Chapter 1: Let's meet Hailey
Hailey's doctor has asked her to do the one thing that might ruin her safe haven
This is chapter 1 of The Other Side of the Ocean. You can also continue to chapter 2 or access any chapter using the table of contents.
There are two reasons why a student at our high school would enter room 201.
The first is for help with our course schedule and figuring out what we really want to do when we get pushed out into the real world. The second is because we’re feeling anxious, stressed or anything related to mental health.
The first time I went to see Ms. Fortier, it was the former. The four times since, it’s been the latter. (As my racing thoughts and somersaulting stomach suggest, I wish it was the former.)
With my ears still ringing thanks to the school bell being poorly located just outside room 201, I lean back in what I hope is a subtle manner to force the slow-close door to close faster (who puts a slow close door at the entrance to a counsellor’s office?). I quickly glance around the large white waiting space and sigh with relief to see all the other chairs are empty, then sink into a cool, comfortable seat.
This is where I’ve spent the beginning of my lunch hour once a week for the past four weeks. About a month ago, when I asked my parents how their day went and realized I hadn’t heard their answers over the voice worrying in my head, I knew this was officially becoming a problem. Later that day, when I planned to do my homework and instead started a Google search for “symptoms of hypochondria,” I admitted to myself there was a problem.
And, after walking past Ms. Fortier’s office during the lunch period on the following Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I finally, literally, took a giant step into the office and admitted the problem to her, too.
“Hailey?”
I look up, my stomach already calming down at the sound of Ms. Fortier’s soft voice.
“Hi, Ms. Fortier!”
She smiles warmly at me and I force myself to smile too. I remember her own advice from the list of tips for cooling anxiety: Try smiling. Just the act of smiling can physically make you feel better.
“Are you okay?” She closes her eyes and mutters, as though chastising herself. “I’m sorry, I meant, when I received your email asking for an emergency session—”
“I’m okay,” I say quickly, eager to reassure her that nothing is seriously wrong. But, when I remember the particular reason why I came here today, my heart somehow beats faster despite feeling heavy with emotions.
I hop up out of the chair and scurry into Ms. Fortier’s office, sinking onto the comfortable armchair across from hers. I kick the recliner back, desperate to begin our session and feel the usual dose of comfort and reassurance, like a cool, much-needed breeze on a too-hot day, that usually follows me out of the room. At the same time, simple logic tells me that not even Ms. Fortier can make the recent development in this situation any better. Not unless she can magically produce family secrets with the wave of a secret wand.
“So, what’s on your mind?”
I always appreciate that Ms. Fortier starts our sessions with this question, instead of the typical “How are you feeling?” that people joke about in the movies. It helps that it feels like I’m talking to a friend instead of our school counsellor, at school, where someone I know could see me at any moment.
I rub my hands against the cool, smooth material of the armrests. “When I first came to see you, you said it sounded like I was experiencing anxiety that had then turned into hypochondria.”
Ms. Fortier nods encouragingly. “Yes.”
I put a hand over my heart, then take a steadying breath.
Ms. Fortier’s eyebrows join in a straight line as she leans forward, her voice laced with concern. “Is it happening again?”
About a month ago, my heart started racing out of nowhere, sometimes for a few minutes at a time, and sometimes for as long as 10 minutes. Whenever it happened at school, I’d break out in a sweat, terrified of what was happening and almost equally terrified that someone around me would notice something was off. I didn’t even tell Almira, who comes the closest to being what I would consider a best friend.
Whenever it happened at home, it was always so much better—no sweating, no terror, just wave after wave of comfort as my mom and dad dropped whatever they were doing to walk alongside me around the room, talking to me in gentle voices about whatever interesting topic they could think of to distract me until my heart rate was so normal again that even I forgot why we had started walking in the first place.
Then, I started to get so scared that my heart rate would surprise me like that again that even the thought made my heart skip a terrifying beat, which then made my thoughts race faster, and my heart rate would match. That’s about when the piercing anxiety I was experiencing morphed, or rather, sprouted an additional layer called hypochondria.
“Oh no, no, sorry!” I wave my hands dismissively. “It’s not that—my heart rate is normal right now.”
Ms. Fortier sits back, her shoulders relaxing. “Oh, that’s good to hear. It’s a good reminder, though—how about a brief calming exercise before we dive into the reason for your visit?”
I nod, sitting back in the chair, letting myself sink deeper into it and closing my eyes as Ms. Fortier repeats the usual three instructions.
Her calm, yoga-like voice reaches my ears. “Think of something that makes you smile.”
I remember something funny Almira said this morning in class and I instantly break into a smile. My chest feels lighter already.
“Think of something that makes you feel happy.”
Home. My parents. Almira. School friends. Painting.
“And think of something that makes you feel safe.”
Coming home. Breathing in the smells of my parents’ cooking. Seeing their faces while they smile warmly at me across the table as we talk about our day.
Usually this exercise makes me feel relaxed, completely at ease, refreshed, even. But not today. Today, my family doctor’s words seep into my brain and create friction in my mind. The realization that I can’t keep the anxiety at bay makes me feel worse.
I fight back the tears that are starting to build. “Usually, this exercise works really well for me, but today it’s a bit more difficult,” I hear myself admitting. I open my eyes and return Ms. Fortier’s caring, supportive gaze.
“That’s understandable. Anxiety, hypochondria, they’re powerful. It takes energy to manage them.”
