I stand in the waiting area of a local emergency room, standing because I cannot bear to sit, cannot bear to hold still. I’m on day four of Panic Attack #ItDoesn’tEvenMatter, and I can barely hold myself together. I’m at the emergency room because I need relief, because it’s a month out before I’ll get to see my new psychiatrist, because I can’t afford to wait that long, because the anxiety is cutting into my ability to function and I NEED HELP RIGHT NOW!!!
All around me are a couple of dozen people, many of whom are wearing masks. Influenza is rampant right now, and I could get sick just from being near these people, but at the moment, I don’t even care. All I can think about is that I’m miserable and anxious and scared for no good reason. And so I wait. And wait. And wait some more. Because the ER is busy busy busy, and it’s going to take time for someone to get to me.
It takes about four hours, four hours of sheer misery, four hours of being around far too many people for my agoraphobia. I almost leave, more than once, but I stick it out, partially due to the encouragement of a friend who has been texting me the whole evening to make sure I’m okay. I’m not, but that encouragement causes me to do the hard thing and wait, even as I want to run.
And then finally, FINALLY, they get me back to a room where a doctor sits down and talks to me. At first I think they aren’t going to do anything for me. They explain that they typically don’t change psych meds for patients in the ER, but they tell me they’ll see what they can do. And I’m back to waiting, though by now I’m away from the couple dozen other patients waiting to be seen, and the wait is more tolerable.
A nurse comes in. They want to draw blood and take a urine sample, just to make sure everything else is physically okay with me. They ask me questions as they stick a needle in my hand and draw several vials of blood. A few moments later they have their samples, and I’m back to waiting while they run the labs.
Finally, someone from the psych unit comes in to talk to me. They are carrying scrubs because they’ve agreed to allow me to talk to a tele-health psychiatrist. I’m relieved and nervous at the same time because I have to be admitted to the unit in order to talk to the doctor, and I’m worried they might want to keep me at least overnight for observation. The chance for this is low, but it still makes me anxious, as if I need another reason. But the chance to have some relief from this panic that is killing me makes the risk of a stay worth the trouble.
Twenty minutes later I’m sitting in a small room with a nurse and a robotic video screen. The psychiatrist comes on, and I receive an education, both from my bloodwork and in relation to my current meds and proposed changes to my meds to help get me through the next month until I see my new psychiatrist. As it turns out, my red blood cell count is elevated, as is my live enzyme. They shouldn’t have much to do with my mental state, but the doctor advises I should see my GP to draw new labs and discuss the results.
Meanwhile, we talk about my meds and my options. I have three of them: go on another heavy-duty anxiety med that is known to cause weight gain (something I currently don’t need help with), start on gabapentin, which is a salt and doesn’t get metabolized by the body but is known to help anxiety with great efficacy, or try an antihistamine, which has only a 20-30% chance of working. I choose the gabapentin option, partially because the results are supposed to be almost instantaneous and partly because I don’t need yet another drug that causes weight gain. The doctor promises to call in the script, and the conference is over.
Moments later I’m processing discharge paperwork so I can go home. They give me a dose of gabapentin right there at the clinic so I have relief right away, and I notice a difference in less than 30 minutes, at which point I’m dressed back in my street clothes and on my way to my car. Already I feel relaxed and calm, calmer than I have felt in months, possibly years. I’m smiling and giggling to myself. It’s a surreal feeling to be this calm after so long struggling with anxiety. I didn’t know it was possible to feel this good, and now that I do, I don’t want it to go away.
I drive home, feeling fine and dandy. I’ll pick up my new prescription in the morning because it’s already nearly 11:30pm, and I’m exhausted. The strain of the last four days has worn me out and I need sleep. I crawl into bed almost immediately upon getting home. It takes me some time to drift off, but I do so with a smile, optimistic for the first time that my anxiety can actually be beaten, that this demon that has been latched to my back for so long can finally be excised. I sleep, and I do not dream, which in itself is a relief.
