Best of 2017

“My head hurts.”

He chews his bottom lip. “Do you have any current medical problems?” he asks, continuing to scrutinize my answers.

“Not that I know of.” I lower my head, needing a moment of silence, but it snaps back up when he continues to fire off more questions.

“Are you currently receiving medic

al care for anything that I should be aware of, or are you taking any medications?”

“Shouldn’t you have this in my file? The other doctor already asked me a bunch of questions.” There is more bite to my comment than I intend, but I don’t want to answer any more questions.

“Unfortunately, the hospital computer filing system is experiencing some hiccups, so you’ll need to bear with me as I figure this out. I know that Dr. Levin is set to run a few tests.” He pulls out his phone. “He should be back in a moment to talk with you again.”

I close my eyes and wish for all of this to end. I just want to put the whole accident behind me.

“Okay.”

“Do you remember what was going through your mind right before the accident?”

My eyelids shut and I will myself to recall more details. Memories flash in my brain. “I was thinking about my . . . my . . . I don’t even know what to call him.” My chin trembles. “I was crying and I got distracted. Then I looked up and saw the lights . . . But . . . but then it was too late. My foot got stuck in the mat. I tried to stop—” My voice breaks into a sob.

Across the bed, Dr. Montgomery types on his iPad. I wonder what he’s writing. Does he think I did this on purpose? That it wasn’t an accident. That there’s something wrong with me? Does he believe me? Why would they send a psychologist in to speak with me? Can I ask?

Dr. Levin enters the room, ripping me away from my thoughts. “Hello, Eve. Dr. Montgomery,” he says as the device is handed to him. His eyes narrow when he reads the notes on what must be my chart, and nods to Dr. Montgomery in agreement.

Dr. Montgomery stands and reaches into his back suit pocket, then pulls out his wallet and removes a business card. “Eve, I want to give you my card. If you need me, please don’t hesitate to call and make an appointment. Anxiety and panic attacks can be serious and, if left untreated, can get worse. I think therapy can help you discover your triggers and help you find an appropriate way to manage and treat them.” His fingers brush against mine, and the soft pads cause my skin to pebble. “I really do hope you will call and make an appointment.”

I’m not sure I’m ready for that. To actually face what’s haunting me.

HOURS PASS, I lie in bed tossing and turning, waiting for the doctor to return. When he finally does, I’m filled with relief and foreboding at the same time. Everything is fine. Only a mild concussion, and a request to follow up with a therapist. A therapist. Can I do that? Can I speak to someone?

My hands grow clammy, and a tingling begins in my chest. With each moment that passes, the fear grows stronger and stronger. I don’t know if I can.

I’m waiting for my discharge papers when Sydney walks into the room and peers over at me. “So now what?” she asks as she rubs the back of her neck.

“We wait for me to be discharged.” I try to smile, but I doubt it reaches my eyes.

“Are you going to talk to that therapist? Will you make an appointment with him?” Her left brow quirks up when I shake my head.

“What? Why the hell not?”

“Are you kidding me right now, Sydney? Did you see him? I would have to be all types of desperate to let a man that gorgeous see my crazy.”

“Well, you better find someone else, then, and fast. You didn’t see yourself, Eve. You were basically catatonic. I have never been so scared in my life. You have to talk to someone. If not him, then someone else.”

“Fine, I choose option two . . . someone else.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind talking to him, seeing him, being over him, being under him.” She winks “He was pretty freaking gorgeous.”

I can’t help but laugh. Sydney makes things feel better, even if it’s short lived.

MUCH LATER IN THE DAY, I’m finally discharged from the hospital. Sydney stayed with me the whole time, holding my hand and reassuring me that everything would be okay.

As we exit the hospital, she steps forward and hails a cab. Thank God for that, because I’m too physically and emotionally drained to lift my arms. I swear I could sleep for days. My entire body is weak and fragile. Our cab speeds off into the flow of traffic. It only takes a few minutes to arrive at our apartment building. Sydney pays the driver and we both step out.

The sidewalk is crowded and I find myself having to avoid bumping into bystanders. My steps are slow and unsteady, and crossing the short distance to the lobby door feels like completing a marathon. The wind whips mercilessly against me, causing me to feel chills and tremors.

Finally, we make it into the high-rise and into my apartment. I see a picture of Richard and me at my college graduation on the side table. Suddenly, I can’t breathe again. The walls close in as every muscle tightens in my chest, inflicting unbearable pain. Each beat of my heart is a thunderous pounding that threatens to be my last. My oxygen level dwindles to near nothingness as each pull of breath comes faster and faster. Why won’t it stop? The memories are so vivid, they play out as if it was only yesterday.

