1.

How Close I Was to Breaking

Who was I without the constant motion and the never-ending to-do list?

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I stepped into the office, phone pressed to my ear, elevator music playing as I waited to be connected to my doctor’s receptionist. Zavier, my boss, stood in the hallway with our colleague Elisa. As soon as he saw me, his face shifted.

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“Are you alright?” he asked, concern etched into his features. 

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“No… I’m having some chest pain on and off.”

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“What are you doing here?” His voice was gentle, with a sharp edge of disbelief. His wide eyes reflected a mix of concern and confusion, as if he couldn’t fathom why I was here instead of at the hospital. It was as though he was silently asking, Why on earth did you choose work over your health? The weight of his unspoken question pressed down on me.

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I shrugged, trying to downplay it. “I wanted to be around people, just in case…” The words caught in my throat, leaving the sentence hanging. I couldn’t bring myself to say the rest and admit that I was scared of what might happen to me if I was alone, scared of what the pain could really mean.

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But that was only part of the truth. Yes, I wanted someone nearby in case my symptoms got worse. But more than that, I needed my coworkers to witness the toll that the constant pressure and overwork were taking on me, to understand that I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I was stressed. That I was breaking. I had been carrying so much for the company, pushing myself past the point of reason, and I needed that effort to be visible. Not for sympathy. Not for praise. Just for someone to recognize how far I’d gone to try to hold it all together.

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I was never taught how to say that I was overwhelmed, to name the breaking point before it broke me. So I hoped—quietly and unfairly—that my boss and colleagues would notice. That they’d step in and take something off my plate, even if I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

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The elevator music cut out, and I was finally connected to the receptionist.

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“I’d like to see my doctor today,” I said, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest. “I’ve been having chest pain on and off since I woke up. I don’t think it’s a heart attack… at least not at the moment. But I’d rather not risk it and be seen.” I added, downplaying both the pain and the fear that came with it.

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She asked me to describe my symptoms in detail, then put me on hold. I paced my office. Her serious tone had rattled me, and the longer I waited, the harder it became to breathe steadily. After what seemed like an eternity, she came back on the line: “I’m sorry, your doctor is not in today, but I’ve discussed your symptoms with another one. She recommends that you go to the hospital. It might be a blood clot.” 

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Blood clot.

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The words sent a shiver down my spine. My breath hitched, and the tears I had barely been keeping at bay welled up in my eyes. My mind spun with worst-case scenarios. Somehow a blood clot sounded even more terrifying. 

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Elisa stepped into the room as I broke down. Her eyes widened with concern. Through sobs, I told her what the receptionist had said. “You’re not driving yourself to the ER,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not.” 

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I nodded, tears blurring my vision. I wasn’t in any shape to argue. She called my husband and within minutes, he was on his way to pick me up.

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And what did I do while I waited for him? I fixed the printer.

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The office’s multifunction printer (an indispensable, temperamental piece of crap) was acting up, again, and I was the only one who knew how to troubleshoot it. I bent over the equipment, adjusting wires and settings, my chest still aching.

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When my husband walked in and found me hunched over the machine, his face registered a mix of shock and frustration.

 

“What are you doing?” he almost shouted.

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I waved him off. “Just a minute. I’m on the phone with tech support.”

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He shook his head, exasperated and worried. “Babe, let’s go.”

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The rational part of me knew I should have left that printer alone. I wasn’t well. But another part of me—the fixer, the one who could handle it all—couldn’t let go. I was the only one who knew how to fix the damn thing, and I didn’t want a malfunction to throw off everyone else’s day. As I bent over, chest aching, it hit me how absurd this was. I could see it. But absurdity doesn’t stop a reflex. There I was, possibly having a medical emergency, prioritizing office equipment over my own health—still trying to prove my worth. It was almost laughable… if it hadn’t been so sad. Deep down, I wished someone would have grabbed the phone from me and said, Hey, I’ll take it from here. I wanted someone, just once, to step in and tell me to stop, that they’d figure it out for themselves. But no one did. I looked like I had everything under control, as usual. No one saw how close I was to breaking.

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As we drove to the hospital, my phone rang. It was a client, an important one (but then again, aren’t they all?), so I “had” to take the call. 

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“Really?” my husband’s voice echoed with tightness as I answered.

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“It’s Tom. I have to take it,” I murmured, covering the receiver.

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He rolled his eyes and let out a frustrated breath. A loud, frustrated breath. 

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I looked out the window, avoiding his gaze, my grip tightening around the phone. I kept the call short. My heart pounded with pain and with something deeper: the certainty that I still couldn’t let go. Even on my way to the hospital.​

 

© 2025 Rachel Anne Hamelin. ​​​​​