They ask me dozens of questions.

What are your symptoms?

How long have you been experiencing them?

Do you have any preexisting health conditions?

Do you have a menstrual cycle?

Are you pregnant?

Are you allergic to any medications?

Who is your primary physician?

What insurance do you carry?

I try to respond, but it costs all of the energy I have left to mumble, “Yes” and, “No.”

Dyspnea feels like my body committing treason against itself.

Did you take anything tonight?

Besides oxygen? No, but I could really use an Ativan right about now.

Your blood pressure is perfect.

Your EKG is normal. You have no heart-related irregularities.

Your oxygen levels are 98. You have no trouble inhaling enough oxygen.

Then why does my heart feel like it is about to explode and that there is no oxygen left in the room?

Are you an anxious person? You seem very anxious talking to us.

Anyone would be anxious if they felt like their body became a homicidal traitor overnight.

I have been to the ER 20 times within three years and am desensitized to IVs, repeated questions, anti-anxiety medication that does not help, and being referred to specialists.

Pain level?

Depends on the day.

Discomfort level is always a 10.

We need to do a pregnancy test.

You’re not pregnant.

You’re clear for medication.

You have beautiful veins.

The nurse sets up the IV and I do not flinch.

I can only gasp for air as nurses’ faces blur before me and white coats waltz.

It’s time for the chest x-ray.

It’s time for the CT scan.

Have you ever had a pelvic exam performed?

We’re going to do a vaginal ultrasound.

In the ER, my heart is heavy concrete holding me hostage to the hospital bed.

My lungs deflate like popped balloons.

The more I come back, the more they remember.

Yes, you’re the girl with the shortness of breath.

I remember you.

The doctor smiles at the nurse.

I agree, it is funny, but for different reasons than mine.

They remember me as the anxious girl who cannot catch her breath while their faces were engraved into mine instantly as heroes who were supposed to save me.

If I wanted to be an actor, I would have moved to Hollywood instead of the hospital.

Yet, every time, I perform my lines for the nurses and doctors.

Every time, I get better at describing how to take me seriously.

I find myself praying after years of religious absence for a miracle.

“God, give me the health I once took for granted. God, give me the strength to persevere. God, give me the ability to breathe easy again. God, are you even listening? God, please, help me.”

I wish for an exorcism; for whatever feeding off of my physiology to be cast away. Lately, every 11:11 wish once dedicated to silly, useless things has been turned towards me.

I have become some kind of ghost girl dissociating down hospital halls. Fluorescent lights cast halos around doctors rushing carts past me. A doctor tells me,

Always check the mirrors. We look at them to check who is coming around corners.

Another pee test. Another IV. More blood work. Another x-ray.

Face me.

My body obeys before I process the command.

I twirl in a stiff, starch hospital gown.

I am used to being violated in hope of finding a diagnosis or relief or a glimpse of my life before I forgot how to breathe.

Often, I mourn the person who I was before I became ill.

They listen to my heart and I wonder what they hear.

All that I hear is the ticking of my life being lost as I waste away.

My irregular heartbeat is a never-ending reminder that

I am going to die.

Death offers no solace besides its certainty. 

Featured art: “24/7” from the School of Nursing Collection by Gregg Chadwick.