‘A C-section, emergency Caesarean.’
‘Go on.’
‘If we see signs that the baby is in distress, or we lose the heartbeat, then we have to get the mother into theatre as soon as possible.’
‘A lot of adrenalin?’
‘God, yes.’
‘What’s that like for you?’ She seemed genuinely interested.
‘A bit hairy at times but it’s important to reassure the mum, not to frighten her.’
‘And while you’re doing this what’s happening to you, physiologically?’
Fiona thought. ‘Pulse speeds up, heart too, my mind seems sharper. I think I read somewhere the adrenalin helps you remember things, concentrate better. A survival mechanism?’
Hazel nodded. ‘Now think of something else. Think of losing your temper. Big time.’
Fiona thought of shouting at Owen about the apples and cream.
‘What’s the physiology there?’ Hazel asked.
‘Hot. Sweating, my head buzzing, pulse quicker, everything brighter. It’s the same,’ she concluded.
‘The same response,’ Hazel acknowledged. ‘Fight, flight and fornication.’
Fiona laughed. ‘I knew this – my training.’
‘Of course. But it’s hard to hold on to when you’re so anxious. A panic attack is a flood of adrenalin; it brings all the same changes as you’d find if you were having a blazing row with someone. Or a passionate encounter.’
Chance’d be a fine thing, Fiona thought.
‘The lack of context makes the panic attack both disabling and traumatic but fundamentally there is nothing happening in your body, in your muscles and your central nervous system, that doesn’t happen at other times in response to particular situations – like the emergency Caesarean.’
‘But it feels so different.’
‘Exactly. And our goal over the next few weeks will be to repattern your thoughts about it and re-educate you.’
Fiona left with a set of daily exercises to do. She felt buoyed up by the session, especially at Hazel’s optimistic view of the likely outcome of the therapy.
That afternoon Fiona bought a home hair-colour kit from the chemist’s. She really needed a haircut as well. She was blessed with straight hair but as it had grown longer she’d taken to snagging it back in an elastic band. Until she felt ready to make an appointment at least she could banish the grey hairs salted through it.
She was waiting for the colour to take when Owen got in.
‘Can you do mine?’ he asked her.
‘Have you got a kit?’
He groaned. ‘Didn’t you get one?’
‘No. It doesn’t seem five minutes since last time.’
‘The brown’s showing.’
‘Well, go and buy a kit and I’ll help you. They’ll still be open.’
He didn’t reply but slumped noisily into the kitchen while she went upstairs to rinse the mixture off. She left it down and let it dry naturally while she started tea. Owen loved curry so she’d bought some lamb at the butcher’s and a huge bunch of fresh coriander from the Asian grocer’s. She sealed the lamb and fried the onions and spices, added tomatoes and lemon juice and put the dish in the oven to cook slowly. It was dark by six when she drew the curtains and set the table.