Page 47 of Alarm Fatigue

“I would not dream of it.”

I lean back into him. “Good man,” I say. “But wait, how will I learn all these secret bachelor’s habits—are we going to move in together?” Oh my God, Rachel, why? Just why? Always with the awkward. The voices start then—the committee of insecure inner dialogue: he does not want to live with you, he will realize he does not love you any day now. Do not give yourself away. Mark, completely unaware of my inner turmoil is moving forward, however.

“I certainly hope so. Just as soon as I get you to agree to marry me.” He stills as soon as those words are out of his mouth. A pin could drop a half a mile a way and I could surely hear it. Now, it seems we are both feeling awkward and at least the stupid voices in my head have come to a screeching halt.

Not knowing what else to do, I whisper, “It is okay, I get you are just talking. I do not think you just asked me or anything.”

And with that I kiss him to stop either of us from making further fools of ourselves. Moving his hands to the nape of my neck, he resoundingly kisses me back.

Chapter 29

I suppose, in retrospect, this moment will seem inevitable, if I live long enough to be able to reflect back, that is. Going from moment to moment in my mind, right now, I recognize that I have had moments when I felt too stunned to think—which to me is kind of miraculous. There have been moments I have felt genuinely happy and for this I feel thankful. A few times my brain has been so assaulted with joy that the voices were temporarily silenced. At other times the insecurities seem to fester, and when they try to rage, I have been able to use every tool in my arsenal to combat them. I did not want to ruin this moment of possibility, not for Mark and not even for me. However, not everything is in our control, in the end.

I should have known better. In what way should you have known better, I hear my mother’s voice ask? You have done so well.

I cannot breathe.

The nightmare was vague. My father a threatening and inevitable presence in my dream. My mother was in a void, unable to help or reach me. It was not a specific event, but an accumulation of the greatest hits of the Lazarus house of my youth. Often I wake up just before the violence commences. The reality is the anticipation of it was worse than the actual event, most of the time. This time he grabbed me in the dream and hit me right in the face. I woke on the floor having fallen out of bed, and the dream makes sense since I have hit my face on the ground. For some reason I cannot parse, however, I cannot move.

Usually when I have a nightmare like this, I am sobbing and working hard to slow my lungs. This is different. I cannot get my lungs to work at all. They do not seem to want to open up for any meaningful breath. Come on, Rachel, you can breathe, you have been doing it for decades now. In, out. I can’t. I realize I am going to pass out and I grab the phone cord to pull my phone down from the nightstand. It hits my head and lands somewhere. Then I recall my smart watch and tap it three times to redial my last call. Without my glasses, I cannot see who it is. My brain is racing with increasing panic and now I am hoping to God I am not calling a business that is closed.

The last thing I hear is ringing followed by Mark’s voice. “Rachel?”

With that my vision turns to black and because I cannot breathe, I cannot talk. My last conscious thoughts are along the lines of, why do you always make a big deal? Just get a grip. Do not bother anyone, they are already so tired of being dragged down by you. I interrupt my own inner tirade. Rachel, just shut up already, you are running out of time and oxygen. Hoping that the fact that I am audibly hyperventilating and not answering will speak to whoever might be on the line and they will send help.

God. Help me, I think, when it all fades to black.

When I wake up, it is brightly lit. Looking around I cringe as I realize I am in the Emergency Department of the very hospital I work in. Because of course I am. I suppose it is a step up from being dead on the floor of my bedroom. The curtain slides open and Mark comes in with our colleague, Dr. Ivy King, and Gabriella is hot on their heels. When Gavi sees I am awake, she shoves Ivy and Mark out of her way and runs to me. Throwing her arms around my neck, she sobs into my hair.

“Eema, never ever scare me like that again. Mark and I were terrified.” She pulls back and looks me in the eye. “I would appreciate it if you would wait at least another thirty or forty years before something like this happens again, okay?”

I clear my throat, “I would love to agree to your terms but I am not sure what it is I have done.” As I am talking I realize I feel weirdly tired, like I have been drugged. I look around and Mark and Ivy look at each other. He nods at her to speak—he may be a doctor, but he cannot be my doctor.

“Rachel, first of all, do you give me permission to discuss your results in front of your daughter and Mark?” She is a stickler, Dr. King, and I have always thought if anything were to happen to me, she is exactly the person I would want looking out for me. “Yes, of course, go ahead.” Mark comes to the other side of the bed from Gavi and takes my hand.

Ivy looks at our joined hands. “I would not have believed it if I had not seen it for myself.” Was that almost a joke? I literally have never heard her attempt one. “Rachel, we are still completing the work up but it looks like you have had a panic attack. Your EKGs and troponins have been unremarkable. I would like to go over your risk factors for a cardiac event, but most likely you can go home after another set of labs.”

“I get panic attacks, but nothing that severe before.”

“You were home alone, correct?” She eyes Mark suspiciously, as if he has been causing me excessive stress.

“I was asleep actually.” My cheeks color. “I was having a nightmare about being abused by my father. It is something I lived through,” I add, as if to clarify my father was not some lovely person I was having random dreams about. Gavi lets out a small sob and her eyes fill with tears.

“I am sorry to hear that, Rachel. I had no idea. Do you still go to therapy or see anyone to address anxiety or panic attacks?”

“I go to therapy as needed these days and I have been on a low dose of medication for years, but at this point it is prescribed by my primary doctor and I have not seen the psychiatrist in some time.”

“Well, as I said we have some more to do for this evaluation but it may be time to go back to the psychiatrist.” She looks and Mark’s and my hands, which are still entwined, and actually gives us a half smile. “I am glad to see the two of you finally figured out the cause and solution to your chronic bickering.”

I smile back. “I cannot promise not to continue to bicker, I mean Mark can be entirely annoying, as you know.” With that she laughs and takes her leave.

Gabriella looks between Mark and me and stands up.

“I will let you two have a moment. I need some water.” After kissing me on the head, she gives Mark a weak smile and heads out of our curtained area. I turn to him. “What happened? I hope my front door is intact?”

Mark gently removes my hand from his and turns to face me. “You called me and said some gibberish about not being able to breathe.” Looking at him now, I recognize that his skin looks ashen, his hair is disheveled and he looks like he is in his pajamas. Running his hand through his hair, Mark shudders out a breath before continuing. “I called 911 on my way to your place. And Gabriella—she beat all of us there and had the front door open. She found you first, face down, passed out.” He stops here as if the rest is self-explanatory. While he is relaying this, he has pulled back a little, and is now eyeing me from a full step away. I sit up a little bit more.

“Mark, are you okay?”

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