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 Last night, I played a game alone at home by myself. The idea was to write something unrelated to my current project. In a way, it was a mental exercise or a stretch, to churn out some words that were floating around in my head. 

So what was the game? To tell you the truth, it was a drinking game. The rules were simple: I take a shot, then I write a page. Then I take another shot at the beginning of the next page I write. One page, one shot. 

I'd been given a Canadian whiskey by a friend of mine for my birthday in July and I'd never gotten into it. I wrote eight pages last night. Seven of which, are below. 

For context, several years ago, a friend of mine had asked me to write something for them, just for them to see how I write. I was not a writer then. They're the reason I started writing. Below is my latest rendition of the first chapter in the story they urged me to write for them. Something different, something unrelated.

The title of the story is Induced. 

The intake nurse asked me for my name since she couldn’t hear me through the glass. Ashley S. Donahue. Birthday July 4th, 1994. Address is the same as it is on the insurance card I gave her. 

She clacked away at her keyboard and scrunched her nose at the screen over her little rectangular spectacles. They made her look like Nicole Kidman but older; much, much older. 

Behind me on plastic chairs like mine were the people I’d been sitting with for the last few hours, each with a solemn story to tell. A pregnant woman and her husband sat knee to knee with each other, praying. A white and grey man was slumped next to them asleep, his cup of water at a precarious angle. 

Through the reflection on the glass ahead of me I watched as a stream poured from the lip to his boots, then onto the floor. 

“Donahue,” A pause in the clicking, “And what brings you in tonight, Miss Donahue?” 

“I thought I was going to die.”

The rows of wrinkles on her forehead multiplied, “You what?”

“I thought I was going to die- I felt like it.”

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Well, yes but I’d like to get checked out.”

“That’s fine. We can do that.”

“It’s been three hours, do you know when they’ll see me?”

The lady looked at her screen again, this time closer while she scrolled through whatever database she was using. “I can’t say for sure. I’d like to check your blood pressure, can you follow me to the next desk over?”

We stood in unison and side stepped to the desk to the right of hers, this one with less glass. The seat crinkled as I lowered myself onto the pleather. 

“Can you take your hoodie off?”

I wasn’t wearing anything underneath, just a sports bra. “No.”

“Why not?”

I lifted my shirt to show the bottom of my stomach. She shrugged. 

“Hold out your arm.”

I slipped my arm under the gap in the glass onto the desk. She yanked my sleeve and wrestled the band around my arm, tightening the Velcro twice.

“Now stick out your finger. That band’ll get tight in a minute, just stay still.”

I watched as the numbers on the little LED screen lit up. 116/63. Sounds high. 

“Is that good?”

The lady squinted again at the little screen. Glasses must be for show. “That’s well within the average range for little girls like you.”

Litte. Girls. Like. You. I’m eighteen since last month. And she knows my birthday. I thought about saying something snarky but it might not have been an insult. Old bitch. 

We stepped back to the other desk and sat in silence for a few minutes while she entered more data into the computer. I don’t know what they type in, but it sounded like she was writing a book. I watched her eyes dart around the screen, making note of whatever she was reading. Squinting, scrunching, tilting her head. Her movement felt performative, like she was doing it to show me how hard she was working. I can’t imagine her work being hard.

She gaped her lips and sat back in her seat, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but you wouldn’t happen to be…?” 

Everyone asks. “Henry’s daughter.”

She pursed her lips and nodded an apology, “You poor thing. How’s your mother?”

What an awful question to ask somebody you just met. “She’s fine.” 

The intake lady looked at me like a dying puppy, like she wanted to show me just how bad she felt for me. She forgot that we’re at the ER at two in the morning, and I’m waiting to be seen for a problem that went away in the waiting room. 

She let out a remorseful sigh and shooed me back to the chair next to the sleeping man, who’d now spilled his drink onto the floor. I watched from the chair as she typed more into the computer. There’s no way she was actually typing anything- the keyboard could be disconnected. I doubted her entire job. Gossipy old woman. 

