Paxton struggles

Paxton pulled over for the third time, desperately searching the bumper for any sign he might have hit the scrawny tabby he often saw prowling at dusk. But the car was clean, as it had been the last two times.

“Going on a hike for my gad-dang mental health.”

The trailhead emerged like an oasis of serenity. Towering pines, afternoon sun. A gentle breeze carried the piney scent of the forest, a respite from the relentless noise of the city.

The gravel around the visitor’s station sends up a cloud of dust as he parks. Paxton closes the windows and waits for the dust to pass.

He counts the tires as he circles his car, kicking each three times, then unlocks the trunk to check and count the spare. Five wheels, no flats.

Maybe I missed one, maybe a slow leak?

He opens the glove compartment.

“No, I’m being obsessive. If I have a flat, I can change the tire. If I have two flats, I can call for help.” He returns the pressure gauge and struggles to close the latch. He repositions a selection of hand sanitizer bottles, then pushes the glove compartment until it gives a satisfying click.

“See Lennie, I’m being reasonable, I have precautions, plans.” Maybe the therapy was helping, he thought.

Paxton walks around his car, locks it, tries each door, the trunk. Then catches himself. “It’s fine. The car is locked.”

His new hiking boots were heavy, but he couldn’t bring himself to return them. He had to accept that the convenience of online shopping had some down sides. It made his life liveable, if not comfortable at times. Ordering pizza was no longer stressful. How he had missed pizza. He had Lennie to thank for opening him to the wonder of online food orders. Sometimes he had to see the delivery driver, but it was easier than talking on the phone.

“I’m in control. I am safe.”

His backpack was ready; his water was fresh and filtered. Gloves, blue nitrile for the hike, black ones for driving.

He looks under his car, then wipes a suspect stain on the bumper with his hanky. “Damn cat.” The hanky had come away with grime, not blood. He threw it away next to the visitor’s information sign.

“No harm Pax. I can go. Lennie says I should just walk.”

He pulled on fresh gloves and rummaged through the aging plastic map box, grimacing, thinking of the kids that had probably drooled on the maps. His alcohol wipes smeared the ink on the first map. It joined his hanky and the first set of gloves. He grabbed another trail guide and put it in a plastic bag, open to the small trail map.

“Reasonable precautions only. It’s just a hike, child’s play.”

Paxton pushed the button to lock the doors again.

“Don’t check.” His hand moved to the passenger door.

“No, Paxton, let’s make Lennie proud.”

There was a sign urging visitors to stay three meters away from each other on the trails. Paxton shivered, then looked around. His was the only car.

“Just a short hike, in and out, with no germs traded.”

He reached into his backpack for his sanitizer, meticulously slathering the bottle at the entrance of the park before using it. Each pump brought a fresh wave of relief, as if he could feel the Covid dissolving under the alcohol.

“Focus on nature, like Lennie said.”

The rhythmic crunch of fallen needles fell in sync with his ragged breaths. The trail wound its way through a verdant tapestry of ferns and mossy boulders, each step enveloping him deeper into nature’s tranquility.

“Hiking, hiking, go for a hike, Lennie says. It’ll do some good.”

He counted his steps in sets of three and five, a familiar rhythm that helped soothe his frazzled nerves. “One, two, three. One, two, three, four, five,” he mutters under his breath, the cadence pushing away the intrusive thoughts.

At the halfway point, a fallen tree offered rest.

But was the bark clean? Birds above—did they carry disease?

Paxton paced in three small circles.

Bird poo bird flu. What disease rode the breeze into his lungs? Snakes?

He stopped himself from looking for snakes—relaxing his muscles to still the thoughts.

“I’m safe, child’s play.”

He walked in another tight circle, then put the plastic bag with the map on the tree, looked for ticks, then looked at his own legs for bugs. He sat on the plastic bag.

Lyme disease.

Is Lyme disease present in the area? No signal on his phone. He sprays himself with insect repellent, then tucks his trousers in his socks. “Reasonable precaution.”

“What could go wrong, Pax? I can hike, it’s walking, and no one is around, no one to spread germs.”

Bird flu.

“No. I’m safe, just irrational. Birds can’t hurt me. Focus on the beauty, the sun, nature—do what Lennie said. Be rational. There is nothing here that can hurt me. I’m walking for my health.”

“I am safe.”

At their last session, Lennie told him, “Hiking can be a meditative experience, helping focus on the present moment to reduce intrusive thoughts.”

But what if I get a tick?

His mind slid from ticks to mosquitos, then leeches. “I’m safe. Reasonable precautions, bug repellent is enough.”

In the distance, the melodic trickle of a stream beckoned, its burbling calmed his frazzled nerves. Paxton paused, closing his eyes, allowing the gentle sounds of the forest to wash over him—the rustle of leaves in the canopy, the occasional call of an unseen bird, the whisper of life all around him.

For a fleeting moment, the incessant chatter of his mind fell silent, replaced by a profound stillness that seemed to emanate from the very earth beneath his feet. This was the peace Lennie had promised, a temporary refuge from the intrusive thoughts that held him captive. The sun flickered against his closed eyes, birds sang their songs, nature persisted in its glory. Separate and alive, external and expansive, calming and passive.

