By Sophia Gambino
My heart is pounding, my face hot, my chest tightening. I’m having a heart attack, or I think I am. I google my symptoms and that’s what it looks like. Am I going to die? At 20 years old I didn’t think this was how I would go.
I was sitting on the metro in Porto, Portugal, riding to the airport to return to my home in Bilbao, Spain.I was stuck on what to do since I was alone on a solo trip. I don’t know what could have caused this. After all, I had just spent the last few days hiking in the countryside of Portugal and surfing on the coast. I couldn’t be happier.
In my time abroad I had already experienced so much, my mind was open to my new way of life. After years of knowing everything about my surroundings in the small town I grew up in, I was starting to become more comfortable living in the unknown. I didn’t know Portuguese, I was just learning Spanish. Aside from language barriers, culture shock had appeared in many ways in my time abroad. I had spent most of my time just observing my surroundings and how I fit into them. Now I didn’t know what was happening to my body, and I was terrified.
The train hit its last stop at the airport. As soon as I stepped off the train, I reached my tingling hands into my pocket and crap, where the hell is my phone.
It was over, if I didn’t have my phone I wasn’t going anywhere. I immediately ran back onto the train to see a smiling old man holding my phone and looking at me. “Is this your phone?” he says. In plain English, because Porto is a tourist attraction, English and UK travelers are everywhere. He had a suitcase all the same. I am not a religious person, but I believe in the energy of the universe and I think in that moment there was a force that drove that man to pick up my phone, instead of the many others on that train who would have taken it to resell it at a flea market– European pickpockets are very good at what they do. To this day I hope this man is doing well, wherever he is. I have love for him.
As I walk to the airport I am beginning to dissociate. What is happening to me? What am I supposed to do, can I even get on a plane, because god bless the soul that would have to sit next to me as my heart stopped. I walk into the airport and stand indecisively looking at the departures. I knew I still had some time to catch my flight, but I really didn’t want to miss it.
Is it intuition or anxiety? My hands are numb at this point, so I put my phone in my bag, I won’t have to think about holding it until I am boarding my flight. My heart is pounding through my ears.
I made the decision to find help. My chest is so tight I can barely get the words out to the officer to tell him I think I am having a heart attack. He looks at me like I am stupid. I don’t understand either, and I know my American English is annoying, and I’m sorry. I think he believed that I was in distress because physically, my face was flushed and I was shaking. He led me into their department room, and he and his colleagues started asking me questions, assessing me and the situation I’ve brought them.
“Have you taken any drugs?” First question, the most consistent question asked to me that day. My answer is no, even though that was sort of a lie. I had smoked hashish the night before, which is just concentrated weed resin that we rolled into cigarettes. I really don’t consider cannabis to be a drug, because it was legal or decriminalized in most of Europe, and I smoked pretty often and didn’t consider that it would have been the cause of my problems.
“Did anything bad happen to you? You need to tell us if you are in danger.” No, nothing bad had happened, I had no reason to panic. My trip had actually been very nice right up until I was sitting on the train.
They made some calls on their radios, speaking Portuguese. A woman came into the room and told me to come with her. Her thick accent was comforting for some reason. She knew my language, not well, but well enough to help me, I was grateful.
She led me to a small medical room and took my vitals. “Did anything upsetting happen to you?” she asks. I explained that my day had been fine really. She asks for my passport. Earlier that day I had accidentally waterboarded it when it was in the same purse as my leaky, cheap, plastic water bottle. So I suppose that had upsetted me. I showed it to her, no major damage was done so it was perfectly readable.
The nurses then explained to me that I was fine, and I was just having a panic attack. I was confused, because I had never really experienced anything like that. I cried immediately, I felt small.
“Do you have anxiety?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have emergency medicine?”
“Yes, but it’s not with me.”
Of course it was just an anxiety attack, I felt stupid for not knowing. “You should have your emergency medicine for situations like this,” she said. She was right. I have struggled with anxiety for years, but I rarely had to use my propanol. “I promise nothing is wrong with you,” she said. “Are you sure that nothing bad has happened?” “Yes,” I said.
It was fine, I was going to be ok. Anxiety tricks you, it makes it difficult to know when to trust yourself. I had chosen to be safer than sorry, but I felt ridiculous. My heartbeat quieted, and I got on my plane.
Anxiety can misguide you. When I am solo traveling, I trust my gut. At this moment, I realized that living with anxiety means that I have to learn when to be aware when my “gut feeling” is a lie, and learn to become sharp enough to access a situation and keep myself safe.
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