Panic Attacks by Jared John Smith
“The last girl I slept with texts: I’m clean. Why? Are you?”
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Waves hit, 2AM. I only slept just after midnight. Google search says cardiac arrest. Nurse advice line says, “Call 9-11.” Ambulance EMTs say, “Anxiety.” Barefoot in sweats and a wet t-shirt, I’m alone in my apartment parking lot, teeth chattering at 3 AM, chest pain nonexistent, breathing slowed, normal as I ever was.
Four-or-five-thousand words tumbled out nightly, no problem, months ago. These days I can’t sit still for ten minutes, much less for a film or a game. The phone-thumb-scrolling—exceeding expertise—I’m a twenty-first century casual-tech whiz. Show me a video; grip my attention within a few seconds, and I’m in. You got four seconds to impress me.
This paper is bored with my words.
This pen is heavy. The keyboard keys feel stiff.
This office chair lacks lumbar support. I’ll write when I can afford a new chair.
And that desk. Someday someone will take a risk on whatever author they want me to be because they should know what toils on and brews in this head: come on, request some words. I can produce something if I wanted to. I can. It’s just time. I wait for inspiration.
Waiting. Google search says pulmonary embolism. Nurse advice line says, “Take some ibuprofen.” Thermometer beeps: 96.4. Google search says hypothyroidism. Nurse advice line says, “Can you drive?” The Emergency Room physician assistant says the EKG says nothing. And the pulse oximeter says you’re fine. Go home. The stethoscope tells the doctor, “Ninety beats per minute.” Doctor says, “Normal.” But my cellphone-pulse-reader reports, “Normal days are fifty-nine beats per minute.” Doctor offers a Lorazepam sample. One pill before sleep.
Waves hit, 2:30-something-AM. Can’t breathe. Anxiety, they’ll say. Left arm sore. Chest tight. Pillow wet and ice-cold. Google search says I’m missing a headache.
Waiting.
There’s the headache. Google search says aneurysm. Neck and shoulders stiff from lifting shipments all day at the warehouse—massaging them, there’s a soft lump. There are more on my sides, under my belly. One on my arm—I’ve had this since grade school. I’m twenty-five. Is it bigger now? Google search says lipomatosis or stomach cancer. Nurse advice line asks, “Have you suffered constipation or diarrhea?” I’ve endured a lot tonight. I’ve had both. Nurse advice line says, “Take Tylenol for the headache. An antacid for the chest pain. Maybe a stool softener for the constipation.” But I had diarrhea, too. “Okay. Drink plenty of fluids.” Google search says common misdiagnosis. You don’t understand.
Listen to them. Drink water. Sit in the shower. Sit on the couch. Watch a film.
Four seconds in, my head is pounding. Four minutes in, Google search says influenza or acute HIV infection. The last girl I slept with texts: I’m clean. Why? Are you? 6:30 AM, call-in to work, “Can’t make it today.” Doctor’s office says, “We have an opening at ten o’clock this morning. We’ll see you then. For now, drink plenty of fluids and rest.”
Three hours to survive.
Google search says: Tumors. Polyps. Testicular Cancer. Stomach Ulcers. Internal Bleeding. Parasite. Worm. Thinning Arteries. Sudden And Unexpected Often Misdiagnosed Heart Failure. Blood Cancer. Lethal Spider Bite. Appendicitis. Kidney Failure. Liver Failure. My Body Is Conspiring Against Me. Dehydration. Stroke. Ebola. Swine Flu Still A Thing. Food Poisoning. Fibromyalgia. Lung Cancer From That Two Year Smoking Habit I Quit Five Years Ago. Emphysema. Tuberculosis. Terminology I Have To Sound Out To Correctly Pronounce. Gum Disease From The Teeth I Never Floss. Diabetes From The Poor Diet I Cannot Tame. Brain Cancer From Obsessing Over New Symptoms. And Who Is This Person? Brain Tumor Of The Amygdala. Google Search Cannot Help. You Are Dead. These Are Your Last Thoughts. Text Messages To The People You Love.
Mother texts back, “Thank you. I love you, too. What was that for?”
My crush from work texts, “How sweet. What are you doing this weekend?”
Boss says, “Do you need to talk about something? Are you feeling alright?”
10 AM, the waves settle. Waiting Room fluorescents hum. The gallon water cooler bubbles at a low drumming. I am passive. Year-old dated magazines are leafed through, crinkling. Muted, subtitled news plays in the high-corner above a plastic potted plant.
