Humming of cars made the ride to work serene and full of ample two-fold silence. Nothing perched above the gray skyline and monotonous flow of sleepy motorists. Life was ordinarily simple with multitude of problems and crisis, deadlines and lattes.
Thinking about the itinerary for the upcoming weekend and thankfully feeling the mid-week break of Wednesday, I parked and walked into my sadly familiar office. It is the kind of space where everything is foreign and familiar, repulsive and welcoming – a contradiction in terms, much like the life itself. My cubicle is a collection of artifacts and mementoes, useless collector editions and family images that carry me through the day, dissolving the grid of office demise. An IT heaven that promises endless entertainment for one’s fried intellect and gives a faulty sense of security in a cold corporate world.
My blood donation appointment was not until 10 AM, so I lazily checked the e-mail and sent politically correct responses in time to get a bit of breakfast energy into already growling stomach. Vaguely remembering that blood donation and a light breakfast hardly mix, I doubled the breakfast amount, proudly thinking of how much I have become a ‘mom’, person that is duly responsible and profoundly lost in the chaos of do’s and do not’s.
10 AM approached faster then expected and I calmly walked into the conference room, observing military-like setup amid the sea of tables and chairs, with a feel of make-shift hospital arising from the walls of a dreary corporate room. After several satirical exchanges with the nurse about whether Lichtenstein is actually a country or not and whether Ukraine is part of Russia (which is somewhat a prevalent discussion with just about any simpleton in the Midwest ), I was glad to finally get on the stretcher and give the so-much needed ‘burgundy gold’. Having done so since my 16th birthday, the idea of blood donation was a welcomed sign in my mind, as it serves a double purpose of helping others and re-storing my blood to its healthful levels. The Tikkun Olam – Hebrew phrase meaning ‘repair the world’ – has been a permanent fixture of my psyche since I could recognize the importance of helping, regardless of its impact, as long as its impact was affecting at least one other in this world. So, that bright October morning, I more then welcomed the idea of helping others.
The needle slowly slipped into the thick blue wall of the vein, like a thirsty snake waiting to dig its fangs into the prey. The pinch was quick and soon I felt warm flow of the blood sliding down the path of the IV and into the container. I closed my eyes and though about the next few hours before yet another meeting and how I will see Simone’s face tonight, smiling and running towards me. Euphoria like feeling penetrated my body, the relaxation of blood loss swirling in luscious colorful bursts. In an instant my head felt like it was completely decapitated, floating above the body orifice; heart pumping at a million miles per hour, hands feeling the energy sucked out of them with a speed of light; pure panic engulfing my entire limp body. I calmly (at least outward) spoke up, asking the nurse to stop the donation. With complete and outer dislike in her voice, she informed me that ‘My, you are white as snow.’ She proceeded to direct others to help me, which was just as enthusiastic as her initial response. My legs were elevated, donation stopped and head lowered on the stretcher, with a cold pack beneath my neck. The sinking feeling now swallowed all of my body, forcing the extremities to shutdown and my heart to elevate its painful cry for help. I was told to lay on my right side and drink bouts of orange juice, coke and extraneous elements offered when a diabetic shock is in progress. I tried to refuse, but later obeyed everyone’s requests for consumption of sweets goods, not feeling any relief from the fact.
Time passed and my body continued to fall into the abyss of unknown, in short bursts shaking me back to reality and then slowly rolling the panic back to its awry corner. Nothing seemed to soothe, except a hand of a friend, giving the much needed link to a small window of relief ahead and calming my at that point completely shut nerves. After much deliberation with the nurses, I decided that ambulance was in order. I think it took them five minutes to arrive…and five millennia for me to wait. Paramedics’ presence, their strong, blue silhouettes and massive hands brought me out of the pure hell and back into the shaky reality. My hands slowly began to gain warmth and feeling; my heart stopped its race and was pumping now in sporadic, yet contained intervals; my sweaty forehead beginning to feel the cool of the air-conditioner. I was weak, confused, angry and wanting nothing more then a loved one by my side, protecting me from another…attack.
And, that’s how I met Panic.
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