bed. And that's when I realized I wasn't breathing right. My breaths were coming in short, sharp gasps. The more I tried to stop, the worse it got. Panic started setting in. The Mr. was growing increasingly alarmed, and I started trying to calm him down. I was trying really hard to swallow my panic so he wouldn't panic, but that's when I noticed my hands. 

My hands had curled into horrifying fists, like a twisted claw. And I couldn't unclench them. I couldn't move them at all. 

And that's when I totally lost my shit.

How many times have I written that phrase on this blog? 

I drunkenly curled up on the bed, now completely hyperventilating, stared at my motionless fists and sobbed over and over that I couldn't move my hands. The Mr., terrified that I was having a stroke, called 911.

I vaguely remember him dressing me and taking me downstairs. I curled up on the couch and stared at my hands and gasped and gasped and gasped sharp breaths.

The ambulance arrived and the EMT's joined us in my livingroom like some sort of bizarre family reunion. We sat on the couch and I sobbed dry gasps over and over. "Breathe." They told me. "You need to breathe slower. Hold your breath. You're the only one who can stop this. If you don't stop, you're going to pass out."

I heard them, but in all the chaos, I had somehow escaped my own head. I was somewhere outside of that pathetic body curled up on the couch. It was as though I was watching everything unfold like a movie. And I remember thinking, I don't care. 

Occasionally, I was jolted back when they would shake me or shove a paper bag into my hands. "Breathe into this." They would say. The Mr. was crouched in front of me, his eyes full of worry. I breathed into the bag. Once, twice, three times. "Good!" They said. "Keep going!" But I couldn't stand to be in my head, and I was gone again.

Time seemed to stretch into an eternity, the sound of my frantic wheezing breaths blended in with the voices of the people around me. My claw hands stared at me, mocking my attempts to move them.

Someone was suddenly putting shoes on my feet. The two EMT's each took one of my arms. They half carried me out the door and down the steps to a stretcher. They tucked me in as I shivered, teeth chattering through my gasps. My hyperventilating continued like a metronome. Somewhere outside of my head, I watched the lights pass by through the back window.

They wheeled me inside the Emergency Room, my gasps echoing off the walls. I remember the stares. In a small room, two nurses stripped off my shirt and dressed me in a hospital gown. "You need to breathe!" They told me sharply. 

I probably would have told them to go to hell if I could've gotten enough air.

But I couldn't get enough air, and I passed out instead.

The next thing I knew, I was propped up in a hospital bed, cords and wires trailing from my body to machines that beeped behind me, and I was talking. There was a doctor sitting next to my bed, and I was talking to him. I squinted at him in confusion. How long had I been talking to him? What the fuck? Was he even real? 

I decided I didn't really care. So I kept talking to him, hearing my voice faintly as though it were coming from a long ways off. He asked me a lot of questions. Still unsure if I was awake or dreaming, I was startlingly honest. Although I kept getting distracted by how strange my mouth felt and the glorious fact that I could move my hands again. If I was dreaming, I decided I didn't want to ever wake up.

He was very concerned that I had apparently told a nurse that I thought about hurting myself earlier in the day. I didn't remember saying that, but it was probably true, so I didn't argue. He asked about my recent hospitalization. I showed him the bruises on my arms. He asked me if I would hurt myself if they released me. I told him I was too fucking tired. 

I don't remember him leaving, but like someone had pressed a Next button, I opened my eyes and the Mr. was sitting next to me, holding my hand. He looked so relieved when I opened my eyes. I couldn't express how relieved I was to see him, so I settled for just squeezing his hand tightly.

There was a blur of nurses and doctors. Apparently I made funny faces at the Mr. whenever the nurses would turn their back. The doctors tried to ask me questions. The Mr. had to answer most of them because I was struggling to stay awake. A nurse came in and stuck a million sticky patches all over me for an EKG. Another came in and unhooked me from all the cords and wires so I could pee in a cup. Then she took a blood test.

"I'm going to insert an IV so I only have to poke you once." She told me. "I don't know if they'll hook you up to one, but just in case." 

All of me went tense with terror. An IV? How many calories would that be?

A few minutes later, after struggling to get my vein, she decided to just do the blood sample for now. I was so relieved, I didn't even mind that my whole arm was throbbing with pain.

Then we waited. The blood pressure cuff around my arm took my blood pressure all by itself every so often.  I remember trying to convince the Mr. to climb into my hospital bed with me. I dozed off and on. 

Finally the doctors came in and told me my tests came back ok. My potassium was pretty low, so they had me drink something that tasted wretched. They asked me some more questions that I answered slightly crabbily. Then we were released. It was 3:30 am.

I discarded the hospital gown, ignored the seemingly million stickers all over my body, and put my shirt back on. It was then that I realized how the Mr. had dressed me. I was wearing flannel pj bottoms that I had gotten for Christmas years ago. The words "Cabin Fever" were printed across the butt. My shirt was my X-Men t-shirt that was way too big for me. And on my feet were green ballet flats. The Mr. had rushed to the hospital in basketball shorts and a t-shirt. In November.

It was a cold walk back to the car for both of us. 

Once home, we collapsed into bed and passed out. Then I got up at 7:30 am and went to work. I would have called in, but unfortunately on Wednesdays, I am the one who has to open the shop because my boss has a networking meeting. So I dragged myself there, feeling like death warmed over. 

Thankfully I was able to leave at noon so I could get in a few hours of sleep before my dreaded second appointment with my dietitian.

By the time I arrived at that appointment, I was so exhausted I couldn't even muster the energy to hate her. I just sat and talked and answered her questions honestly. I could tell she was slightly alarmed by my story, my honest answer to what I had eaten in the last 24 hours, and my bedraggled presence. 

I told her that I was really only going to treatment to relieve other people's worry. She kept trying to get me to see that I needed it, and I was just honest. I still don't feel like I do. Then she pulled out the scare tactics. Looming heart attacks. Blood pressure problems. 

I told her I wasn't skinny enough to worry about those yet. 

She told me I was heading in that direction.

I was too tired to argue. 

We made a meal plan for tomorrow, and she assigned me the goal to eat at least two meals a day. 

Driving home, I had to admit that I needed to eat something. In the past 48 hours, I'd only had some almonds and some spinach. And five glasses of wine. I felt so weak. 

So I went home. And I ate dinner. Chicken and steamed broccoli. 

Afterwards, I felt so much better and so much worse all at the same time.

My brain tells me I can't defy science. My mind tells me I can.

I'm too tired to argue.