A few minutes after I’d moved, a very tall, very handsome nurse came around the corner and beckoned the pregnant couple to join him. His bright blue eyes were like breath of ocean air in this luminescent holding room. We made eye contact for a second but I looked away as quickly as our gaze caught one another’s. I hoped he’d be the one seeing me. 

Once again, a nurse came around the corner. This time, an Asian woman with a face mask and a clipboard. 

“Daniel Reeves?” she read in a matter-of-fact kind of way. Rigid, hiding an accent. We knew that Daniel was the older gentleman next to me. She said the name louder, this time at his still body. I nudged his arm with my elbow and his cup fell from the two fingers that held it in the balance of gravity. He didn’t move. I nudged again, this time my knee to his knee. He snorted awake and brushed his face with his calloused hands. 

“Daniel Reeves?” the nurse called again, getting his attention. For a moment, he appeared to not know where he was; looking around confused at his surroundings. He muttered a few questions under his breath, “What, where am, what’s happe-“ 

“Daniel Reeves, this way please.”

He followed her but was unsure of himself while he walked, looking down the hallways and towards the door as he shuffled. I wonder what brought him in. Maybe nothing. Maybe what I had. 

I caught the intake lady staring at me a few times while I sat in the cold, bright, now empty room. She knew my father somehow, perhaps through the news, perhaps through her job. She definitely wasn’t a criminal, and if she is she’d have a different reaction to me and my paternal name. Chances are, she’d met him in passing here or at city hall. I don’t remember seeing her anywhere. 

The thought of her knowing my father was starting to bug me, so I mustered up the voice to ask. She rolled her chair back and crossed her arms, then looked up at the ceiling tiles like she was trying to invent a scenario in which she’d met my dad. 

“Your dad, let me see,” she muttered and looked down at her legs, “Well, we never knew each other, per se.”

“So it was the news then?”

“No, no,” she lied, “Your father was well liked here- he was always good with us. Helpful, and funny. Really funny. Most of the doctors here really liked your dad.”

My dad wasn’t a funny man- or a nice man. He was gruff, blunt, and commanding. I challenged her opinion. “So you never met him?” 

She adjusted in her seat, shuffling her wide thighs between the armrests. “No, I met him once or twice.”

I didn’t say anything to her after that, just nodded and kept staring down the hallway. Nothing she could say would convince me that she’d met my dad. No detail she could give, no moment she could recall would satisfy my need for evidence. 

Head against the wall, I watched the clock spin from 2:50am to 3:00am in what felt like an hour. I understood why that old man nodded out. Since there was no sign of anything happening for a while, I pulled the collar of my hoodie up to my chin and closed my eyes. 

+

I woke to a firm hand on my shoulder and someone repeating my last name, “Miss Donahue? Miss Donahue.”

I was a lucky girl. The handsome blonde nurse was leaning over my sleeping body and saying my name in a thick Midwestern cadence. 

“Miss Donahue, can you please follow me?”

The chair crinkled in reverse while I stood up. I followed him down the blue hallway along a red line on the floor tiles. My inner child kept my feet moving along the line like a gymnast; anything else was bad. 

From behind, the nurse was just as handsome; broad shoulders, a crisp haircut, scrubs that were a little too tight on his rear. As he waved me into my room, I saw the bottom of a tattoo peek out from his shirt. I imagined it to be a rose, or some kind of flower. Something to soften the hard of the man. 

I hoisted myself onto the foil-like paper and kicked my legs against the hollow base of the examination bed. Childlike. I had an urge to display my innocence to the nurse. Show him just how big he is. How small I am. 

The intake lady’s words rattled in my head so I stopped my kicking. I wasn’t a little girl. 

He sat with his back to me at a computer, “What brings you in tonight, Miss Donahue?” 

“I feel like- I felt like I was going to die.”

“Can you explain that to me? Going to die- what do you mean?”

