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A short, middle-aged man with graying hair and what seemed to be a permanent sneer, he gave me a cursory exam, flipped open my chart, and decided I’d had an anxiety attack. Both my mom’s and my protests fell on deaf ears, and he left within five minutes of entering the room, telling me I’d be discharged soon. Ten minutes later, as my nurse was preparing my discharge paperwork, it happened again. I was swarmed by nurses as my throat swelled shut and my oxygen dropped into the 60s, again completely unable to breathe. One of them had an EpiPen and was ready to use it at the doctor’s order. In strolled Dr. Useless and I had a quick rush of relief – as much of a jerk as he’d seemed, surely he would help me.
As my vision began to go black around the edges, my incredible nurse from earlier uncapped the EpiPen and stabbed it into my thigh, ignoring the doctor completely. As soon as I could get enough air to do so, I burst into tears, breathlessly thanking the nurse between sobs. He’d just risked his job by going against the doctor’s orders to save my life. He stayed in my ER cubicle like a palace guard until I was transferred to the pediatric floor. He shone a penlight in my mouth and stepped back. “It’s another anxiety attack,” he diagnosed. Terror gripped my chest as I stared at him, mouth gaping like a fish. I’m going to die right in front of him, I thought. I’m going to die right in front of a doctor who’s going to just let it happen. I’d had anxiety attacks before, and this was definitely not one of them.