But she still couldn't go out on that stage. The idea of performing in front of all of those people made her feel like her knees were going to collapse, and she felt hot and cold and absolutely petrified, like she needed to go hide somewhere. Without even thinking about it, her eyes darted about the room, looking under the chair, trying to figure out if she would fit there.
She was a grown woman. What was wrong with her?
“What?”
"I said I can't."
"I'm sorry, you can't what?" Sasha said, still obviously having trouble grasping the reality.
"I cannot go out on stage. You're going to have to cancel the concert."
Where would she go? What could she do? If she canceled this... She could still make next week's performance, except... The idea of performing anything made her feel like her throat was rotating like helicopter blades, and her stomach was attached for the ride. She needed to get out of here. She needed to escape.
"Are you sick? Should I call an ambulance?" Sasha asked, her concern reaching through the phone.
Sasha was not coldhearted, but she was not going to understand that Grace was pretty sure all this was, was a panic attack.
"Yes. An ambulance."
There, she'd admitted it. She felt a touch of relief, but mostly, admitting it had allowed it to have the upper hand, and she sank to the floor.
"I need an ambulance," she managed to grind out.
"All right. I'm hanging up right now and I'm calling an ambulance, and then I'll be right there. Five minutes tops. Hold on."
The phone went dead, and Grace allowed her head to rest on the cold floor. It didn't really make her feel better, but at least the heavy, suffocating weight of the thought of going out in front of all those people was no longer in the forefront of her mind, and she slowly felt like her insides were calming down. Her chest only ached a little, and she no longer felt like she needed to stay in the bathroom indefinitely.
What had happened? Was that what stage fright was? Could she go through with her performance anyway? If she tried to go out, would she have some kind of attack while she performed? Or should she just assume that once she started playing she would feel better.
The idea made her stomach clench again, and she shook her head quickly, although she was alone in the dressing room. Absolutely not. She couldn't start playing, not when there was a chance that she would end up with some kind of attack. Maybe she really was having a heart attack. She had heard that sometimes symptoms presented themselves differently in women than in men, and her chest really did hurt.
She only had a few more seconds to herself before the door burst in and Sasha hurried over, kneeling at her side.
"What's the matter?" Sasha asked, breathless.
"I think I might be dying. Heart attack? A stroke? I'm not sure, but I'm scared. And I feel terrible. Like Doomsday is here." That was a little dramatic, but it was the truth. She felt like she was going to die.
"Hold on. The ambulance is here now, and I have Penny bringing them back. They'll be here in a m—"
She didn't get to finish her sentence before the door burst open, without even a perfunctory knock. Grace couldn't remember the last time someone had come into her dressing room with such disrespect, except that she'd given into the fear, and she was overwhelmed by it. There had to be something seriously wrong, something life or death. It was a heart attack, or some kind of fast-growing cancer, or something. There had to be something wrong.
Chapter 2
"I'm sorry. There is absolutely nothing wrong. Your heart is healthier than mine, according to all of our tests. I'll discharge you with a note to go see your PCP. I recommend you talk to them about some anxiety medication."
"Anxiety?" Grace couldn't help it, her voice sounded weak and strained.
She glanced across the bed where Sasha stood, her arms folded over her chest, her brows drawn. Sasha could not possibly be happy to hear that there actually was nothing wrong with her, other than a little bit of anxiety.
It didn't seem like a little. It seemed like a lot. So much that she thought she had been going to die.
"Anxiety. What you most likely experienced was a panic attack. The symptoms are all there. Feeling like you're losing control of your bodily functions, absolute fear, the hot and cold feeling, which is an inability to control your body temperature, the shaking, the chest pain, the feeling of impending doom. Everything checks out. Talk to your PCP." He finished scribbling whatever it was he was writing down, then he ripped the paper off.
"I'm going to take this and give it to the nurse. It's a prescription for a strong anti-anxiety medication. It should tide you over until you can get in to see your regular doctor." He paused in the act of turning. Obviously, he had other patients to see. "Do you have any questions?" The brisk way he said it, and the way he was already turning away from her, made her think twice about asking anything.
"So there's nothing wrong at all with me?"
"No." He lifted his shoulder. "I can't diagnose what's not there. I know you're convinced you're having a heart attack, but from what I can see, that's not something you're going to have to worry about this decade."
