Recovery

Your first name, last name, and date of birth become a mantra.

Every time a nurse touches you they will ask you for these piece of information, so that you can confirm your identification.

It’s as if to say you had a stunt double come in to play the role of you in this scene where they draw blood from your veins, because you’re already bruised from yesterday’s visit at the cardiologist.

In your hospital bed, you type up an email to your class, the one that you skipped a year of schooling to get in front of, and you tell them that you won’t be in class tomorrow.

“We will not be discussing it in class, but feel free to finish The Crucible,” you write. Although, you know they won’t read it, because there’s too much for them to do when it’s midterm season.

There’s too much for you to do, and instead the doctors at the hospital want you to wait around for an hour, two hours, three hours, four hours... until it is seven o’clock in the evening, and they tell you that they haven’t seen any arrhythmia, but based on what you’re telling them, someone will be down to wheel you to a room as soon as they can,

that they will be keeping you overnight.

“Can’t I just walk?” you ask. Technically, you can, but they won’t let you. Your feet feel fine; it’s your heart that’s had a change of pace, in the most literal sense.

157 BPM.

I was in the supermarket and my heart was racing at

157BPM.

That is the BPM of someone who just ran seven miles

not someone who was walking to the supermarket to pick up lunch.

My heart started racing in academic settings six days before this happened.

I’m a student. It’s midterm season. Academic anxiety is a thing, right?

I’m a new teacher. It’s midterm season. Academic anxiety is a thing, right?

My heart is racing, because that’s a normal thing that hearts do when they’re anxious,

right?

I’m alright,

right?

Wrong.