Anxiety

I sat in the waiting room, feet tapping against the floor in a rhythmic beat, keeping pace with my fluttering heart. Why was it that in this moment - the moment where I needed them most - I couldn't remember any of the meditation exercises Dr. Harper had taught me? It was as though someone had plucked the memories from my head, a thief in the dark recesses of my brain, cackling to themselves as they watched me fall apart. 

Breathe. That was the one thing I could recall: the importance of breathing. Shuddering, I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. Hold for four seconds. Breathe out for four seconds. Again. Hold for four, out for four. Again. As I forced the steadiness in my breaths, I felt my heart slow. My foot tapping became less erratic. I could think again. 

Why was I so nervous? The process had been done hundreds - no, thousands - of times before. There were virtually no risks involved. No pain, no discomfort. I had seen my sister do it; she was fine. Well, she wasn't fine - but the procedure was unrelated to her accident. 

The accident. A chill made its way down my spine. If I thought about it too long, I would hear her crying again, see things that are better left for doctors’ eyes alone. She was recovering, but there are some things that damage us beyond the skills of man. She would never walk again. Even with all the wondrous strides of technology in the last 100 years, this was beyond our advancements. There was no way forward without a wheelchair. She wept when she was told. I held her, wet from her tears, cold from my shock. I couldn't say anything. I don't know if silence was what she needed, but she clung to me like we were children again, like I was the only thing that could save her from the brutality of her reality. But I couldn't. 

The accident - that was it! That was why my body was twisted up in knots of anxiety. Although I knew that the procedure had nothing to do with my sister's accident, there was a correlation in my brain. It had made a connection between the two events due to how closely they occurred. Now that I knew the source of the anxiety, I knew what to do to face my fears: I had to sever the tie. But how? How could I command my brain, this unwieldly, rattled, tortured tool of knowledge, to let go of this absurd rationale? 

The white door opened; beyond it, an even whiter room. Dr. Harper stepped out, cool and composed as always. Upon seeing me up from my chair and pacing frantically, she paused and smiled. "Are you ready?" 

I closed my eyes, breathed in deeply, and exhaled. I felt my shoulders and chest lift, my head tilt upwards, and my hands unclench. It was time to let go. To be at peace. "I'm ready."