This is already terrible enough, increasingly so because I can only seem to remember fragments of what happened. My memory surrounding the event is spotty. What the hell else is there?
When Lance doesn’t respond, I ask, “Lance, what is it?”
His throat flutters with a swallow. “Emory, they think you were out there trying to…” He trails off a second time, but I have no idea what he’s going to say next. I wish he would just come right out with it.
“Lance,” I say in a voice that sounds a lot like a plea. “Please tell me. I need to know what’s going on.”
“They think it was an attempt to take your own life.” His voice drops an octave. “Em, they think you were trying to…commit suicide.”
I stare at the wall,my doctor’s words on repeat as I count the imperfections in the paint—chippings, scuff marks, areas that have been sun-stained. When my wrist twitches all on its own, I’m reminded that there’s an IV jabbed into the vein on my hand, dosing me with fluids and antibiotics.
I shift my gaze to the man standing at the foot of my hospital bed, thin white sheets draped over my legs to keep them warm. To keep me sheathed and protected from the chill in the room. The kind that comes from coldness but also bad news.
I’ve been zoning in and out as Dr. Miso talks, but I’ve heard enough to understand the extent of my injuries—aspiration pneumonia from water getting into my lungs, hypoxic brain injury; likely the cause of not remembering everything in explicit detail, a concussion, and a laceration on my arm that spans the length of twelve whole inches.
He clutches a clipboard in his big hands, the one that rests in a carrier on the edge of my bed for when new nurses and doctors come in to see me, as Lance and his parents—Larissa and Cliff Bronson—stand in the shadows just beyond.
“Emory, you’re lucky to be alive,” Dr. Miso says, his thin lips pressed into a firm line. I’m sure today isn’t the first time he’s said that to a patient. “And I’m glad to see you’re awake and starting to feel more like yourself, but there’s something else we need to discuss.”
I already know what he’s going to say. My entire chest bristles, tears pricking at my eyes at the notion that the people in this room observing me think I went to the extent of trying toharmmyself.
Larissa and Cliff keep looking at me like something’s wrong. Like I’m a person they’ve known for years but don’t really understand.
“In situations where all signs lead to self-harm, the hospital’s policy is to place the patient on a psychiatric hold.” He clears his throat, and I just stare at the small almost see-through buttons on his white coat. “However, we understand this is a special circumstance.”
I don’t know what he means by that, but I’m smart enough to know that speaking at all could make matters worse. The last thing I need is to make a fool of myself and break out into sobs.
I’m sad because I’m in this bed.
I’m sad because no one believes that I wasn’t trying to hurt myself.
I’m sad because there seems to be this loneliness that cinches my lungs every time I try to take a deep breath.
Instead of letting it go free, I clutch my emotion close to my chest and keep it covered for when I’m able to have a moment to myself. Away from all these prying, judgmental eyes. Eyes thatridicule and brand me with two actionable words that I’d never actually bring myself to do.
God, even Lance’s disparaging gaze cuts into me. It only makes breathing harder, knowing that the man I’m supposed to love doesn’t even believe me.
“After talking to your in-laws and fiancé, we think the best plan moving forward is for you to see a psychiatrist. Someone who can observe and evaluate your mental health, both before you’re discharged and after for continuous care.”
The corners of Dr. Miso’s mouth curve into a slight smile. It’s meant to be reassuring, but I wouldn’t exactly call it that. If anything, it’s a dagger that cuts straight through my heart and puts me right back in that water gulping down mouthfuls of horrid salt water.
I pick at my nails, not knowing how to respond. Anxiety wraps its strong fingers around my neck, and it’s like a noose, restricting my air flow once again.
I don’t want this for myself. I didn’t go out there with the plan to jump.
My heart thrashes in my chest, drilling through my ribs like a jackhammer trying to crack open cement. I try to sit up straighter. The monitor to my right shrieks out a string of beeps that only make me panic more when my lungs restrict airflow.
“Emory, try to breathe.” My doctor rushes to my side as he pulls his stethoscope from around his neck, but his voice is so far away, muffled by the sensory overload that charges through my limp, battered body. “It’s okay, Emory. Stay calm. You’re safe now.”
A nurse storms through the door next, but the only thought that swims through my head is:I can’t leave this hospital until I’m evaluated for trying to take my own life.
And then what’s going to happen after? Weeks and weeks of outpatient therapy to ensure my own safety.
Just like I couldn’t escape the water when it was too much, I can’t seem to avoid the terror that slips down the back of my throat and settles in my stomach.
I close my eyes to try to make sense of what I’m suddenly feeling, but I can’t. Not when people are checking my pulse and pulling at the IV in my hand to make sure it’s still there.
It’s almost like I’m right back in that ocean, white-capped waters enveloping me as I struggle to keep my life.
