throat.
“It’s not a heart attack,” Madame Jennings, the school nurse, had said two days earlier, on Monday afternoon when I got Mademoiselle Burton to let me out of history class to go see her.
“How do you know?” I asked doubtfully. Ever since a school nurse had told me my foot was fine the day I fell off the balance beam in third grade and then it had turned out to be broken, I tended to question their expertise.
“Because it’s a panic attack.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s not. I don’t get panic attacks.”
She shrugged. “Well, now you do,” she said curtly, as she opened up a carton of tongue dispensers and put them in a jar. “Welcome to the club.”
I wondered if being a school nurse was like being a gym teacher. Kind of a those-who-can’t-get-a-job-in-a-real-hospital-because-they’re-missing-a-sensitivity-chip-end-up-in-a-school-arranging-wooden-Popsicle-stick-looking-thingies situation.
“You really think it’s a panic attack?” I asked as I put my hand on my chest. It was as if behind my back my heart had gone to 7-Eleven and chugged a six-pack of Red Bulls.
“Yes,” she grunted, not even looking up.
She was worse than a lunch lady. I guessed the fact that she sounded so bored should have made me feel less anxious, because obviously in her mind I wasn’t going to die, but it was actually making me feel more so. “So what am I supposed to do about it?”
“Breathing helps.”
“But that’s part of the problem. I can’t breathe.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. I suggest having your mother make an appointment with your primary-care physician.”
I would have, had my mother not been busy doing something called “equine therapy,” where you got in touch with your inner child while brushing a horse. Something I learned in an e-mail she sent from the BlackBerry that belonged to one of the chefs who was a big Plus Zero fan and had lent it to her even though it was technically against the rules for the rehabbers to have contact with the outside world.
Even though a Google search later showed that I had six of the eight most common symptoms of panic attacks, I continued to insist that wasn’t what was going on with me. Mostly because there had to be at least one person in the family who was keeping it together. Esme, who was like a second mother to me, wasn’t handling things very well. Ever since Mom had left, she spent most of her time crying and praying for Mom’s soul while I patted her on the shoulder and handed her tissues.
Even the Play-Doh wasn’t helping. The only time I seemed to be completely free of the anxiety was when I was standing in a very hot shower, which had left me with perpetually pruned fingers.
Sitting in the girls bathroom, I took a lot of deep breaths and was finally able to calm myself down enough to sit through lunch. I joined my friends at the table with a very L.A.-approved brown rice, veggies, and tofu bowl. “Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
Olivia reached out and put a Cotton Candy–polished hand on my shoulder as I sat next to her. “How are you doing?” she asked quietly, as if she worked at a funeral home.
“Yeah. How are you doing?” Sarah echoed. Sarah was big on echoing whatever Olivia said. The thing was, she lacked Olivia’s smoothness, so when she said it, it was a little too loud, to the point where a group of Sylvia Plath–loving depressives at the next table glanced over, excited to see who else was having a hard time.
I shrugged. “Turns out a parent in rehab does not get you excused from trig pop quizzes.”
“Mrs. Tashlick’s such a bi-atch, I bet she would’ve made you take it even if it had been an attempted OD situation,” Maya said, shoveling fries into her mouth.
As warped as that was, I had to laugh. A lot of people found the fact that Maya was missing a filter between her brain and mouth a little off-putting, but that was one of the things I loved most about her. Along with the
“It’s not a heart attack,” Madame Jennings, the school nurse, had said two days earlier, on Monday afternoon when I got Mademoiselle Burton to let me out of history class to go see her.
“How do you know?” I asked doubtfully. Ever since a school nurse had told me my foot was fine the day I fell off the balance beam in third grade and then it had turned out to be broken, I tended to question their expertise.
“Because it’s a panic attack.”
I shook my head. “No, it’s not. I don’t get panic attacks.”
She shrugged. “Well, now you do,” she said curtly, as she opened up a carton of tongue dispensers and put them in a jar. “Welcome to the club.”
I wondered if being a school nurse was like being a gym teacher. Kind of a those-who-can’t-get-a-job-in-a-real-hospital-because-they’re-missing-a-sensitivity-chip-end-up-in-a-school-arranging-wooden-Popsicle-stick-looking-thingies situation.
“You really think it’s a panic attack?” I asked as I put my hand on my chest. It was as if behind my back my heart had gone to 7-Eleven and chugged a six-pack of Red Bulls.
“Yes,” she grunted, not even looking up.
She was worse than a lunch lady. I guessed the fact that she sounded so bored should have made me feel less anxious, because obviously in her mind I wasn’t going to die, but it was actually making me feel more so. “So what am I supposed to do about it?”
“Breathing helps.”
“But that’s part of the problem. I can’t breathe.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. I suggest having your mother make an appointment with your primary-care physician.”
I would have, had my mother not been busy doing something called “equine therapy,” where you got in touch with your inner child while brushing a horse. Something I learned in an e-mail she sent from the BlackBerry that belonged to one of the chefs who was a big Plus Zero fan and had lent it to her even though it was technically against the rules for the rehabbers to have contact with the outside world.
Even though a Google search later showed that I had six of the eight most common symptoms of panic attacks, I continued to insist that wasn’t what was going on with me. Mostly because there had to be at least one person in the family who was keeping it together. Esme, who was like a second mother to me, wasn’t handling things very well. Ever since Mom had left, she spent most of her time crying and praying for Mom’s soul while I patted her on the shoulder and handed her tissues.
Even the Play-Doh wasn’t helping. The only time I seemed to be completely free of the anxiety was when I was standing in a very hot shower, which had left me with perpetually pruned fingers.
Sitting in the girls bathroom, I took a lot of deep breaths and was finally able to calm myself down enough to sit through lunch. I joined my friends at the table with a very L.A.-approved brown rice, veggies, and tofu bowl. “Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
Olivia reached out and put a Cotton Candy–polished hand on my shoulder as I sat next to her. “How are you doing?” she asked quietly, as if she worked at a funeral home.
“Yeah. How are you doing?” Sarah echoed. Sarah was big on echoing whatever Olivia said. The thing was, she lacked Olivia’s smoothness, so when she said it, it was a little too loud, to the point where a group of Sylvia Plath–loving depressives at the next table glanced over, excited to see who else was having a hard time.
I shrugged. “Turns out a parent in rehab does not get you excused from trig pop quizzes.”
“Mrs. Tashlick’s such a bi-atch, I bet she would’ve made you take it even if it had been an attempted OD situation,” Maya said, shoveling fries into her mouth.
As warped as that was, I had to laugh. A lot of people found the fact that Maya was missing a filter between her brain and mouth a little off-putting, but that was one of the things I loved most about her. Along with the
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