What if it’s an embolism?
What if, what if, what if!
Dean sits there and drives, completely unaware of the situation unfolding beside him. I’m starting to sweat, and I need to be free from my coat. I start unzipping it and wiggling my arms out.
“What are you doing?” Dean asks me, irritated by the fact I whipped him with my sleeve trying to get my coat off.
“I’m sorry, I need to take my coat off,” I tell him quickly, I’m almost out of breath. “I’m, I’m, I’m having a heart episode,I think,” I stutter. I’m completely totally panicked. “You need to pull over, you need to pull over. I can’t be in a moving car.”
“What?” Dean is caught off guard, his voice raised an octave. “I’m not pulling over, we’re almost there.”
“No, you need to stop, I need to get out!” My jacket is caught in between my shoulder and the seatbelt. “I can't breathe!” I’m truly frightened and my watch is buzzing at my elevated heart rate, and now I feel like my lungs are full of rocks. It feels like I haven’t gotten a full breath in ages. I wished I took my psychiatrist’s advice and got an inhaler.
“What good is getting out and dying on the side of the road going to do? We’re almost there,” Dean snaps. “You’re not dying. Just sit down and stop moving.”
“I’m so hot, I’m sweating, I’m probably having a heart attack!” I try not to raise my voice. I know deep down that this doesn’t make any sense, but the alarm bells in my body are ringing tenfold. They’re setting off all major alerts that something is amiss, something is off and I need to fix it now or I’ll suffer the deadly consequences. I’ll be roadkill, for all Dean cares.
Dean sighs and puts the hazard lights on. He begins to slow down. “You’re not having a heart attack. You’re having a panic attack.” There’s a tinge of worry to his voice, but it’s not for me. He turns off the heat in the car, and switches it to the fan and AC.
“I can’t breathe, I’m not having a panic attack!” I deny, finally freeing myself from my jacket. Pulling over onto the side of the road, Dean rolls the car to a stop. I’m fanning myself and leaning into the air vents. He steels me.
“This is a panic attack, Madeline. Breathe.”
“What?” I can’t manage to say anything else.
“Breathe in. Breathe out. Do it with me,” He instructs, taking a deep breath in.
“I can’t, I can’t,” My breaths are still short and shallow. “I can’t breathe.”
“Yes, you can,” He says calmly. He’s the steady boat in my storm. “In and out.” He motions his hands up and down, breathing in and out. I try to model my breaths against his but I’m still breathing too fast.
“I’m trying,” I whisper through my hyperventilating.
“Yes, you are. You can do it,” Dean encourages me. “Come on now, breathe.”
I take a huge lungfull in. “In….” and I breathe it out through my mouth. “And out.”
“Now, go again,” Dean instructs. It’s now that I take note of his hands on my shoulders and that he’s looking right at me. His eyes are watching me, checking over me. I breathe in and out again.
“Again,” He insists. In and out.
“Good job. Keep going.” He rewards me with a squeeze of the arm. We breathe in and out in unison for a moment, until I’m no longer sweating balls in the dead of winter. “When this happens, you need to regulate your breathing.”
“Huh?” I ask.
“Poor breathing can cause a lot of your symptoms. Your heartbeat, your chest pains, your hyperventilating. The right breathing can decrease your symptoms, and you’ll start to feel better.”
“How...how do I breathe right?” I ask.
“Breathe in through your nose for five seconds, and then exhale through your mouth for five seconds. Exactly what we were doing. Now, please, breathe while I drive,” Dean instructs me. In and out.
I turn back around in my seat. In and out. I hold my coat tightly on my lap. In and out. Dean merges back onto the highway and it’s as if nothing ever happened. He wasn’t kiddingwhen he said we were almost there, because we take the next exit and we, and the other cars, pour into the quaint town. In and out.
The snow has stopped, but it’s left a thin dusting on the buildings, the sidewalks, and the street lamps. It’s all so picturesque with boutique gift shops, cafes and restaurants. It looks straight from the front of a Christmas postcard. It’s gorgeous, in fact, even with the bare trees and the slush in the road.
When we arrive at The Monarch Resort, it’s less of a resort and more of an inn with a restaurant. The inn is a big, majestic white mansion on a small road near the bay, and I’m sure in the summer months we would have had a difficult time reserving a room.
Dean parks the minivan in the small lot adjacent to the building. I watch him as he puts his hat and gloves on. As soon as he steps out of the van, I do an awkward shuffle to get my coat back on and not spill the contents of my tote bag everywhere.
