It won’t happen to me: That has been an overarching theme in and out of my recovery. I’m a smart girl; I did my reading. I knew anorexia had its consequences; I just refused to acknowledge them. Hair loss, muscle weakness, dry skin, fatigue, osteoporosis, amenorrhea, organ failure, death. Whatever. It wouldn’t happen to me.
It can. It would. It did.
Let me tell you about August 3rd, 2016: Light rain dribbled from the sky, and there was slight, dull ache in my chest. Thinking nothing of it, I got up, put on my favorite red lipstick, and popped three diet pills. My favorite scholar was lecturing on Shakespearean sexual suicides today, and I wanted to get to the hall early to tell him what I thought of Cleopatra’s death, how I read it as an extended enactment of the Renaissance ‘die pun’. I sped down the Selwyn stairs so quickly that I ran out of breath. It must’ve been the running that caused me to feel a little ill. No, I’d been sick earlier, too, right when I’d woken up. The pills, perhaps? A bout of violent vomiting truncated my contemplations.
The pain in my chest was worse now, heavier, and I was dizzy, so dizzy that the world spun around me and lights on passing cars danced like fireflies. It felt like someone was squeezing my left arm. I couldn’t breathe. I practically fell onto the ledge in front of the college, clutching at my chest with tingy, claw-like hands. A sensible passerby must’ve called the British equivalent of 911 (999?), because the next thing I remember was screeching down the rainy roads in a screaming ambulance.
I woke up–if that’s the right phrase?–with my face pressed into a green white tile floor. I turned my head a little to look around; I saw chairs, and couches, and a vending machine. There were legs, too, sneakers and swishing pants, voices and people, wheelchairs and carts. ‘Do you have an emergency contact?’ I heard someone say. Did I? Was she talking to me?
Hands grabbed my feet and my shoulders, sore, soared off the floor. I found myself sitting up, back against a bendy chair. I was confused. Why were we moving? Where we going, gliding and sliding, sliding and gliding? Or were we? Was I imagining this, dreaming, nightmare-ing? I tried to pinch myself, but my arm wouldn’t budge.
Wrinkled white paper crinkled underneath brittle bones as they dropped me into the hospital holding bed. Nurses–well, I assume they were nurses?– started sticking things on me, red and white circles with wild, winding wires. I could see a sea of them, all over me like some horrible kind of rash. I wondered what they were. No, I didn’t want to know; I didn’t want to have to know, if you know what I mean?
A woman in blue told me to stay very still. They were going to do an EKG now, and I had to stay very still. But what was an EKG? Would it hurt? Did they have to take any blood? Is that what the circles were for? Hadn’t my psychiatrist wanted me to get one of these a while ago? I had so many questions–and so little breath to ask them.
A whirring, a tapping, a scratching. The printer in the back of the room spat and choked, gagging on a scroll. There was a wrenching, ripping sound as someone broke it open, tearing out its contents. With furrowed caterpillar brows, the printer surgeon examined his specimen. He handed it to the woman in blue who nodded and left the room, muttering something about something called an echo.
‘Printer problem.’ Someone said, stomping on the sludgy silence.
‘Yeah.’ An awkward laugh, a sigh that filled the room. ‘Must be. This can’t be right. That wouldn’t happen to her.’
It can. It would. It did.
The woman in blue returned with cart. ‘We’re going to do an echo now’ she informed me, as if I had some clue what that was. Strangers stripped me, black scissors bisecting a brassiere back. Folds fell to the floor and like a ragdoll I flopped forwards, arms contorted backwards, purposefully pulled into a hospital gown. Cold hands nudged my shoulders into a sinking pillow, and suddenly something chilly crept across my chest. Blue goo, lots of it, glittered like snow drifts under a fluorescent sun, and a probe skated over me, making my heart beat loud, loud over the hospital beeps.
‘Okay.’ Voices whispered. ‘Okay.’ The word bounced off the whitewashed walls, fleeing the room, fleeing like a mouse trapped a hungry snake’s cage. ‘Okay.’ They all looked at each other; I could feel the fear in their eyes.
‘You tell her.’ They said, speaking all at once. ‘No you, no you.’
Tell me? Tell me what?
Doors slammed, footsteps hammered, and faces leaned towards mine. I saw a mouth move. A man said something, something no one should have to hear. ‘You suffered,’ he informed me, looking down at the stack of papers one more time. ‘You suffered an acute electrolyte-imbalance-induced myocardial infarction.’
‘I what? A what?’
‘You had a heart attack.’
‘A heart attack.’
A heart attack? No, that was impossible. Only old, fat men had heart attacks. It wouldn’t happen to me.
It can. It would. It did.
I had a heart attack that day, and I’m glad I did. Yes, I’m glad I had a heart attack. It almost killed me, but it saved my life. It was a wake up call, a slap in the face, a red flag in the neverending haze. It forced me realize what I couldn’t on my own: I am not immortal; I am not invincible; I am not immune. It could happen to me–and it did.