Why Did My Dad Trust His New Girlfriend Instead of Taking Me to the Hospital?

Why did my dad believe his new girlfriend instead of getting me to the hospital? The pain hit me during warm-ups before the regional championship game, a sudden explosion in my chest that made me drop to my knees on the track.

Coach Ramsay rushed over while my teammates formed a circle around me. I tried to explain that something felt wrong inside my rib cage, like my heart was beating wrong and my lungs couldn’t fill properly.

The pain radiated down my left arm in waves that made my vision blur. When I tried to stand, my legs wouldn’t support my weight.

Coach pulled out his phone to call an ambulance, but Dad appeared from the bleachers with his new girlfriend, Vanessa. She immediately started talking about how teenage athletes always got nervous before big competitions.

She knelt beside me in her expensive athleisure wear and explained in this calm, authoritative voice that she’d been a nursing student before switching majors. She knew the signs of a panic attack when she saw one.

Dad hesitated with his hand on Coach Ramsay’s shoulder and asked if maybe we should just give me a few minutes to calm down and see if the symptoms passed. I managed to gasp out that this wasn’t anxiety, that the pain was getting worse and spreading through my chest like something was tearing inside me.

Coach Ramsay argued that we needed to call 911 immediately because chest pain in a 17-year-old athlete could indicate serious cardiac problems. He warned that waiting even a few minutes could be dangerous.

Vanessa stood up and put her hand on Dad’s arm, speaking in that soothing tone she always used when she wanted him to agree with her. She said that ambulances cost thousands of dollars and caused unnecessary panic.

She reminded Dad that I’d been under a lot of stress preparing for this competition and that I’d been training obsessively for months. She suggested that young athletes often experienced psychosomatic symptoms when facing high-pressure situations.

Dad looked between me writhing on the track and Vanessa’s confident expression. I watched him actually consider her argument while my teammates stared in disbelief.

The fact that he was weighing the cost of an ambulance against my ability to breathe properly made something crack in my chest that had nothing to do with the physical pain. Vanessa suggested they could drive me home to rest and see if the symptoms improved.

She said that if it was really serious, the pain wouldn’t go away and they could reassess then. She explained that her roommate in college had experienced similar episodes during finals week and had been diagnosed with stress-induced chest pain that resolved with rest and breathing exercises.

Coach Ramsay looked at Dad with an expression of pure disbelief. He said that he couldn’t legally prevent them from taking me, but that he was documenting this decision and would be filing a report with the athletic department.

My teammate Derek pulled out his phone and started recording. He said loudly that he wanted evidence of what was happening in case something went wrong.

Vanessa glared at him and told him to put his phone away. She said that he was being dramatic and making the situation worse by creating a scene.

Dad agreed with her and told Derek to stop filming. Then he helped me to my feet while I clutched my chest and tried to explain that the pain was intensifying and I needed real medical attention.

The walk to Dad’s car in the parking lot took forever because I kept having to stop and lean against him, unable to catch my breath properly. Vanessa got in the passenger seat and immediately started searching on her phone for stress management techniques.

She read aloud about deep breathing exercises and progressive muscle relaxation. Dad started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot while I lay across the back seat curled into a fetal position with both arms wrapped around my chest.

The pain had evolved from sharp, stabbing sensations into a crushing pressure that made me feel like my rib cage was collapsing inward. I could feel my heartbeat becoming irregular, skipping beats and then racing to catch up.

I tried to tell Dad that something was seriously wrong and that this felt nothing like anxiety. Vanessa turned around and explained that panic attacks often felt like heart attacks and that the more I focused on the symptoms, the worse they would become.

She coached me through breathing exercises that made the pain spike with each attempted deep breath. When I cried out, she said I was hyperventilating and making everything worse.

Dad kept driving toward home instead of toward the hospital, following Vanessa’s directions to stay calm and avoid overreacting to what she insisted was a stress response. My vision started tunneling, the edges going dark and sparkly like I was looking through a shrinking hole.

I could hear my voice getting weaker as I begged them to turn around and go to the emergency room. Vanessa just kept talking in that maddeningly calm tone about how catastrophizing symptoms was a common feature of anxiety disorders.

She told Dad that taking me to the ER would just reinforce my belief that something was physically wrong and create a pattern of seeking medical attention for psychological issues. Dad agreed that he didn’t want me developing hypochondriac tendencies.

They discussed my supposed anxiety as if I wasn’t dying in the back seat behind them. The crushing sensation in my chest intensified until I couldn’t speak anymore.

I could only make small gasping sounds that they apparently interpreted as hyperventilation rather than genuine respiratory distress. Vanessa suggested that once we got home, she could make chamomile tea and we could practice mindfulness meditation.

Dad said that sounded like a good plan, that maybe this was a wake-up call about how much pressure I’d been putting on myself with athletics. We pulled into our driveway and Dad came around to help me out of the car.

When I tried to stand, my legs buckled completely and I collapsed onto the concrete. The impact sent a fresh wave of agony through my chest and I vomited onto the driveway, my vision going completely white for several seconds.

Vanessa made a disgusted sound and stepped back to avoid getting anything on her expensive sneakers. Dad tried to lift me by my arms, but my body felt like it weighed 1,000 pounds and nothing was responding correctly.

When Dad finally got me upright, I could feel my consciousness slipping away in waves. They half-dragged, half-carried me into the house and laid me on the couch in the living room.

I immediately curled back into that fetal position, struggling to breathe through what felt like broken glass in my lungs. Vanessa disappeared into the kitchen to make her tea.

Dad sat on the coffee table and told me to take slow, deep breaths and try to relax. The irony of being told to relax while potentially dying would have been funny if I’d had enough oxygen to laugh.

The pain reached a crescendo that made me scream, a raw sound that finally seemed to penetrate Dad’s denial. He pulled out his phone and started dialing 911.

Vanessa rushed back from the kitchen and grabbed his wrist.

“We needed to give the relaxation techniques time to work.”

She said.

She explained that calling an ambulance now would result in thousands of dollars in medical bills for what was clearly a panic attack. She added that emergency rooms were notorious for running expensive tests on young people with anxiety symptoms.

Dad lowered his phone and looked at me with this conflicted expression, like he was calculating the cost of my life against his bank account balance. I tried to tell him that I was dying, that something had ruptured or torn inside me, but the words came out as incomprehensible gasping sounds.