Today was a horrible day.
Well, not the whole day. There was work, just like any other week day. There was fun with friends, just like any evening that involves a social event.
But the day was defined by fear.
I was out at lunch, walking back to my office, and a man a few steps away from me had a heart attack.
Now it seems narcissistic for me to be talking about my reaction to this event. But I only experienced from my point of view. I feel for the man, and I feel for his wife, but what I am going to tell you about is what I experienced today. That's all I can do.
I heard a half-yell, half-scream. I don't know if it was the man or his wife that it came from.
I wasn't sure if someone was messing around, like school kids or something. It was a little unsettling, but I went about my business.
But then I heard her.
The wife.
She was wailing, but I distinguished these important words!
"CPR! SOMEBODY!"
In one of those brain flashes that lasts a millisecond, I evaluated how I could best help.
- Do the CPR?
- I did a course on first aid decades ago. No, I'd probably fuck that up.
- Run over and get involved, taking up space and adding to the panic by getting in the way?
- HELL NO. I am one of those people who utterly refuses to slow down and gawk at road accidents. If you can't help, get the fuck outta the way, as far as I'm concerned.
- Call 911?
- YES!
So I hit the phone.
Thank God, they answered right away. That hasn't always happened when I've had to call 911.
"911. What is your emergency?" she said.
"Heart attack."
"Putting you through."
"Fire Department and EMT. Where are you?"
"Corner of B----- and P-----."
"Outside the Starbucks?"
"No, other side of the street. To the West."
"I've dispatched them. But I need to ask you some questions. Is the person male or female?"
"Male."
"Is he conscious?"
"I don't know."
I turned to a concerned bystander and asked him to go and check if the man was conscious or not.
"I'm checking," I said into the phone.
"OK. They're on their way. If he isn't conscious, you need to call me back, because we need to send a different kind of truck, OK?"
"Yes."
Click.
The rest of it was about trying to comfort the wife, encourage people who weren't helping to bugger off and mind their own business and make sure there was a clear path for the ambulance.
It was interesting to observe who did something useful and who stood by, watching and asking whether the man was OK or not.
It took all my control not to lash out at the bystanders.
Fuckwits.
I didn't go close to the man and the group around him. There were people there who knew what they were doing. I didn't go near the EMTs when they arrived. I didn't ask questions.
I made sure that I turned away when the stretcher went by me and walked away. Men are taught from birth to be brave, to be strong, to be the providers, to rise to the top of the herd. The last thing a sick man needs to see is faces peering at him in a time of vulnerability, weakness and - although they shouldn't feel this, they do - humiliation.
In these moments we are reminded sexism is suffered by men too.
After I had done what I could, I tuned into how freaked out I was. Fear was sitting at the top of my chest, like a weight, like a vibration, like a hole hidden by the fact that I was wearing a shirt over it.
I know that the fight or flight reflex pumps adrenaline into the muscles to enhance physical performance and, unless you actually DO something physical, it just sits inside you like a poison.
What I could have done was walk fast for half an hour before going back to the office, or just jogged for ten minutes.
But I didn't.
I know from when I was grieving for my mother that I should let myself cry when I need to. When a child falls down or gets a fright, they cry, then it's over.
What I could have done was go into the bathroom in my building, let myself feel what I felt, and sobbed for three minutes.
But I didn't.
What I did do was try to talk it through with people. People who didn't want to listen. And, even if they did, they were more interested in hearing what happened to the poor man rather than me blathering on on about my feelings.
Then I tried to eat. This is a classic reaction for me to stress and suppressing feelings. First I tried a latte with 2 pumps of chocolate. Then I tried raiding the snack basket on our floor. M&Ms. Almond Joy.
After work, I tried alcohol and distraction at Happy Hour with friends.
None of it worked.
Even while listening to entertaining stories over a Margarita, I felt a soft, strange sense of doom.
I kept thinking about my husband, about how we're trying to get fit, but we're not quite there yet. About how he was away from me on a business trip. About what it would be like for me to get a call that he was sick.
If felt like Death was stalking me and, although he wasn't here to swing the skythe yet, he was toying with me, reaching into my chest and squeezing my heart, purely for his own amusement.
When I finally got home I put a tacky reality show on TV. It's called the OCD Project and it follows a group of OCD sufferers as they go through a program to get control of their disorder. A young woman who is obsessed with staying clean, who washed her hands repeatedly, was going through exposure therapy. The other people in the group, including the doctor, were taking turns to touch her face.
Her terror and distress was palpable. She was sobbing her little heart out, clearly completely petrified at the simple touch of fingers on her cheek.
And then I found myself sobbing with her.
The lid came off the volcano and all my anxiety came pouring out.
What if it was my husband? What would I do? What if it happened when he was far away from me? What if it happened when he was right next to me and there was no-one to help and I didn't know what to do?
It was about feeling my fear.
As I allowed myself to feel, my chest slowly opened up. My breathing slowed eventually and I was able to wipe my eyes and blow my nose. It wasn't a pretty moment.
Then the second eruption. It was my grief... for my mother, for my father, for my childhood friend, all of whose deaths were sad and final events in my life.
No mommy to rub hot camphor oil on my feet when I have a cold. No daddy to explain finance to me. No Ellen to share childhood memories with, reminiscing about how we used to play princesses in her swimming pool.
It was about feeling my loss.
After ten minutes, I was able to come back into the here and now, to feel relief.
Then I was brought back down to earth by Puppy Girl licking my ear and dumping half a ball - a triumph of her chewing prowess - in my lap, with a little squeal that is her way of asking me to throw it across the room so she could chase it.
In that little chocolate lab kiss, that little whimper, a reminder that I have love and fun in my life.
And so I threw the ball.
To read more in the Dear Diary series, click here.