In the emergency room, a woman is moaning. Someone is leaning all the way forward in their chair, head at their ankles. A boy is looking closely at an Eyewitness book about pirates.

You beeline the reception desk. Um hi, you say. I just got an X-ray and they told me to come straight here. You smile but that’s inappropriate; go stony again. I’m not sure what’s going on.

The receptionist is only half-listening, busy with typing. Name? she says, and you tell her. She types it in, watches her screen, then freezes. You have never seen the color drain from someone’s face before, not outside of books. Oh my god, she says quietly, then looks up at you. Oh honey. Are you all right?

Your legs start to shake, the bug of fear crawls across your shoulders. Yes, you say. I think so. What’s going on?

She tells you not to move a muscle, looks at you like you’re stepping on a landmine. She tells an attendant to bring a wheelchair and before you can process time passing, you’re in it. Feet on the pedals, sunk against the canvas. Someone wheels you into a small examination room and leaves you to wait.

🩸 Wait calmly and patiently.

🩸 Catastrophize.