My name is called. Weight is measured ten pounds lighter than two weeks ago. Blood pressure is “one-oh-eight over eighty.” Temperature is 97.4.
Doctor says, “Your body is stronger than you think. It wants to live, too.”
The testicle lump is a group of veins. The other lumps are superficial lipomas, harmless fat pockets. The chest pain when breathing is a muscle catching in my ribs. Warehouse work strains the body hunching over all night at the writing desk.
“You are imagining things,” Doctor says. “And don’t look things up.”
Well, I want these things to stop. Give me anything.
Pharmacist says, “Take once a day before bedtime. And take this if you can’t sleep.”
The bed. The shower. The bed. The desk. The paper. The pen. The keyboard. The bed. I can write, can’t I? I could write, once.
Google search says: Panic Attacks. Agoraphobia. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
Google search says, Deep Vein Thrombosis From All Those Years Of Sitting And Writing Stupid Irrelevant Stories. I stand. I pace. Nurse advice line says, “Quit looking up symptoms. Drink fluids. Get some sleep.” I can’t sleep. “Take the Lorazepam.” I still wake up hurting. “Take the Sertraline in the morning then.”
Google search says, Insomnia. Nurse advice line says, “Yes. That’s the Sertraline.” What if it’s not? I haven’t slept a full night in months. “Then try meditation.”
Google search says Calm App. I download. I breathe. The sentences running in my head are strung together by nothing but spaces and transient thoughts that should read slower if I took the time to think slow or speak slow when I voiced them. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
The nine-year-old in me says, “Meds killed your daddy. Meds made mommy fake.”
Therapist says, “This doesn’t have to be forever.”
Calm App says, “There is nothing to do right now. This is you: alive and well. You are simply being.”
The mother-years-ago who woke up the son-years-ago crying said, “I had a bad dream where you died.” She said, “Set the alarm so no one sneaks inside to hurt us.” She said, “I hate my job” and “Your uncle died at his work desk from an aneurysm” and “Your grandpa had his leg amputated from an infection” and “I have high cholesterol and high blood pressure.”
The nurse advice line says, “You’re healthy.”
A coworker texts, “They’re saying you’re high-risk. You’re gonna lose your job. Just make it to five and don’t think about this place when you’re home.”
The medical bills are stacking. I can pay these off if I can stave off my pain. If I can learn to breathe again. The bedside lamp is ON. The desktop computer hums, expecting me. This comforter is soft and plush, the pillow supple. My limbs relax into bottomless warmth.
Waves hit, 2 AM. 3:30-something-AM. 5 AM. 7 AM.
Swallow half a pill, 8 AM. Breathe. Just make it to five. Drive home. Breathe. Eat. Lay in bed. Read. Breathe. Sleep. Waves hit, 3 AM. 7 AM.
Swallow half a pill, 8 AM. You can make it to five. You can drive home. Just Breathe. Eat. Sit on the couch. Watch half a film. Lay in bed. Breathe. Sleep. Waves hit, 3 AM. 7 AM.
Swallow half a pill, 8 AM. Make it to five. Drive home. Eat. Watch second-half of the film. Watch another film. Lay in bed. Bedside lamp is OFF. Wait. Sleep.
Swallow half a pill, 8 AM.
Swallow half a pill, 8 AM.
Swallow half a pill, 8 AM. Text work-crush: Let’s go out this next weekend.
Swallow half a pill, 8 AM. Back home already. Sit down.
This paper is alive and well. It is simply being.
This pen is light. The keyboard keys feel flexible.
This isn’t forever. The liquid crystal display is bright. I see black spots. That’s exhaustion. I sip warm tea for the itch in my throat. Goosebumps coat my arms, skin molecules shriveling for warmth. It is winter, just cold. The apartment never retains heat. A nerve knocks at my lower spine. I lay on the floor and stretch.
Sitting back at the desk, air settles gently around me, not hugging, just being.
Fourteen-hundred words tumble out in a sigh.
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Header image courtesy of photographer Conner Lyons.
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Jared John Smith lifts freight by day and writes by night. His first novel was Rabbit. He is currently writing two literary small-city-big-town dramas. His other love, aside from the cat, is talking. You can say anything you want to Jared at jjsmithauthor@gmail.com