The Day That Cracked Me Open
I can pinpoint the exact moment my carefully curated persona started to crack.
I was 22 weeks pregnant. It was a Friday in July. I was at work, a nurse in a clinic, and bent over to grab my lunch. When I stood up, my heart was racing — not just fast, roadrunner-cartoon fast. I pulled out my pulse ox. 220 beats per minute.
I stayed composed. I’m a nurse — I ran the assessment myself. Oxygen 99%. Breathing uncomfortable but effective. Not dizzy. Okay. I’m okay for now.
I found a doctor. She told me to lie down in a dark exam room. It didn’t help. I flagged down a coworker: “I think I need to go to the hospital.” It was across the highway, two minutes away.
“I’ll call you an ambulance.”
“I don’t need an ambulance. Can you just drive me?”
“Sorry, it’s against policy.”
I found my friend next — we were best friends in middle school and high school, now my coworker. She was headed to lunch with her mom. I told her what was happening. The first coworker reappeared, reminded her of the policy. My friend apologized. She couldn’t take me either.
My husband was doing clinicals an hour away. My parents were out of town. My ride-or-die — the one person at work who would have broken policy without blinking — was off that day, for the first time in forever. The people I would have driven off the highway for wouldn’t drive me two minutes down it.
I felt betrayed. All the shifts I’d covered so someone could go home sick, or take care of their kid — and no one would take me next door.
I went down to my car, holding my belly, and drove myself. I told my baby we’d be okay. I’d get us there.
I had never been a patient in an ER before. I walked myself into the waiting room alone.
It felt like proof of everything I’d always believed — I hadn’t done enough to earn this. I was alone to deal with it, like everything else.
They rushed me back immediately. Turns out a heart rate of 220 in a pregnant woman gets attention fast.
Leads placed. One thing tried, then another. Nothing worked. Next: a medication that stops your heart for a second. My feet went higher than my head. The meds went in. I told them I was going to pass out. Then it felt like a horse kicked me in the chest — my heart stopping and restarting.
My heart went back to normal. They sat me up, handed me paperwork. I asked three times if my baby was okay before they brought in the portable ultrasound and confirmed — moving, normal heart rate.
I left twenty minutes later with a diagnosis: Supraventricular Tachycardia. Common in pregnancy. Benign, as long as I feel fine when it happens.
I told work I wasn’t coming back that day and drove myself home. Still alone.
I called my parents. They didn’t offer to come back early. I called my husband, told him not to leave his last hour of clinicals — just come home when he’s done. I left a message for my doctor. No response.
It all felt like confirmation. I was meant to deal with it alone.
Still here,
Bethany
Protection, understanding, unruly confidence.
— Nettles
