panic attack in the office
You never forget your first one.
A very tense management meeting has just ended. Once again, my two colleagues and our boss were at each other's throats, and our boss, as usual, failed to take control. Typical.
I have to do everything myself! Everything is always on my shoulders, and I don't get any support. It's like the whole world is against me. They want to destroy me. But I can still triumph against all odds. I'll prove it to them. I'll show the world. I'll complete the task because no one else will!
Ravaged, I sit down in my spacious, open office. I can't even see my team, only a red mist in front of me. I'm huffing and puffing like a bull. I'll write that all-important, all-powerful email right now. I pound the keyboard, even forgetting to take a breath. I don't know how much time passes until my masterpiece is finished. I've lost all sense of time.
The instant relief I expect to feel when I hit the "send" button doesn't come. Something else arrives instead.
I feel an increasing pressure in my chest, and the office starts to spin. What's happening? Is this the end? I've heard of big business leaders being carried out of their office on a stretcher. Is that my fate? Did I live 35 years just to work myself to death for this company? What have I proved to myself and others?
I can't die like this! I study the expensive carpet pattern. The blue and brown stripes chase each other into infinity, but I can't follow them. I look around, hoping no one is watching me. I can only vaguely make out the silhouettes of my subordinates. I can't let myself collapse in front of them.
Dizzy, I stand up and head to the break room at the other end of the floor. Can I still walk 100 meters, or will a heart attack strike suddenly? These thoughts run through my head as I enter the quiet room. Thank goodness it's empty. I close the door behind me, collapse into the big armchair, and wait. Will I feel better or worse after a while? I'll soon find out, but at least no one will see me at my worst.
The situation doesn't improve. I have no idea how long I've been there. I don't want to die. I'm afraid. I think of my family. If only my wife were here! Then I think of my mother; she'd probably be screaming, and I'd have to calm her down. This situation is unbearable. I can't take it anymore!
I turn my head to the side and see a red button on the wall: "Emergency call." It's really embarrassing, but I have to press it.
Within two minutes, there's a knock on the door, and the friendly receptionist I always smile at in the morning enters. Even now, he looks encouragingly at me as I tell him I feel unwell. He speaks into his walkie-talkie, and the plant doctor appears almost immediately.
He grunts two calm but firm words, kneels next to me, and places his palm on my arm. I see the stethoscope around his neck, and I instantly feel better. It's like a truck has parked itself on my chest, but now I can breathe again.
He accompanies me to the doctor's office. He asks me to take off my shirt. He compliments my muscular, athletic upper body. I smile for the first time in a century. "Yes, water polo still shows," I stutter.
The EKG draws completely normal curves - unlike the patterns on the floor carpet.
He looks deep into my eyes and reassures me that I'm fine.
"Don't worry, everything's fine. You just had a panic attack. You're the third one here at the company this week."
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