‘I don’t have that…’ Rebecca tries to speak, to argue that the doctor is wrong, only the words that almost leave her mouth are lodged at the back of her throat.
She can barely breathe.
I’m not crazy, am I? This wasn’t all me?
‘Having a mental illness is nothing that you need to be ashamed of, Rebecca,’ the doctor interrupts her. ‘Think of it this way, just as a diseased heart struggles to keep up with the blood that pumps through it, or a broken leg struggles to bear the weight of the rest of the body, a brain can struggle to maintain function too. It can misguide us unintentionally, coughing up frequent delusions and hallucinations. A bit like when you mentioned those nightmares. It can make them seem real.’
The room starts to spin.
She’s losing this conversation. He’s diagnosing her. He thinks she’s sick.
Rebecca tries to zone back in. To concentrate on what he’s saying to her.
‘Postpartum Psychosis can cause a litany of symptoms, from a constant state of heightened anxiety, to a deep, profound feeling of sadness. It can cause hallucinations and delusions in some patients, making people believe they can see and hear things that aren’t really there. Often it can make patients lose touch with reality for a while. For days at a time, sometimes even weeks. There are other symptoms too, Rebecca, that are very similar to what you’ve spoken to me about today. The insomnia that you’ve been suffering. The paranoia. That feeling you described of being watched and followed. Of being unable to trust the people around you. It’s all part of it, Rebecca. Childbirth can trigger an old wound or memory…’
She closes her eyes. The room is spinning out of control now.
Her rib cage constricts so tightly that her breathing becomes laboured and wheezy as she recognises the familiar start of another panic attack, only this one is all consuming.
The walls are starting to close in on her.
‘This is good news, Rebecca. Because once we’ve worked out your diagnosis, we can run some tests and start a treatment plan for you, with the correct care, and perhaps some mood stabilisers and an anti-psychotic. Some counselling too. We can have you back to your normal self again in just a few weeks.’
Weeks?
Rebecca feels as if she’s floating outside of her body.
She needs air, and gets up on her feet, stumbling towards the door, but loses her footing.
The doctor is there then, at her side, helping her stay upright as he calls out for assistance from one of the nurses.
Marlene is back. Guiding her into a chair she talks softly, gently coaxing her out of my panic attack. It takes a few minutes, but gradually the air returns to her lungs, the dizziness and blackness subside.
‘I think we should take a break for a couple of hours, Rebecca. We can chat again this afternoon, after you’ve had some rest,’ the doctor suggests.
She nods her head, numbly, as the doctor instructs Marlene to take her back to her room, and for once, she doesn’t fight it. She does as she’s told.
Because she knows she’s losing this battle.
The doctor believes she’s ill only she refuses to accept it.
Because that would make her more like her mother than she’d ever care to admit.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I’m back there again. Crawling through the thick wet grass to try to escape the inferno, but something grabs hold of my leg, pulling me back towards the wreckage. Towards the smouldering heat.
The car is on fire. I’m trapped.
Those blood-curdling screams.
The dream is different this time, though, because suddenly I’m back at home, surrounded by the paramedics and the police.
But there’s no sign of Jamie. He’s left me.
Offering to make me some sweet hot tea, for the shock, he’d said. Even when I’d insisted that I didn’t want it, that I felt too sick to drink it. My stomach in tight knots of angst. He’s left me anyway as the paramedics bandaged up my hand and the police started taking my statement.
I’ve lost track of how long he’s been gone for.
Long enough to disappear into the office and access to the security system?
I wake, my heart pounding. It takes me a few moments to realise I’m safe. Only the terror has taken hold of me and I can’t breathe.
Pushing myself up into a seated position on the bed, the panic consumes my being as I frantically gasp for air.
My eyes home in on the small stream of light that flows in from the gap in the blinds.
Focus. You’re safe. You’re home.
Only I’m not at home.
I’m at the hospital.
I vaguely recall the nurse giving me something to help me sleep? A sedative?
Trapping me inside my nightmares this time.
But this time I can recollect every tiny vivid detail and more.
I’m thinking about the tapes and why there was no sign of the intruder.
That someone must have tampered with them. That Jamie was unaccounted for, for long enough to have done this.
It can’t have been Jamie.
But my body won’t listen to my reasoning. My lungs are empty and screaming for air.
I double over. The crushing sensation so tight and constricting that it feels as if my rib cage is caving in on me, squeezing out my very last breath, my heart pounding so fast that I fear it might explode. Like there’s no chance of it ever slowing down, unless it’s to stop completely.
Oh my God, my heart is going to stop!
And there’s no one here. No one to help me.
Shivering, I clutch at my left arm flinching as a pain shoots from my armpit to my bicep and the sharp pain is excruciating.
I’m having a heart attack.
I must be, I can feel it. All the signs are there. The tightness in my chest, the shortness of breath. My fingers numb and tingling.
I need to get help, but I can’t stand up. I can’t get out of bed. My legs have gone to jelly and the pain in my chest and arm is consuming me entirely.
I can’t move.
But I can’t stay here.
MOVE.
I roll onto my side and lower my body onto the floor, the coarse carpet beneath me softening the impact of my fall.
I can’t just die here, in this hospital room.
Not here on the floor, splayed out on the carpet next to a ball of yesterday’s clothes and my dirty underwear.
Ella.
She’s my only thought as I reach for the panic button.
Frantically, my hand sweeps the bedside cabinet.
Wheezing, coughing as everything falls down, landing with a thud in a heap beside me.
A reading book that I was allowed to select from the hospital’s library, a plastic beaker of icy cold water. My wedding ring.
I can’t remember taking it off. But I must have.
Because I’m so angry with Jamie. For bringing me here. For leaving me here.
And still I can’t find the panic button. Where the fuck is the panic button?
My heart is hammering away. And my fingers are tingling and numb. I’m running out of time.
Crawling across the carpet, I drag my fingers through it as if to get some leverage, edging myself towards the door.
I reach up for the handle.
But it’s locked.
They’ve locked me in, and the room is spinning.
I’m crying now as I slump down against the door, trying to reassure myself.
BREATHE, REBECCA. BREATHE.
So, I do. I breathe, slowly and controlled. In through my nose and out through my mouth.