PAGE 5 — “WE’VE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU”
Later that evening, I learned Sophie had collapsed at work.
A coworker found her unconscious beside her desk.
Her blood pressure had dropped dangerously low, and when paramedics arrived, her heartbeat was irregular.
Doctors initially suspected a heart problem.
The truth was more complicated.
A physician named Dr. Ramirez asked me to step outside the room.
“Has Sophie been under significant stress recently?”
I almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.
“We divorced two months ago.”
His expression didn’t change.
“Has she ever told you about her panic disorder?”
I stared at him.
“Her what?”
That was the moment my entire understanding of the past few years began to collapse.
Sophie had been receiving treatment for severe anxiety long before our divorce.
She suffered panic attacks.
Long periods of insomnia.
Episodes where she struggled to leave the apartment.
After our miscarriages, the symptoms became significantly worse.
Several physicians had prescribed medications at different times.
Eventually, according to the doctor, Sophie began using some of them incorrectly.
Not because she was trying to get high.
Not because she was reckless.
Because she was desperate to sleep.
Desperate to stop shaking.
Desperate to experience one quiet hour inside her own mind.
Stress, exhaustion, dehydration, and medication misuse had finally overwhelmed her body.
“She was fortunate someone found her quickly,” Dr. Ramirez said.
I barely heard the rest.
One sentence kept repeating inside my head.
Panic disorder.
My wife had lived beside me for years with panic disorder.
And I hadn’t known.
When I returned to Sophie’s room, she was staring at the television without watching it.
I sat down.
“How long?”
Her body stiffened.
She knew exactly what I meant.
“Ethan—”
“How long have you been dealing with this?”
She looked at her hands.
“A few years.”
“A few years?”
My voice rose before I could stop it.
“You were having panic attacks for years?”
“Please don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
But I was.
Not at her.
At myself.
And at every night I had slept beside a woman in pain while convincing myself her silence meant she didn’t love me anymore.