“Well, I was at home with my friend, Jess, and we were sitting in bed, and I felt like there was something wrong- really wrong, like something was about to happen. I got up to get a drink of water, in the kitchen, and my friend followed me to get a drink too. And I was filling my cup at the fridge when my ears started ringing, like ringing really loud. You know when there’s like an old TV that turns on and you get a ringing in your ears? Like that, but it kept getting worse, like a lot louder. And then I had to cover my ears it was so loud, and Jess- she was watching and she could tell you better, but I kind of like fell, like crumpled onto the floor next to the fridge, and I felt like I was having a heart attack.”

“Can you explain the heart attack feeling?”

“Like I was short of breath, I couldn’t breathe. I was like panting and panting for air, and I started crying, and I was all fuzzy feeling. Like TV static all over my skin. And I couldn’t move. At all. I just spaced out and felt like I was falling through the floor, like I was getting sucked downwards.” 

“And how are you feeling now?”

“To tell you the truth, doc, I feel fine. And it’s embarrassing but I wanted to get checked out anyways, but it went away as soon as I got here.”

“Is this your first time with this feeling?”

“Yes. First time.”

“Did you drive here?”

“No, Jess drove me. She said she’d pick me up when I needed to go home.”

“I’m sorry that that happened to you. I think I know what that is, and I have a few more follow up questions, and a couple tests I’d like to run through to cover our bases.”

“Sure, whatever.”

“Has there been anything in your life that’s been stressing you out? Any serious changes?”

Finally, someone who doesn’t know. “Yes, there has been.” I lead him into his next question.

“Are you comfortable sharing what that might be?”

For once, I could explain my situation the way I wanted to. “My father committed suicide two months ago.”

He lowered his head and apologized. I could tell he was genuine. This man’s life was devoted to helping those in need, those struggling, those in more precarious situations than himself. He had real empathy. “I’m sorry to ask, but how has that been for you? How have you been coping?”

“I’ve been alright. Obviously it sucks, and every day hurts, but I’d say I’m doing fine.” It sucks? What the fuck am I saying? Everyone knows it sucks.

“Are you familiar with the term ‘panic attacks?’” he asked, trying to dance around the awful fire.

I wasn’t familiar with them.

“Panic attacks are something that happens when the mind and body are under immense duress, especially from traumatic events. It essentially is the mind thinking that you’re in extreme danger, and it kicks in a fight or flight response, but it doesn’t regulate either fight or flight, so it freaks out.”

I was at home, in my own bed, with my best friend when it happened. “And that’s what you think this was?” 

“I’d like to get a blood work panel done before I make any conclusive decisions, but I’m wondering if that is the case.”

“What makes you think that? What if it was an angina?” Jess had related my symptoms to an angina before we got to the hospital and it made sense to me.

“Miss Donahue,” he began with that tone that men get when they know more than you. The sexy nurse factor faded. “You’re eighteen, not overweight, and relatively healthy looking. If you were in your forties, I’d say that’s a possibility, but with your youth, I am skeptical that you’d be anywhere in the range of a heart condition.”

“But you still want my bloodwork.”

“We have to check all of our boxes before making a clinical conclusion, yes.”

I hate needles. And I hate blood. But if that’s what they need, then so be it. 

The nurse left the room in a hurry, leaving me to the whirring LED lights above. Through the door, I could hear the shuffling of a semi-busy nighttime ER. Footsteps, mumbling, squeaking. 

Metal carts rolling from room to room, doctors assessing and deducing what’s going on with their patients. 

I had read all of the anatomy posters by the time someone knocked on the door. I’d learned all about diabetes type two and was re-reading the segment about meningitis. Horrifying to think a shared drink with an unaware infected person could kill the unvaccinated. Best to keep up with the times. 

A small woman entered my room, followed by a cart full of syringes and bottles. Some of which were maroon; full of blood. Maybe the sleeping man’s blood. Maybe the expecting woman’s. 

She asked me which arm I’d prefer, then rolled up my sleeve for me. I chose the right since I’d left that arm mostly untouched by my pocket knife. People hate seeing the cuts and scars. It makes them uncomfortable. When I see them on others, it makes me more trusting of them. I can relate to a person in pain. If you have no scars, then what kind of person are you really. 