***

As he continued along the trail, Paxton felt his shoulders relax ever so slightly, the weight of his anxiety momentarily lifted by the restorative power of nature’s embrace.

Stream ahead. Leeches.

Paxton knew that in some places leeches climb trees then drop onto passing creatures. The image of a shower of leeches was impossible to shake.

“That is a reasonable risk.”

The map shows the rural highway along the side of the trail. “Reasonable precaution.” Boy scouts had prepared him for this. “Keep Highway 4 on my left, and I’ll be fine. I’m safe.” He stepped off the hiking trail to avoid the stream.

***

The tranquil spell was abruptly shattered by the guttural growl of a motorcycle engine, its aggressive rumble echoing through the trees. The sound grew louder, more insistent, as the rider pushed the machine along the rural highway hugging the edge of the forest. For a few agonizing seconds, the world beyond the tree line ceased to exist, consumed by the savage roar.

The sound of the motorcycle skidding.

A muffled crunch.

Paxton was jolted from his mental scripts. Reaching the overlook, he froze at the sight of a wrecked motorcycle in the valley below, smoke rising from skid marks scarring the highway.

The tangled metal came into view, growing larger with each frightened step downward. Paxton fumbled for his phone with shaking hands. His fingers found the bear repellent. He checked it, clicked the safety on, off, on, off, on, off.

A figure writhed, and something glinted darkly in the ditch. He froze, eyes locked on the mangled motorcycle, its front wheel gently spinning in the air, moss dangled on the long chrome torn from the boulder underneath. The injured rider lay several yards away from the ruined bike. 

Blood. Germs. Infections. What if he coughs? What if he has a disease?

Paxton’s breath quickens, and he steps back. What if the man had a contagious disease? What if a single drop of blood infected Paxton with a life-threatening illness? The possibilities spiraled out of control, each thought more dire. Paxton envisioned himself hospitalized, his body ravaged by an incurable sickness, all because he dared to offer help. The world seemed to collapse around him, reality distorted by the lens of his crippling anxiety.

“No. He needs help.”

Taking a deep breath, he remembered his therapist’s advice: “balance precaution with rationality.” He wrapped his hands in his shirt sleeves, forming a makeshift barrier, and approached cautiously.

Something glinted—a broken watch, time frozen. He picked it up and wound the dial. Put it down, then picked it up again, wound it again, then twisting the watch face in his hand. Why this trinket calmed him amid such horror, he didn’t know. When he saw the bone jutting from the motorcyclist’s arm, he dropped the watch. The thought of the bones splitting the watch band made the blood drain from Paxton’s face.

The man stirred and murmured for water, startling Paxton.

I need to help, he thought. Kneeling sent Paxton’s pulse skyrocketing.

“I’m safe.”

What if I can’t help? What if I get infected?

“Sh-shut up, he needs help,” Paxton stammers. His stomach churned, sweat beaded on his forehead. His vision narrowed as panic claws at his guts.

He takes deep, shaky breaths, trying to calm his racing heart and quell the nausea rising in his throat.

Blood pools on the loose soil, smelling of rust and salt, and moss. Paxton’s mouth went from dry to watering, the familiar precursor to an attack of nausea.

“Calm, I’m safe. I’m a tree in a forest. Wind blows through my fingers.” He checked his pulse on his watch: 190 bpm.

Paxton looks around frantically, scanning for any other sources of contamination. The scent of gasoline hung heavy in the air, triggering a wave of intrusive thoughts. Paxton’s mind immediately generalized the smell to every potential hazard – fire, explosions, toxic fumes. Suddenly, the accident scene transformed into a minefield of dangers.

The rider groaned, a low, pain-filled sound that snapped Paxton out of his spiral. He took a deep breath, recalling Lennie’s training. He wrapped his hands in his shirtsleeves again. “You can do this. Just focus.”

He touched the man’s neck; glad the visor was down. He could pretend this wasn’t a real person, for now.

It was difficult to feel the pulse clearly through the gloves and his shirt sleeve. Paxton cleaned the man’s neck with an alcohol wipe, started a timer on his watch and counts out the pulses through his gloves. He fumbles with his sleeve dangling too close to the man, loses count, starts again.

Each touch sends waves of revulsion through him, but he forces himself to focus, counting the beats and timing his breaths to keep the panic at bay. Thirty beats in fifteen seconds, 120 per minute.

He cleans his gloves with another alcohol wipe, then changes gloves.

What to do? He remembers a first aid course, from before the pandemic. Recovery position. The rider needs to be turned gently onto his side. Paxton uses his dirty sleeves as a barrier between him and the injured man, desperate not to touch blood directly. Each movement felt like a battle, his mind conjuring visions of invisible pathogens clinging to every surface, waiting to infect him. The rational part of his brain screamed for him to act, but the primal terror of the unknown held him captive, rendering him helpless against his own anxieties.

The man’s ribcage was soft. A disturbing image took root. The once-protective garment now appeared to be the only barrier containing the man’s insides, a fragile shell holding together a sack of loose organs. The image distorted into a gruesome caricature, a twisted perception that seemed all too real.

