The next day

It's the next morning. I'm tense. I have a lot to do today and still haven't got my head around what happened yesterday. I'm on the school run, smiling at friendly faces and chatting superficially to aquaintances. I walk alongside a good friend. I have come to trust her over the last year and therefore I confide in her what happened to me yesterday. She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't hug me when I start to cry. I feel then that what happened to me must have been a weakness on my part. Something to hide, to not talk about. So I tuck my emotions back under the surface. Go to her house for tea, chat about my holiday. Feel inwardly tired and longing to be back at home, to rest, to not make the journey with two children and a pushchair through London, on the Underground up to Great Ormand Street hospital this afternoon. But I won't let my friend with the sick child down. Just as I haven't let my friend down who is talking to me now over tea. I know how much she enjoys our morning chats. We go back to the school and collect our sons from nursery just as we always have.
But things are not the same. I'm different. I have had a panic attack and it has shaken my very foundations. I am not an anxious person, have perhaps looked down on those who have phobias and nervous disorders. I love to be on stage performing. I don't get stage fright or butterflies. I've always been a doer, an overdoer. Ambitious, a dreamer. Not strong or terribly self-confident. But active and in control. I've suffered from depression and low self-esteem in the past. But not anxiety. Not panic attacks.

It's the afternoon. I have sweated and heaved and got that pushchair and my two children into London's Great Ormand Street hospital. I have even managed to buy the little boy a gift, something for him to do while confined to his room. He is two, the same age as my daughter. I met his mum on a playground when our boys were just learning to walk. She has been my friend for four years. I am trying to be there for her in her hour of need. Her worst fear has come true, she may lose her son to cancer. I listen. My children entertain her children. I can only stay for 2 hours, then it will be rush hour and it will be hell on the public transport system. Her husband makes me a cup of tea. I keep my panic attack news to myself. I tell her instead how my son was recently diagnosed with asthma. How he has been coughing at night for the best part of a year. Now he has two inhalers twice a day - one for prevention, one for treatment. My friend starts to cry. I didn't even cry when I heard the news and he's my son. I realise she feels we have some misery in common. Misery loves company. This seems to comfort her. I drink my tea.

My heart starts to race. Oh crap. It's the caffeine, I think. I had drunk caffeine (Pepsi) right before my attack happened yesterday. I start to cry. I'm scared. My friend comes over to me. What's the matter? I can't talk, I'm so choked up. She takes me out of the hospital, leaving her husband with instructions to mind the children. I tell her about my panic attack. She sympathises, tells me she once had one while driving her car. She promises to mail me out some information about panic attacks. I thank her. I am amazed she would do this for me when her time with her son right now is so precious. I am grateful that she has listened to my story. Relieved that she has experienced a panic attack too. That I am not as alone as I had thought I was. However, what she described was a ten minute incident. From start to finish mine had lasted 2 hours. I don't think she fully appreciates the hell I went through. It was as close as I have come to a near death experience. I only say this because my mind was so sharp at the time, so clear - I saw what my true priorities were in life - my children. Nothing else. Zip.