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I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
Calm down, I tell myself, but I feel sick to my stomach and feverishly hot and I can’t catch my breath. Pain squeezes my chest.
My legs give out from underneath me and I fall to the sidewalk hard.
I get up, stumble forward, flag down a cab, and get in. “Sacred Heart,” I gasp, fumbling through my purse for a baby aspirin, which I chew and swallow, just in case.
At the hospital, I throw a twenty-dollar bill at the cabbie and stagger into the emergency room. “Heart attack!” I scream at the woman at the front desk.
It gets her attention.
* * *
Dr. Grant peers down at me. He is wearing the kind of cheater glasses Costco sells in a multipack. Behind him, a lackluster blue and white curtain gives us what little privacy exists in a big-city ER. “You know, Tully, you don’t have to go to such lengths to see me. I gave you my number. You could have just called. ”
I am in no mood for humor. I flop back into the pillows behind me. “Are you the only doctor in this hospital?”
He moves toward the bed. “All kidding aside, Tully, panic attacks are a common experience during perimenopause and menopause. It’s the hormonal imbalance. ”
And just like that, it gets worse. I’m unemployed, apparently unemployable; I am fat. I have no real family, and my best friend is gone, and Dr. Granola here can take one look at me and know I’m drying up from the inside.
“I’d like to test your thyroid. ”
“I’d like to host The Today Show. ”
“What?”
I throw the flimsy sheet back and climb out of bed, not realizing that my hospital gown has flashed the doctor a shot of my middle-aged ass. I turn quickly, but it’s too late. He has seen. “There’s no proof I’m in menopause,” I say.
“There are tests—”
“Exactly. I don’t want them. ” I smile grimly. “Some people see a glass as half empty; some see it as half full. I put the glass in a cupboard and forget it’s there. You get my point?”
He puts down my chart. “Ignoring bad news. I get it. ” He comes toward me. “And how’s that working for you?”
God, I hate feeling stupid or pathetic, and something about this man and the way he looks at me makes me feel both. “I need Xanax. And Ambien. They helped before. ” I look up at him. “My prescription ran out a long time ago. ” This is a lie. I know I should tell him that in the past year, I’ve gotten these prescriptions from several doctors and that I am taking higher dosages, but I don’t.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. With your personality—”
“You don’t know me. Let’s be clear on that. ”
“No,” he says. “I don’t. ” He moves closer. I fight the urge to step back. “But I know how depressed sounds and how broken looks. ”
That’s when I remember about his wife and daughter who were killed. He is thinking about them as well, I think. I see a deep sadness in him suddenly.
He writes a prescription and tears it off for me. “This won’t last long. Get some help, Tully. See someone about your menopausal symptoms and your depression. ”
“I haven??t confirmed either one of your diagnoses, you know. ”
“I know. ”
“So, where are my clothes?”
As an exit line, it pretty much blows, but it’s all I can think of. I stand there, staring at him until he leaves. Then I get dressed and walk out of the hospital. In the pharmacy downstairs, I fill the prescription, take two Xanax, and start the long walk home.
The prescription does what it’s supposed to: it calms me down, makes me feel bubble-wrapped and protected. My heart is beating normally. I take my phone out of my handbag and call Fred Rorback.