Paxton smells the breath of the man, stale, unbrushed teeth, coffee. He jumps back.

“I’m safe.”

“Call my wife.” The man says in gulps of air.

“I’m safe, it’s okay.”

“Shut up and call my wife.”

Paxton pulls out his phone. No service. “It’s okay, just a walk for my health.”

The man grunts in pain, tries to move. The hand with the jutting bone scraped against the ground.

“I’ll call for help, uh, don’t get up.” Paxton stepped further away. “No service. Just st-stay still.”

“My wife.”

Paxton hunched in the brush, vomiting.

Blood. Germs. Infection.

He reached for his phone again. One bar.

Strangers, stranger danger. What if they ask me things I don’t know? What if I can’t explain where I am?

He froze. His fingers wouldn’t move.

“Just one bar. I need one bar.” He yells to the rider as he started walking back toward the trail. Paxton knows it’s an excuse, he needs time, a plan.

His thumb hovered over the call button, sweat slicking his grip. He needed to call for help, but the thought of speaking to a stranger, of potentially getting it wrong, paralyzed him.

“I just need one more bar. Then I’ll call.” Another excuse, he hated himself. He checked his watch, wound the dial three times one way, five times the other. Still one bar at the sitting trunk.

He keeps walking. Progressive Muscle Relaxation isn’t helping; the birds chirping, the wind in the woods, nature wasn’t helping.

“Contusions? should I have checked for contusions?” Waves of guilt crashed over Paxton as he retreated from the scene, his compulsions overriding his desire to help. He should be better than this, stronger than these irrational urges. But here he was, fleeing from a person in need, consumed by the shame of his own weakness. The man’s groans haunted him.

He focused on his breathing, “one, two, three,” he matched his breath out, “one, two, three, four, five.”

He strains to think of the questions they would ask. His name, age, where the accident was. The stream burbled to the side.

Leeches like blood.

Paxton took deep, shaky breaths.

Did you cause the accident? Your car has an oil leak.

“No—irrational thought. I’m safe. I didn’t cause this.” It did little to quell the tide of panic.

He keeps walking. He made a list of what they would ask:

What is the location of the emergency? He only knew the name of the park.

How many people appear to be injured? That’s easy, just the one.

What types of injuries are observable? Bleeding wounds, broken bones, drifting consciousness, trouble breathing, broken watch.

Did you cause the accident with the oil leaking from your car? No, irrational thought, no.

Is the injured person awake and breathing? He broke his watch, but was talking.

Is the scene safe to approach or are there any hazards like live electrical wires? Gosh, I didn’t even look.

Was a vehicle involved? Easy one—one motorcycle.

Are any vehicles leaking fluids onto the road? Yes, I could smell gas from the trail.

Are there weather conditions that could impact response time? No, it’s a lovely day.

Are you staying with the injured until help arrives? Not enough bars on my phone. He did have a nice watch. It’s on the ground.

What is your name and call back number in case additional details are needed? Don’t call me, text, I’m not good at calls.

Can you describe landmarks or other details that will help responders pinpoint the location? Heck, I didn’t even look. He had run off Highway four. He broke his watch. It was stuck at 4:17. Paxton checked his own watch 4:36. He rotated the crown. Five spins up, three spins down.

Paxton jogs the last few yards to his car. “I’m safe, in a familiar setting.”

Paxton mouths the words silently. “What is the location of the emergency? Ragged Mountain. How many people are injured? One. What types of injuries? Bleeding…broken bones…” The words jumbled in his mind, none of them feeling right. The constant battle against his own mind took an immense toll, leaving him questioning his own sanity and wondering if relief would ever find him.

What if they think I’m an idiot? What if I say something wrong and it delays help?

He took off his shirt, careful to avoid touching the sleeves any more than necessary. There was a spider on the car door. It reminded Paxton of ticks. He looks down at his socks. “No, no, no.” There was blood on his knee. Plan Pax, plan—new gloves, unlock car, backpack in, then strip.

He slid into the driver’s seat in only his pants, then threw his socks out the window for good measure.

“Medicine, dang it.”

His Benzodiazepine was in his trousers, on top of his shirt, with his new hiking boots topping the pile of infection. “If there was a time I ever needed it. Damn.” Sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his eyes.

“Breathe, Paxton.” His rapid heartbeat matched the trembling in his hands. Nausea followed—he was glad the window was open so he could dry heave out the window. 

“I’m safe.” He held his breath until he saw spots. “No. Thats incorrect coping method, Paxton.”

“Breathe…in with the clean air, out with the bad. Like Lennie said.”

Taking a deep breath, and with three bars on his phone, he dials 9…

What if they ask me other questions? What is a contusion, anyway?

He put the phone down to wind the crown on his watch. Then checked his pulse rate on its heart function. Then checked his pulse rate against his neck.

He calls his therapist.

Voice mail.

He tries again. And again.

He sends a text: ‘emergency 911’.

Still no response.

He tries calling again, spins the crown of his watch three turns, then five more. The screen scrolls through different apps on his watch.

He sends another text: ‘911, not about pizza paralysis’.