THE DAY WAS FINALLY HERE.

My eyes scanned the crowd, searching for her, searching for him. It was no small feat, getting my mother to come today. So with excitement, I looked out amongst the mass of smiling faces to find her. I finally did, but it wasn’t a look of pride I saw. Her eyes were void of emotion, a blank canvas. She fanned herself and checked her pulse against her neck. There she went again, feigning some imaginary illness. A deep-rooted sadness engulfed me. She couldn’t find it in her to pretend to be normal even for a day.

My shoulders slumped forward.

Richard’s gaze locked on mine. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. I understood what he was conveying to me all the way from across the room.

Stand tall.

Be proud.

And with that, I smiled at him and felt satisfaction swell up within for what I had accomplished.

“HERE, DRINK THIS,” Sydney says while thrusting a glass in front of me. I take a swig, swallowing the water, but the room continues to spin as I breathe frantically.

Sydney’s hand rubs circles on my back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

My body rocks in place, the movements growing faster and faster as I wait for the impending calm that doesn’t come soon enough.

“Shh, you’re okay. You’re okay.”

I lean back and close my eyes. I don’t know how much time passes, but when I reopen them, I realize I’m back to normal. I’m calm. The fear is once again dormant, but the fuse is now lit. I feel it in every breath. The flame is slowly burning away, and it’s only a matter of time before I explode again.

With slow movements, I turn my attention back to Sydney. Seated at the edge of the couch, her face is ashen as she nibbles on her bottom lip while she watches me.

“Are you okay? Do I need to call the doctor?”

“I’m okay. I promise I’m fine. I’m just tired. Really, really tired.” I slump back into the couch and sigh.

“That’s totally understandable. You’ve been through so much in the last few days. I swear I’ve never seen anything like the attacks you’ve had today. You must be exhausted.”

“I am,” I mumble as I force myself to answer her inquiry. As the words tumble out, my vision is blurry and it’s hard to focus on her.

“Does anything else hurt? You look like you might puke.”

“I kind of feel like I might.”

“It’s probably the concussion. They said throwing up could be a side effect. Why don’t you lie down in your room and I’ll sit with you while you rest?”

She stands and reaches her arm out to help me up.

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.” I’m not sure I will be, but I don’t have the energy to tell her.

“I don’t want to hear it. Between the concussion and your panic attacks, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone right now.” I nod, then walk into my room and lie on my bed. The bed dips with Sydney’s weight as I rest my eyes.

MY EYES FLUTTER open a few hours lat

er. Sydney’s head snaps in my direction. Her eyes are red and swollen from lack of sleep. She rubs at them frantically and I notice moisture collect on her finger. Was she crying? Is this because of me? Or is there something else making her sad?

“Are you okay?” I ask her and her back stiffens.

“I will be.”

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

“Nah, I’m just tired.”

“You do look exhausted. Did you sleep at all, Syd?” I groan out, my voice still laced with sleep.

She gives me a tight smile. “No, not really. How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Some Motrin?”

“I can get it,” I say right before I yawn.

“No. It’s okay. I’ll grab it.” She lifts from the bed and heads out to grab me some water. When she returns, I notice how sad she still looks. It makes every muscle inside me tighten, constricting my breathing to the point of pain, and a wave of guilt consumes me. The thought plagues me again. It’s an incessant voice in my head playing on repeat. Is this because of me? Or is it more?

“I’m sorry, Syd. I hate that I’ve put you through such an ordeal these past couple of days. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. How are you? Do you want to talk about Richard’s death? You don’t talk about your family much, but maybe you would feel, I don’t know, more comfortable with me?”

My eyes well with tears and I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“I understand, I do, but don’t you think you should? You’re still grieving. Maybe it would help to talk about it.”

“We’ll see.”

“Please think about it.”

“I promise I will,” I lied.

CHAPTER TWO

PRESTON

EVERY WEEK I volunteer at Sinai-Grace, but I don’t keep regular hours. I’m just here as a free resource for the staff to use when they need a consult.

It never gets easier. Sometimes I’m met with confusion, and sometimes anger, but the hardest is the sadness. Sadness can break a person. It can make a home inside you, slowly building a wall around your soul. At first, my job was part of a reparation I made to myself, then it quickly grew into something I loved. Helping people is what I was meant to do, but everything has changed. What became my passion is now, once again, a constant reminder of what I lost.