Supermarket(21)

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get my kids to school here,” said another woman in line.

“What’s the holdup?” asked a man in a suit with a newspaper under his arm.

My chest tightened.

“Hello!” the large woman in front of me said. She glanced at my name tag. “Flynn, is it? Well, Flynn, I said there must be SOME IN THE BACK!” she repeated as though I were deaf.

My breath became shallow and my neck felt numb. Not sure what was going on, I turned around quickly and walked into the back staff area of the coffee shop. I stumbled through the door like a drunk. I glanced around, trying to find a seat. Cara stood in the corner. Topless. Topless and fidgeting with the wire in her bra that had been stabbing her side.

“FLYNN! What are you doi—”

“I’m sorry!” I yelled, transfixed on her breasts. Her body was incredible. I hadn’t seen a naked woman since Lola. The excitement only fueled what I had been experiencing.

“I’M SO SORRY!” I yelled “I’M SO—”

“Flynn, get OUT!” she screamed, and I backed out of the room as fast as I could, repeating the same words to myself.

“I’M SORRY, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to! I’m so sorr—”

I stumbled out of the coffee shop. By now, my legs felt as though they would give way at any moment, but I made my way past the line of customers and onto the supermarket floor.

“I’m sorry,” I continued to repeat, confused, in a state of panic. I couldn’t understand why my body felt this way, because I wasn’t freaking out in my mind—it was my body that felt out of control, as though it were about to shut down.

“Flynn?!” a voice said from behind me. “Flynn, are you okay?”

It was Mia.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to her. “I’m sorry—”

I felt dizzy and disoriented.

“Just breathe, Flynn,” she said, putting her arm around my waist to support me. “Flynn, breathe!” she said as I slipped from her grip, hitting the cold vinyl floor. My vision blurred. And then . . .

Blackness.

When I awoke I was lying in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. A monitor beeped to my left. An IV drip ran intravenously into the top of my hand.

I had full memory of everything that had happened; I just hoped I didn’t have, like, a six-year-old coma beard or anything.

Much to my surprise, it had only been about forty-five minutes. Mia was holding my hand and smiling as I came to.

“The doctors took blood and urine samples while you were asleep. They ruled out any serious condition,” she said. “But they are pretty sure what it is.”

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to know first—what it was or how the hell they got my urine sample.

“What do you mean? What is it?” I asked. “It doesn’t sound good.” My fear was extinguished by Mia’s laughter.

“They think you had a panic attack,” she said.

“A . . . what? What the fuck is that?” I asked just as a doctor walked into the room.

“Ah, he’s awake,” the doctor said. He was a tall black man—maybe 6'4"—and skinny. Seeing him, I got that second feeling doctors can give you.

You see, doctors only give off two kinds of vibes, the first being I don’t give a shit about you, where you come from, or where you’re going; my job is to diagnose what’s going on and collect a check. And then there are the doctors who genuinely care and want to help people, no matter how many years they’ve been doing it.

My doctor had a warm energy that seemed to convey the latter.

“Hi there, Flynn,” he said. “So, it would appear you have had a panic attack. Do you know what that is?”

“I mean, I’ve heard about them, but no, not really,” I said.

“Now tell me—are you prone to anxiety?”

I had to gather my thoughts.

“Uummmm, I don’t think so,” I replied.

“Bullshit!” Mia snapped. “Yes, doctor, he has severe anxiety,” she said with a half smile. “Flynn, all that shit you’ve told me about your life? You’ve got serious issues, boy. I mean, don’t get me wrong. You got issues I can handle,” she said with a wink, “but issues nonetheless.”

The doctor gave me a warm smile.

“Wait . . . what’s wrong with me?” I asked.

“Well, nothing is ‘wrong’ with you, Flynn. You just have a hyperattentive mind.” I stared at him for a moment.

“Sooooooo, what . . . I have ADHD or something?”

The doctor laughed.

“No, Flynn. I didn’t say hyperactive, I said hyperattentive. My guess is you are constantly thinking, you rarely take a break,” he said, then lightly tapped his ballpoint pen to his temple. “And you are always on the go upstairs. Mia says you put a lot of pressure on yourself to succeed. And the pressure is synonymous with worry . . . anxiety. It’s incredibly common. People just don’t talk about it openly enough.” He gave me another kind smile. “I think you need a few days to yourself, and I recommend you see a therapist.”

My eyes went wide. “A therapist?! I’m not crazy!”

The doctor sat in the chair next to my bed. “No one is saying you’re crazy, Flynn. But panic attacks are serious. They affect a lot of people without them knowing it or addressing it. They’re something that should be looked into. In order to treat them, we must find the source. Treatment can come in many forms. There’s cognitive behavioral therapy, mindfulness exercises, sleep, and excer—”