A Captive Audience

Photo by Ricardo Costilla on Unsplash

I stared up at the ceiling, wishing I were anywhere else. The murmurs of my siblings intensified.

It was all my fault.

Earlier, I’d triggered my younger sister’s first panic attack. The second hit just moments ago when my hot dog from lunch made a second appearance.

Dad and Mom were beside themselves, but they kept calm and quiet. I was the only kid of the five of us who was ill, thanks to elevation intolerance.

The hot dog situation was probably just the stress of the day materializing.

The first panic attack came while we were in line waiting for our lunch order to appear at the pickup counter. It took forever. Standing in line, the elevation at Yellowstone hit me all at once.

I blacked out and needed to be carried back to the table where Mom and the rest of my siblings waited. So much for helping Dad and my younger sister carry the food.

It wasn’t my day to be a hero. It wasn’t my day at all.

At eleven, I was sure this was the worst day of my life. This was the pits. The bottom. On display for the entire family. Nothing like having a captive audience on the most awful day.

The second panic attack hit when the entire family was present, all at once, crammed into a van that would later earn the nickname “the Chuck Wagon.”

I didn’t know then how long this moment would follow me, or how often I’d mistake one bad day for a definition. But somewhere along the way, I learned that needing help made me dangerous.

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