It’s Mother’s Day, and my chest has been hurting since yesterday morning. A dull ache runs down my left arm and into my fingers. I just want it to go away, but it won’t.
I message my doctor, who calls me back within minutes and tells me to go to the ER immediately. I feel a heaviness settle in my stomach.
I put my phone in my back pocket and rush upstairs to the bathroom, where Eliza is bathing the girls.
“My chest still hurts, and the pain is radiating down my arm,” I tell her matter-of-factly. “I just got off the phone with Dr. Jacob. She wants me to go to the ER to get checked out as a precaution. I’m worried.”
"What do you need from me?" Eliza asks. "Do you want me to come with you? I don't know how seriously we should be taking this."
"No, I'll drive myself. I think I'm okay," I say, trying to reassure her. "Stay here with the girls. I'll call you as soon as I get to the ER."
Walking toward my car, I feel the shame of leaving Eliza with the girls on Mother’s Day. I don’t want to leave them, but I go anyway because I’m scared.
Minutes later, I'm speeding down Hurley Mountain Road. The familiar cornfields and farmhouses are a blur. My hands are gripping the wheel, and I keep thinking about Eliza and the girls, hoping this is just a false alarm.
What if I don't come back?
About fifty yards ahead, a white Range Rover comes into view. I'm closing the distance fast, and within seconds I'm riding its bumper, looking for a chance to pass. The double yellow line disappears into a bend in the road. A pickup passes in the oncoming lane, with a minivan behind it. I wait for the lane to clear, my jaw clenched.
Come on.
The Range Rover doesn't speed up or pull over. I tap the brakes and fall back two car lengths. My chest still aches, and the hospital is ten miles away. For now, all I can do is follow and hope they turn off.
A few minutes later, we slow to a stop at an intersection. Waiting behind the Range Rover, I finally notice the license plate.
BREATHHE.
I laugh out loud. I can’t believe it. My grip on the wheel loosens as I take a breath, then another. I soften into my seat.
The message feels hand-delivered to me at the very moment I need it. My chest still aches, but I feel a little more at ease.
As I continue toward the hospital, the familiar fields and farmhouses come back into focus. I'm no longer trying to pass anyone or hurry the driver ahead of me. I follow Waze to the ER, telling myself with each outbreath, I'm going to be okay. I'm going to be okay.
At the hospital, they run a series of tests, including an EKG and X-rays. The doctors reassure me that I’m not having a heart attack. They suspect the pain is related to compressed nerves in my neck and back.
A few hours later, I’m driving home down the same country road, looking forward to having dinner with Eliza and the girls.
It’s been four months, and I still think about that moment. I’ve spent years returning to my breath, on and off my meditation cushion. Yet on that drive, I needed a license plate to remind me.
The driver has no idea how much they helped me that afternoon. I’m grateful I stayed behind them long enough to read their plate.