In fact, I was worse.
But I’d had enough of being so afraid.
I…I need to get better.
The doctor spoke softly. “It’s a panic attack. I’m sure you’re aware as you’ve had them before, but if you calm down, you’ll be okay.”
I nodded, sitting tall and shaking her arm from my shoulders. “I’m all right.” My voice crackled and cracked.
She shifted to standing, but her hand continued stroking up and down my arm. For a long time, she didn’t speak, just let me re-centre, dry the wetness from my cheeks, and breathe a little easier.
When I no longer shook the bed with my sadness, she smiled gently. “I’m aware of your history, Jacob Wild. I read up on you while you were sleeping.” Her hand carried on soothing me. “That’s the second attack you’ve had in front of that ER counter. The first was when you rode your pony here against your mother’s wishes when your father passed. Do you remember?”
I gritted my teeth.
I’d done my best to forget, but the memory was far too strong.
Nodding, I pulled away, thankful when she moved and stood with her hands looped in front of her white coat.
“I remember.”
“Have you had many panic attacks?”
I looked away. “A few.”
“What brings them on?”
I stiffened. “Does it matter?”
Her eyes burned into me. “It matters if you want to get better.”
“Better how?”
I’d only just made that promise to myself. It was still sparkly and new. I needed time to live with the idea before leaping straight into treatment.
She smiled as if it was obvious. “To no longer be afraid.”
I studied the sterile cleanliness of the room. I wanted to be free to love Hope the way she deserved, and I was prepared to do that. But I didn’t want to be locked away in some asylum and treated as if my mind was deformed.
It wasn’t my mind.
It was my heart.
And the only person who could fix that was Hope.
I shifted to climb off the bed. “I’ll be fine.”
“Stay there, just for another moment.” She held up her hand. “Let your body recalibrate.”
I huffed, dragging hands through my hair.
I was jittery and strung out but also strangely light. As if I’d purged myself from years’ worth of denials and angers, hauntings and depressions.
She ducked her head, brown hair tied neatly at her nape. Her eyes were kind but professional. “I believe you suffer from untreated post-traumatic stress disorder.”
My attention shot to her. “Excuse me?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I swung my legs to the floor, ready to leave. “I’m not ashamed because I don’t have it. PTSD is for soldiers who come back from war. It’s for men who have done things. Terrible things. Not a kid who lost his parents.”
And more recently a grandfather…
She sighed. “You’re wrong. PTSD is for anyone with unresolved trauma. You didn’t just lose your dad; you watched him fade away during your entire childhood. I’m also aware you recently lost your mother, and your grandfather is currently in our morgue. Couple that with being told incorrect news of a young woman you obviously care about…and you’re displaying all the signs of triggers you can’t control.”
“Triggers?” I hated that I knew that word well. That my mother had used it to help me cope—to show there was no shame in being affected by things other people weren’t.
“It’s treatable.” She reached into her pocket for a pad and paper. “I don’t know if it’s fully curable, but you don’t have to keep living this way, okay? If it’s stealing your quality of life, it’s worth asking for help.”
“What sort of help?”
Images of being handcuffed and hauled into a psychiatric ward made me stand.
She stopped writing on her little pad, looking me dead in the eye. “Talking to a therapist to start. Perhaps drug therapy if needed.”
“I don’t want drugs.”
“That’s a discussion for another day. All I’m saying is…think about it.” Tearing a page from her notepad, she passed it to me. “This is the name of a colleague who specialises in PTSD. Contact him. What have you got to lose?”
The paper shook in my hand as I took it. Part of me wanted to scrunch it up and throw it away, but the newer part—the hurt and healing part—folded it carefully and tucked it into my jeans pocket. “So I don’t have to stay somewhere? Have…tests and things?”
“No. Just a simple office and someone to talk to.”
That sounded doable.
But only once I’d seen Hope.
I had stuff to tell her.
Epiphanies to share.
My love to profess.
I swayed a little and swallowed back a final crest of nausea. “Where is she? I need to see her.”
“I’ll take you to her.”
I stepped toward the door, then paused. “Um, just so I don’t embarrass myself with yet another attack, is she…okay?”
The doctor, whose name I still didn’t know but would always remember, smiled. “She’s a little dinged up, but she’s not dying anytime soon. She’s a strong wee thing.”