Page 2 of Riding the Sugar High

“Shut up,” I croak. I lean forward, trying to get my muscles to cooperate. I need to lift the bike an inch off my leg, but I’m shaking even more than before the crash, and this tiny woman is useless. “Pull.”

She does, grinding her teeth with effort, and I push at the same time. The bike lifts just enough for me to slide my leg out, and with a sigh of relief, I close my eyes and fall back, trying to catch my breath.

“Please tell me you’re okay,” the woman says as she comes to kneel beside my chest. She shakes my arm when I don’t respond, and as she speaks again, she sounds a moment away from breaking into tears. “Please, I’m sorry, I...”

I slowly sit up, holding a hand to my chest and looking into her eyes. “I’m...I needed to stop. My heart.”

Her gaze settles over my chest. “Your heart? Are you...” She studies my face, then gasps. “I’ll call 9-1-1.”

“No...reception.”

“Shit!” Eyes stuck on her phone, she throws her other hand up. “Whatisthis place?” She tosses her phone aside and looms over me again. “What do I do?”

And how would I know?

When I shake my head, her brow furrows. “Don’t you have a heart condition?”

I grip my throat, at this point almost completely closed. This is it. These are my very last breaths. “Not...that I know...of.”

“Oh—oh!You’re not having a heart attack!” She works on the zipper of my jacket until it opens, and it relieves some of the pressure immediately. “You’re having apanicattack.”

A panic attack?

She rises to her knees, then takes big, exaggerated breaths. “Do what I’m doing. Focus on breathing in and out, and it’ll stabilize your heartbeat.”

Her voice almost sounds like an echo, hard to hear with the way my ears are ringing. She can’t be right. This can’t just be panic. It feels like I’m staring down the barrel of my final minutes.

“I promise you’re okay,” the woman insists as she cups my shoulder. When I flinch, she pulls her hand back. “Sorry. I won’t touch you.”

I hold my head between my hands, trying to breathe the way she showed me. My hair curtains around my face, and it helps to be separated from everything else, but I also need to know she’s here. That she’s going to help make this feeling disappear. So I hold my hand out.

When she takes it, her soft fingers sinking into my much bigger gloves, I squeeze it gently. It soothes the shaking a little, knowing whatever is happening to me, I’m not going through it alone.

The wind, crisp and fresh, gently picks up, carrying hints of blossoms and damp earth. I open my mouth—maybe to tell the woman that my business is failing and I’m the only one who knows just how deeply screwed we are. How it’s all my fault, and the thought of disappointing everyone is slowly killing me with its inevitability. But nothing comes out except for strangled breaths—none of which manage to bring any air into my lungs.

“Is it your first time having a panic attack?”

I nod stiffly.

“It happened a lot to me growing up. Your life isn’t in danger.” She looks firmly into my eyes, her full lips pulled into a tight line. “I know it feels like you can’t breathe, but you can. I promise your throat and lungs are perfectly fine.”

She approaches with her hand, then stops before it touches my chest. “Can I?”

When I lean back on my palms, giving her room, she lays it over my sternum.

“Take the deepest breath you can, and watch my fingers.”

As I breathe in, her hand rises, then falls once I breathe out.

“See? You’re breathing just fine.” She gives me an encouraging smile, then continues. “Here’s a little beginner’s trick. Ever heard of the three-three-three rule?” Without waiting for an answer, she sits on her heels, her pink dress draping over her thighs. “It’s easy, and it’ll help you focus on something else. Tell me three objects you can see.”

I breathe in, out, in, trying to remind myself that though it doesn’t feel like it, air is inflating my lungs all the same. “Scrunchie,” I choke out. She pinches the pink scrunchie with yellow flowers off her wrist and nods, holding it in her hand. “Dress.” Looking up at her face, I mutter, “Pink hair.”

Still with a hand to my chest, she utters a soft ‘mm-hmm.’ “Now, three sounds.”

“Your voice.” Her bracelets jingle as she tucks some hair behind her ear. “Bracelets,” I whisper, and when I struggle to find a third sound, she starts whistling. “Whistling.”

“Almost done. Now, I need you to move three body parts.”

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