Putting Alice Back Together. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
They took me straight into the triage room; the nurse put a little probe on my finger and told me to calm down.
‘I can’t breathe…’
‘Your oxygen saturation is ninety-nine per cent’ There was a bored note to her voice which infuriated me as she wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around my arm. Did she have any idea how hard it was to get it to that? Breathing should be natural, you shouldn’t have to think about it, but I did. I had to pull in air and hold it in, and it still didn’t go deep enough. My hands were doing strange things, and she was giving me a bloody paper bag and telling me to breathe in and out slowly.
‘You’re having a panic attack.’
‘No!’ I pushed the bag away.
‘How much have you had to drink tonight, Alice?’
What did that have to do with anything? ‘I’m allergic…’
‘To what?’
‘Hazelnuts.’
‘Okay…’ the nurse said, ‘you can wait in the waiting room. Just keep breathing into your paper bag.’
‘I can’t.’ I couldn’t. I could not face going out there, but the fucking nurse wouldn’t budge. ‘Your girlfriend can let us know if you get worse.’
Now, a quick explanation here. In Australia, and it took me a while to get used to this, but a friend who’s a girl is called your girlfriend. I’ve been back to London and it’s used more that way there too now, but there was something about the way she said girlfriend that had me frown. I looked over at Roz, who was blushing bright red and then she led me out.
‘She thinks we’re…’
‘I know,’ Roz mumbled, blushing to her roots. ‘Just breathe into the bag.’
It wasn’t helping. My lips were tingling, there was just so much noise, so much going on, I couldn’t stand it. I stood up and paced. I honestly didn’t feel safer in the hospital. I actually thought I might die here, and then they’d be bloody sorry. Panic attack indeed!
I was up at the big plastic shield that separated the staff from the waiting room now, and the nurse was refusing to look over. I could see stars and spots and I was like a cartoon character then, pressed to the glass. I thought I was dying and Roz was calling for help. Finally they realised that I wasn’t putting it on, that their stupid paper bag wasn’t going to work, because a buzzer went and a nurse came with a wheelchair and I was sped through.
Okay, not sped, and I didn’t end up in Resus with George Clooney saying, ‘On my count…’
Instead I was given a gown and told to get undressed and put it on, and Roz helped. I couldn’t have done it on my own. My lips were completely numb now. Then this twelve-year-old that was dressed up as a male nurse asked me to explain what had happened.
I wheezed away as he put an IV into the back of my hand, which hurt, I might add, as Roz did the talking for me.
‘We were in with the same last week. She’s got a nut allergy…’ And finally I got a response, because the twelve-year-old looked worried. He checked my blood pressure then dashed off to get a doctor as Roz wrapped her arms around me and told me I was going to be fine.
‘Just keep breathing into the bag, Alice.’
‘It’s not helping.’
Well, my ten seconds of concern lasted till the arrival of the emergency registrar, which coincided with the arrival of my old notes. He listened to my chest and confirmed the triage nurse’s diagnosis.
‘She’s having an anxiety attack.’
‘No…’ I shook my head. I was crying, and not able to breathe. ‘I woke up and my lips were swollen and tingling…’ Well, they hadn’t been then but that was what they had asked me last time. The emergency doctor sort of hummed and haaed for a minute before he wrote me up for 10 mg of diazepam and some oral steroids. ‘In case a mild allergic reaction triggered the anxiety attack.’
Bastard.
Still, I didn’t argue, I didn’t have the breath. And in a moment the twelve-year-old had returned with a little plastic cup with six pills. The white ones, he explained, were prednisolone and I would have to take a reducing dose for the next few days. The blue one was Valium.
I took the blue one first.
It took about twenty minutes—actually, maybe a bit less. Roz was so kind and reassuring, and the bright lights and all the equipment were starting to reassure me too, and when twelve-year-old took my pulse and said it was slowing down, I forgot about my breathing for a moment. I lay back and it was such a relief to not have to remember to breathe. Of course, as soon as I remembered, my breathing got harder and I had to remind myself to do it, but gradually it was just happening, even when I thought about it.
I lay there thinking about hypnosis tapes as Roz held my hand.
I’d bought loads, I had the lot, but I hated that they all, at some point, told you to concentrate on your breathing and the natural rise and fall of your chest, or the effortlessness of breathing. As soon as they said that, I swear, it didn’t happen naturally. If I could find a shagging self-hypnosis tape that didn’t tell you to concentrate on your breathing, I would have given up fags and booze and kept all my new year’s resolutions years ago.
‘Better?’
The doctor roused me from my slumber. Roz had just gone to the loo, he explained, and he wanted to have a word with me. Now that I wasn’t dying I noticed that he was actually nice looking, in a sort of Hugh Laurie House
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