This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,107

my aforementioned panic attack.

Except my mother never called it a panic attack. Instead, she made a big fuss about my being dehydrated and scolded my cousins for not having Gatorade before playing. She whisked me away to our car so I could sit in air-conditioning and “rehydrate,” at which point she made sure I knew that under no circumstances was I to mention to any of my cousins, aunties, or uncles that I was seeing Dr. Rifkin, or that I had been diagnosed with anxiety.

“People from Nigeria, they are not as understanding about these issues as people here,” she explained. I remember thinking it strange that she never used the phrase “mental illness” when she talked to me. “They consider anxiety and depression American diseases.”

I’m pretty sure that Mr. Wu would agree with my uncle Akunna, so maybe my mom’s right. Maybe I’ll look like damaged goods in his eyes, the way his son does. The way his daughter would if he could see what is right in front of him.

The curtains slide open with a metal screech, and Dr. Warren, the doctor who did my initial exam, walks in. “Ah, hello, Eric. Thank you for taking care of my son,” my mother says graciously.

“Of course. I’m happy to say that there wasn’t much for me to do. His labs and EKG look great. Everything seems to have stabilized.”

“Does that mean I can go home?”

Dr. Warren turns to speak directly to me for the first time since he walked in. “Pretty soon. I just wanted to ask you a few more questions to figure out what kind of follow-up I recommend, then I’m going to print out all your discharge instructions.”

I nod, and Dr. Warren’s eyes flicker over to my mother briefly before coming back to me. “So, Will, when I took your history you mentioned that you’d had something like this happen before, and that it usually presents after some external stress, with some hyperventilation, visual changes, accelerated heart rate. That sounds a lot like a panic attack to me.”

I lick my lips and reflexively look at my mom, who gives me a single nod.

“Yeah, that’s about right,” I say.

“Have you ever seen any school counselors about anxiety? Or your pediatrician?”

“I see a psychologist over at the college.”

“Oh, good, I’ll make sure that gets documented in your chart.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mom stiffen the tiniest bit. Not enough that Dr. Warren would notice. Just me. “As I’m sure you know, panic attacks are uncomfortable but rarely dangerous. Have you ever been on any medications for anxiety?”

“No. For the past few years I’ve been okay with breathing techniques, mindfulness, that kind of stuff.” I shift around in the hospital gurney. My whole body aches. No specific muscle group. Just overall, like someone’s wrung me out from head to toe. “I have a heart-rate tracker on my watch. That helps. I haven’t had a… an episode in a while.”

“He’s been through CBT, if that’s what you’re asking,” my mother tells Dr. Warren. “William gets a full evaluation every year and it’s never been determined that medications are necessary.”

My mom’s crafting her story the same way I did. It isn’t quite true that no one’s ever told me I should take meds. Dr. Rifkin’s always been clear in telling me that I could take meds, if I wanted to: “The choice to start medications is a very individual one. If you’re struggling I can make a recommendation, but every drug ever made has potential side effects. In the end it’s your choice.”

Here’s the rub: If you leave the choice up to an anxious and avoidant person, there’s a high probability that they’re going to come up with reasons not to decide. So I did nothing, by default.

I don’t tell this to Dr. Warren, who’s nodding at my mother, all smiles, as if relieved that he can go ahead and write my discharge. “Well, nice to see you again, Rose, and wonderful to meet you, William. There’s still some paperwork for you to do, so it will be a minute. The nurses tell me you have some friends out in the waiting room. Would you like me to let them in?”

I glance over at my mom, who must have called in my buddies. She just shrugs. “Sure, you can send them in.” Maybe Manny and Tim brought me some new comics to distract me. Or actually, it’s probably Javier. He’s not fazed as much by medical