The woman smiled and counted to three, sliding the needle into my arm on the unspoken four. I would’ve preferred on two; less time for anticipation. 

Every five seconds, she swapped the vial of blood for an empty one. They all had different coloured caps. Purple, yellow, white. The fifth and final one was the same colour as my shirt; baby blue. She pointed out the similarity while I was staring at the wall to avoid the sight of my own blood. 

She left as quickly as she came in, leaving behind the scent of her perfume. Cheap, sweet, vanilla. It fit her stature. 

She’d told me the nurse would be back in a few minutes. Those few turned into thirty, so I laid down on the paper and plastic to rest while I waited. Once more, I was awoken by a firm hand and my last name on repeat. Lucky me. 

“Miss Donahue,” he began, his hand still on my shoulder, “How are you feeling?”

The sadness in his voice tipped me off. Someone told him. “I’m good- sorry, I’m tired.”

“No apology necessary.” He was firm in this statement. “So, we went over your blood work, and I’m happy to say that we found no conclusivity.” 

A medical term that doesn’t exist. “Nothing?”

He confirmed my question, “So that leads me to believe that what you experienced is a panic attack.”

“So what do we do?”

“Unfortunately,” he began, much to my disappointment, “There’s not much that we can do right now- since there’s no ongoing symptom.”

“So what’s that mean?” 

“When people experience a… event like the one you have, and they develop symptoms like what you’ve experienced, we often refer them to a specialist.”

“Like a therapist?”

“Exactly- a therapist or psychologist, depending on the severity of the issue.”

“So what’s that mean for me?” My eye caught the word ‘cortex’ on the depiction of the brain anatomy behind him.

“Because this is your first ‘panic attack,’” he quoted in the air, “I think a therapist would be in your best interest, especially given the circumstances.”

He definitely knew now. “Circumstances?”

“I don’t mean to pry, and I’m sorry to bring this up,” he blushed, “But, is your father not chief Donahue?” 

I winced at the description. ‘Chief’ Donahue adds a level of seniority to my dead father’s name. Seniority that makes the dismal nature of the situation come to the forefront. Why would a police chief kill himself? I nodded. I had no words for the once sexy nurse. His face wasn’t as pretty as before. Should’ve kept his mouth shut. I wish the Asian woman would’ve helped me. Then his fleeting image wouldn’t be tarnished. 

“We already ran a check, and your insurance covers a long list of therapists and counsellors in the area that we’ve known and worked with over the years. Who’s your family doctor?”

“Megan De Gelden.” 

“I’d like to send her the list, then have her follow up with you this week. Is that alright?”

I nodded; I didn’t care. As long as I could miss work to go, I’m alright with whatever they send my way. Physio, gyno, I don’t care. Strap me in and write me a letter saying you condone my absence from work. 

He left the room again and I watched his scrubs tuck between the top of his butt cheeks while he walked away. It was cute. 

Panic attack sounded weird, but the name made sense. I was panicking, and I felt like I was under attack. Part of me was relieved it wasn’t an angina, the other part disappointed. If it was a heart condition, they could chuck a few pills at me and tell me to change my diet, and then I’d be cured probably, but with this I don’t know what to expect. Is it dangerous? Is it going to happen again? 

A different person knocked on my door; an older man in blue scrubs and aviator-style spectacles. He told me he was a doctor, and that he was sorry about my father, and that he wished that he could help with what was going on with me. He seemed genuinely concerned, and like he knew my father. His choice of words made me believe that he knew him. “Your father was…  I’m sorry that we have to refer you to someone.” The words of an old friend. 

He handed me a paper with a fact sheet about anxiety and panic attacks, along with a list of names and phone numbers of therapists in the area. 

He left without saying goodbye.

I read the list over a few times, pronouncing each name under my breath.

Elaine S. Stevenson

Jacob Green

Joshua Green, MD

Suzanna Price, MD

Bryan Henderson

I had to guilt the receptionist into giving me her lunch money so I could use the payphone. My little girl eyes came in handy. So did dad.