It is now Tuesday.
Thursday, we had an emergency plumbing situation at the duplex. It involved opening walls at my mom’s place, and water accumulation in the crawl space. What we thought had been resolved, had not been. The emergency plumber mentioned all the corrective work that would be needed, and I spiralled.
I went upstairs, to bed, and did not sleep. My heart raced. I was ill all night, running to the toilet, I tried to stick to the edge of the bed as not to disturb my dog. He kept trying to sleep between my legs or in the nook behind my knees. He became hostile and irritated. He would stand on my legs and stomp. He is not a dog who is sensitive to when I am ill or in pain. When I had bronchitis and would have coughing fits and have to shoot up to cough and breathe, he would refuse to get up from between my legs, half asleep and adamant I go around him.
My chest was so hot, I couldn’t put my head down to the pillow, not fully, because all I heard was my heart racing. All I was hearing was how hard my heart was working, how close it was to exploding.
When I say my heart raced and my thoughts spiralled, I don’t think that does the experience justice.
My chest was hot, as if I’d swallowed too-hot coffee that then seeped through my throat and lungs, spreading throughout my ribcage. But it never cooled, and there was no relief.
My mind was barraged with incessant thoughts. This place is a money-pitt, I cannot afford it, what have I committed my mother to, I am unable to take care of myself, I will lose my job, we should sell the duplex, what if we do not recoup our money, all of it can go to my mom, where will I live, how will I take care of myself, I can’t move, that takes money and energy, I am alone, how can I do this, if my mom dies, I have nothing.
There was a lot of focusing on losing my mother, and what that would do to me. How that would feel. In earnest, it felt like she was dying, like I was losing her. That I was actively grieving and losing her. How alone I would be. How nobody will ever love me like my mother loves me. There is no love so unconditional, not that I have experienced.
Thursday was sleepless. I e-mailed in sick Friday around 5 am, and when my mother came upstairs to check on me, I was still spiralling. I would have bits of sobbing, and was also trying to figure out emergency cleaning services for our crawl space.
I reached out to some friends, and those who live with anxiety shared breathing exercises and some prompts. I tried to breathe it away. Sometimes it would mellow things, sometimes it was like throwing an ice cube onto a bonfire.
I have not had a panic attack, or suffered acute anxiety in years. Not since school. I naively, thought those times were behind me.
I had been off of Effexor for months, and even through the pandemic and quarantine, I thought my depression was level, and relatively good, considering. But I was clearly wrong.
Over the course of Friday I also asked around if people knew of any emergency services. I called a help line or two,
“Are you suicidal?”
“No.”
That’s the extent mental illness emergency care.
I called 8-1-1, the social side first, who of course confirmed that CLSC wait lists are months if not years long. I remember asking about services in English and they said that list was over 5 years long.
I called the EAP line at work, and they said it would take 3-5 days for someone to get back to me, and that the services were only short term, 3-4 sessions. So again, nothing long term, and nothing in the realm of emergency help.
I called my family doctor office for an emergency appointment, I would get one for Tuesday.
I was unable to eat, I was so anxious and nauseous and panicked. I managed 4 triscuit. I drank water.
Saturday morning things were not getting better, and I asked a friend if she would be willing to drive me to the hospital. She was pro-active and said to keep her on stand by if I wanted to go. I took a shower, and put on clean clothes and asked her to bring me to the emergency room. I ate a banana before leaving, I drank water. I brought myself a bottle. I tried to wear clothes I would be comfortable in if hospitalized. Layers.
The drive was more pleasant than I would have expected, since my friend E is a trained interventionist and just a really good person to have in your corner when things aren’t going well. Her tone was even and calm and she made me feel calm. Even when she drive the wrong way up an emergency bridge meant only for ambulances. The signage was shit.
She dropped me off and I cried thanking her. I made my way to the emergency ward, through taped off areas and security stations asking us to change masks and sanitize our hands.
Once in the ER, I told the nurse I was having heart palpitations and trouble breathing and that I was having a panic attack that would not end.
I sat until the triage nurse could see me. Maybe 30 minutes. Once seen, I was given a yellow bracelet.
Yellow is potentially covid-related, green is not.
They called me in for a quick ECG, in one of the ER consult rooms. I went back to wait. They called me in to give me an Ativan. I went back to wait. The took my blood pressure. I went back to wait. Eventually I saw a doctor, and he said they would do a blood test, but that things looked good. I went back to wait. I was called for the blood test. The doctor told me things looked good, that I would get some emergency meds (clonazepam) for a week, until I could see my family doctor.
He said I could go home, I asked how I would get through the night (since it was now past 10pm, and he said he would give me a pill, something in the Ativan family).
I got to the hospital around 12:30 pm, and left around 10:30. I took a cab home.
I got home and took the pill, and slept for a few hours, but woke up often.
Sunday was a hard day, I still felt like I was in crisis and I did not know what to do. My mother came upstairs and stayed with me. I cried. I rested. I hugged her. I still did not want to eat, but for some reasons bananas were it. And remain it. I had a banana. Then 1/4 of a bagel. My mother spent the night, I cried myself to sleep. I was afraid. I was fragile. I felt like nobody could help me. I felt impaired. I felt disabled. I felt like I would never be able to take care of myself properly. I was afraid that the comfort I had then and there with my mother, in her arms, was the only comfort I would ever feel, and that it was all I had, and that it would soon be gone, because one of us will outlive the other, and I very selfishly hope it’s her.
My friend E dropped off food, frozen dishes and fruit and things to get me through. An additional kindness.
Monday was more of the same. Less painful physically. Uneasy. Fragile. I felt like I was a wee bird.
My friend checked in, but I didn’t know how else to tell them I wasn’t doing well.
I was able to have some soup. Small portions of food.
Today is Tuesday. I was feeling low-level anxiety about the phone call with my family doctor at 3pm this afternoon, and I was not incorrect in my intuition.
My doctor sounded tired and uninterested. It felt like I had to tell him what I needed, he made no suggestions. He said he would prescribe a low-level Effexor again, for 2 weeks and then check in. I said I needed therapy, and he said everything is full. He offered no suggestions. He said he could send me a referral for the CLSC wait lists. When we hung up, I did not feel seen, or helped.
I cried.
I told me mom I guess I would be going back to work tomorrow, to which she replied I should call him back and ask for an extension. So I did. His secretary was irritated and said he would call me back at the end of the day.
He called me around 5:30, and I asked for a referral to a therapist, and he said it would come with the CLSC referral, that they were one in the same. i asked about going back to work, and he said he’d give me a note to be off until Monday. He did not offer it. I asked for it.
He sounded tired and uninterested, so I tell myself he is also burnt out. He is also going through a lot.
But as someone who still feels a hair away from a crisis, I am devastated by the emergency services I was unable to find. I feel abandoned and completely disillusioned by the mental health marketing of every goddamn thing.
It’s all bullshit hash-tagging and sales speak, the bare minimum. Add the terms mental health, diversity and if you’re dangerous, social justice to your buzz words and then leave us all to rot.
I have never felt so fragile.
I feel like I have been snapped in a way that’s never happened before. I feel like I am walking on eggshells, but I am the eggshells.
