I remember the time I went to the ER 3 months postpartum because I couldn’t stop vomiting and my chest felt tight. I kept telling them: this isn’t anxiety. Something is wrong.
The nurse glanced at my chart and said, “A lot of new moms feel overwhelmed.”
A resident came in, barely looked at me, and said, “It’s probably a panic attack. Try to relax.”
They left me in a hallway bed. No monitor. No urgency. Just that look that says you’re being dramatic.
I whispered, “I think I’m going to pass out.”
He laughed and said, “You’re safe here. You’re not dying.”
Ten minutes later I stood up and collapsed.
Suddenly there were doctors everywhere. Suddenly they checked my oxygen. Suddenly they rushed me to imaging.
CT scan: pulmonary embolism. Blood clots in my lungs.
The same doctor who told me to “relax” came back acting shocked.
He said, “Good thing you came in.”
I looked at him and thought: I didn’t just come in. I begged to be taken seriously.
Why am I telling you this?
Because if I didn’t collapse in front of them, I genuinely think I would’ve been sent home with “anxiety” and a pamphlet about breathing exercises