I take a deep breath. “Actually, it’s not the hypochondria that’s bothering me today. Although it is responsible for it.”
Ms. Fortier cocks her head, leaning forward to rest her elbow on her folded legs. “May I ask, what do you mean?”
I lean my head back and take a deep breath, then face her. “You know how you said I can probably stop the hypochondria by doing some real tests with a doctor to show my brain that everything is okay?”
Ms. Fortier nods, her red hair glinting softly in the sunlight coming from the window. “How did that go?”
“Well.” I clear my throat. “I agree with you that it felt good to actually do some real tests and see good news in the results.”
Ms. Fortier nods. “Hypochondria can really take over because we start to worry that something is wrong. Getting your hands on some real, concrete information that shows everything is okay is very powerful.”
“You were right. That part was amazing.”
If Ms. Fortier senses there’s a “but” coming, she doesn’t force me to say it out loud yet. “What kind of tests did she run?”
“Blood tests, and she also ordered an ECG that went really well.”
Ms. Fortier’s eyes light up. “Hailey, that’s great news! An ECG, to check your heart? How does that make you feel?”
Considering the reason I first came into Ms. Fortier’s office was to talk about my heart rate scaring me by moving unusually fast, it felt very good.
“It feels amazing…and reassuring.” Sometimes I purposely pull up the memory of seeing those test results—“normal”—just to feel the weightless feeling of safety coming off my chest. “But, after my doctor told me the good news, she asked me if I have a family history of certain other conditions.”
My breathing quickens as the stress kicks in.
Ms. Fortier’s eyebrows furrow. “Other conditions?”
“Yes, like, diabetes, cancer, things like that.”
Ms. Fortier nods. “And, do you?”
I lean back in the chair, my chest tightening. “Well. On my mom’s side, there is a history of diabetes to watch for.”
Ms. Fortier nods encouragingly. “And on your dad’s side?”
My gaze flicks up at her, and she looks at me so intently, with so much support and caring curiosity in her eyes, as though she’s urging me to see that she is listening.
But my words get stuck in my throat. I stare back at her, her question hanging between us. “And on your dad’s side?”
My dad’s side.
“The thing is…” I suck in a deep breath and push it right back out, but still, no words come with it. I’m drawing a blank.
“It’s okay not to explain it right the first time,” Ms. Fortier encourages, repeating one of her familiar phrases. “This is a safe space. You can work it out out loud and I won’t judge or draw conclusions. I’m here to support you.”
Despite the circumstances, I can’t help but smile. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I need to hear.” I suck in another deep breath, this time pushing a flurry of words out along with it. “We have never, ever, ever, ever talked about my dad’s side. It’s like it doesn’t exist. My dad has never mentioned anyone. My mom has never mentioned anyone. At Christmas, no one mentions anything. On my dad’s birthday, no one mentions anything. We never, ever, ever, ever talk about it.”
Ms. Fortier cocks her head, as though trying to absorb this. “Never?”
“Never.”
“No pictures?”
“None.”
“No phone calls or visits or anything?”
“Nothing.”
She leans her head the other way. “So your parents just, act like they don’t exist?”
“Exactly.”
Ms. Fortier sucks in a breath too. “I see. So…”
The words come tumbling out. “My family doctor says, hypochondria or not, it’s important for me to know our family history, now that I’m almost 18 and all.” I close my eyes and clench my teeth as my heart starts racing and I simultaneously feel my head lighten and my chest tighten. “She said she highly recommends I ask my dad, my dad”—I picture his caring brown eyes, feel his tight loving hug, see my mom’s loving gaze before she hugs us close to her too—“to talk about something we’ve danced around, avoided, never, ever, ever, ever, ever spoken about, ever, ever before.” I wrap my arms around my knees and drop my head. “His family.”
When I walk out of Ms. Fortier’s office, it’s the first time I feel worse than when I came in. Of course, Ms. Fortier has no suggestions that make this better. Of course, there are no suggestions that could possibly make this better.
If I don’t learn more about my family history, I’ll just keep worrying about my health, and the worrying—the hypochondria, as I now know it’s called—will then cause actual health problems (which, it technically has already, what with the scary heart rate episodes).
And since my family has always, always acted as though my dad’s side of the family doesn’t exist, there is no doubt that bringing it up will cause issues—of whose nature I know nothing about. I don’t know what I’d be asking Mom and Dad to think about or relive. I’d be walking in blind, probably hurting them.
My stomach churns and I pause in the hallway, my heart aching at the idea.
“Hey, Hailey!”
I freeze, the hairs on my arms standing on end. It’s Almira—did she see me come out of the school counsellor’s office? Part of me feels relieved. I want to tell someone about this, I realize, and the only person I’d feel comfortable sharing with is right behind me.
I turn around, and my potential relief explodes into something quite the opposite when I see who’s standing next to my closest friend.
Dear readers, thank you for reading section one of The Other Side of the Ocean, our first Collaborative Tale!
What do you think should happen next? Who is standing next to Almira—a fellow student? A teacher? A family member? What are their wants and the obstacles they’re facing? Why does the sight of them make Hailey’s relief disappear?
We invite you to share your ideas in the comments below! There’s a chance your ideas will help shape the next section of this YA contemporary story, The Other Side of the Ocean.
If you have questions about how to participate in a Collaborative Tale, we hope we answer them in this post about Collaborative Tales.
This is chapter 1 of The Other Side of the Ocean. You can also continue to chapter 2 or access any chapter using the table of contents.