Voyassitude

Doesn’t it bother you not knowing how to spell someone’s name? Especially when it’s someone you looked in the eyes and caressed gently, someone you whispered to as your lips touched her ears while her wet hair fell over your hands. But this description might lead to some misunderstandings, so let’s clarify what’s going on:

Her name is Allie (I’ve long decided that’s how I want to spell it) and she is having a panic attack.

It’s Monday, June 3^rd in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic. At about 7 p.m. the sky seems to have lost it, unleashing a torrential rain that puts an end to the Jungle Party hosted by Riu Hotels at one of their numerous resorts in the area. People abandon pools and bars after three hours of nonstop music and madness, heading to a street where buses take them back to their hotels.

I’ve lost count of how many drinks I had, every inch of my body is soaking wet, and I just stole someone’s sandals as retribution because mine were stolen as well. Yes, I’m a bit drunk. In such condition I head to the line of party-goers waiting for the next transportation. That’s when I first notice the chaos. People are pushing each other, ignoring the line, trying to move ahead to get on a vehicle as soon as possible because rain is merciless at the moment. And then I see her: a young girl, brunette, probably 19 years old at most and crying desperately. A blonde girl stands by her side trying (but failing) to calm her down. They’re right next to me so I ask them what’s wrong, but both seem unable to respond. A hotel employee appears and when she sees the agitated girl, she takes her and her friend somewhere else. 

I assume she’ll find them immediate transportation to the hotel or some medical assistance, so there’s that. I forget about them, stand my ground to avoid people getting in front of me and ten long minutes later I make it into one of the buses.

As soon as I get into the bus I see her again. The brunette girl is sitting on the third or fourth row to the left (with her friend by her side) and sobbing even more, utter desperation splashed on her face. Disinhibition due to the alcohol plus a genuine sense of worry push me to ask once again what is going on, and this time the blond girl answers something. I can’t remember if she is the one to mention a panic attack or if that is my amateur diagnostic, but it is getting pretty bad and nobody seems to care. People keep crowding the bus, inebriated youngsters jumping, dancing, or hitting the metallic ceiling, their noise combined with the music from the bus speakers to create a cacophony that makes it difficult to hear what anyone’s saying.

 I scream over the noise to ask the girl’s names. The blonde girl introduces herself as Julia, and Allie is her friend in distress. They’re Canadians, part of a bigger group that split up during the party frenzy.

They are pretty much kids, they have no idea what to do, and everyone on the bus is still on a party mode. I guess that’s why I decide to stay with them, trying to do anything at all to help Allie. Once I know her name I stand right next to her, ignoring the noise from people moving past us. Then I talk. For the next twelve to fifteen minutes, the time it takes the driver to get us back to the hotel, I deliver a monologue of silly crap and comforting words hoping to calm Allie down.

“Listen to me, Allie,” I say. “You made it, you’re on the bus now. We’re going back to the hotel, it’s going to be okay. It’s over now.”

I want to establish eye contact but her eyelids are closed as she continues to sob uncontrollably, breathing with difficulty. I put my hands on her face and ask one thing, one I will repeat for the rest of the trip like a litany.

“Breathe in, breathe out.”

I ask if she can do that, but the continuous roar of people around is driving her insane, so I get as close to her as I can, covering her ears with my hands to block the commotion that encircles us. I ask her, I beg her to breathe in and breathe out in sync with my words. I say it in a pattern, a rhythmic sequence accompanied by the regular movement of my fingertips caressing her temples. I want Allie to forget anything beyond the two of us, my voice (awful as it is) dictating what happens, what to do next. Breathe in, breathe out.

Is it weird? Yes, a lot. One hour ago I didn’t know this person but now I’m feeling her soft skin, placing my mouth next to her left ear to whisper four words repetitively while Julia observes us with concern. At first Allie ignores me, the oppressive atmosphere is too much and she is unable to follow my instructions. She can’t control herself and my attempts at calming her are futile, particularly at one point when she seems to pass out. Her head escapes the touch of my hands, falling to her right shoulder as she goes silent. Julia loses control as well and starts sobbing, calling Allie desperately, imploring her to wake up.

I get nervous then, I have no clue what to do. Luckily, if she lost consciousness for a moment, she recovers it quickly and so I go again, trying to block the endless uproar with four simple words muttered to her ear. And she finally listens. Her shoulders relax a little, the groans dissipate, her eyes remain closed but I notice she follows my words. I compliment effort and her strength to overcome this mess. And I beg her to do something for me: breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Why did I do it? I’d like to say that I was a good Samaritan who couldn’t tolerate watching a girl overpowered by a frantic situation. But I think there was more to it. I was tipsy enough that I talked to people more openly, so I approached Allie and Julia with no reserve; had I been sober, I don’t know if I would’ve offered to help due to my shyness or constant state of quietude. And, when we were on the bus, there was a point when I noticed a few people looking at me with a hint of admiration or approval, as if I was a phenomenal person for simply providing first aid to someone affected. Was I looking for that? Notoriety, visibility, the gratitude of these Canadian kids? I think a part of me wanted that, yes. I wanted to stand out for my kindness, my ability to soothe Allie when the panic attack struck her and nobody else helped. So yes, this wasn’t just me being some sort of hero but also a narcissistic prick seeking a bit of glory, I guess. I’m the worst. However, I did worry for Allie; I can’t describe my relief when she started to feel better. And just for the record, it wasn’t until much later that night that I thought this would make for a great story for the blog. These random experiences I write about were never on my head as everything unfolded that evening.

In the end, Allie did calm down. There was another guy, a Dominican DJ or doctor (or both, I never fully understood that) who helped us taking Allie to her room while Julia followed us closely. Allie was very exhausted, her arms resting on our shoulders as we guided her step by step. She didn’t open her eyes much, but the happiest moment of the night came when she made a joke moments before we reached her room. I didn’t hear it but Julia did and she laughed, just as a smile, small and fatigued but a smile nonetheless, appeared on Allie’s lips.

And that was it. When we made it to the room Julia took Allie inside. Before closing the door, though, Julia thanked me sincerely for the help I provided. That felt great.

One last fun fact: The doctor/DJ had told Julia to watch over Allie all night, to make sure she rested okay, with no issues. Well, some four hours after we parted ways, I saw Julia again… at the hotel’s disco. It seems like she got tired of being a caretaker so she went out to keep having fun! We didn’t dance together but I did ask her how Allie was doing and she said she was better. Which, pardon my lack of modesty here, happened in part thanks to my heroic, narcissistic assistance.