There are no photos for this post. Which is ironic, considering this story takes place during a photo shoot.
I usually sign up for two or three photo meetups with my club each year, and last Thursday was the third one, right behind the fair shoot I attended, two days before.
This meetup was part photo shoot, part social event, and was held at a bar on Elgin Street. Photographers were told to pack light, meaning no tripods or big lighting setups. I arrived with just one D-SLR and a speedlight (flash).
Simple.
Models were told to dress up for a night on the town. The women were gorgeous; the men, looking sharp. I showed up wearing a dark grey shirt and black pants, so that I wouldn't stand out, should a photographer find be far in the background of a shot.
I arrived about 10 minutes late, as parking in the Elgin Street area can be a challenge on a Thursday night. When I arrived at the venue, which was on the second floor of the building, photographers and models seemed to already be working the scene.
Being held in a bar, I expected to see tables and chairs, and a long bar with plenty of stools, but most of the moveable furniture had been removed to make a large open space in which people could work. It wasn't so much a bar setting as it was a bar that was converted into a studio area.
I saw Mike, our club's organizer almost right away. He was chatting with another photographer. When he saw me, he waved.
"Long time, no see," we said simultaneously. Both of us had been at The Capital Fair event. He pointed out a model, who he said was the person behind this event, and I should see her and provide my social-media information: primarily, my Instagram details.
As it happened, as if almost on cue, she approached us, and Mike made the introductions. I gave her my Instagram information and then she said to make myself at home, that she'd return and I could start by photographing her.
I moved out of the way, to an area where a doorway led onto a balcony, where photographers were capturing models with the buildings across the street and the road, below, as backdrops. I gave my attention to my camera, making sure that I had adequate settings—ISO, shutter speed, aperture, and so on—for this shoot. I didn't want to think that my final settings from the fair, with a one-second shutter speed, especially, were still dialed in. I placed my camera in shutter-speed mode and set my shutter speed at 1/160 speed and a 200 ISO, letting the camera decide the appropriate aperture; though, the flash would change that and I'd probably have to make some adjustments after the first shot.
That's when everything changed.
I could feel my heart racing, the blood whooshing through my ears at a near-deafening volume. My head felt heavy and my vision seemed dimmed. I felt as though I couldn't breathe. I was dizzy and feared that I was going to collapse.
I gripped my camera tightly, hoping that if I was going to fall down, I'd be able to protect my equipment. But I didn't fall.
Was I having a heart attack? A stroke? All I knew was that I didn't want to be there: I needed to get outside as fast as possible.
Part of what happened next is a bit of a blur, as though I was incredibly drunk. I somehow got past people without interacting with anybody. I vaguely remember seeing a photographer that I knew from past meetups, but he was working with one of the models.
I remember leaning into the handrail, pressing myself as close to a wall as I could, as I headed downstairs. I was terrified of losing my footing or balance, and tumbling down to the sidewalk below.
But I made it in one piece.
Out in the fresh air, my head almost immediately started to clear, but my heart was still racing, my nerves on edge. I started breathing deeply—in through the nose; out through the mouth.
And my desire to get away from the bar was still foremost in my head.
I made my way back to my vehicle and climbed behind the driver's seat. I lay my camera on the passenger seat, and realized that I was shaking, shivering, as though I had a bad chill.
This is the point when I told myself that I wasn't having a heart attack or stroke. I felt no tightening in my chest, no pain in the arms or shoulders.
I was having a panic attack. At 59 years old, I was experiencing my first panic attack.
I have a daughter who occasionally experiences panic attacks and I recognized it in my desire to escape my surroundings. I pushed myself to think clearly, to breathe, and to tell myself that I was okay. I was safe. This feeling would pass.
I sat in my car for at least another five to 10 minutes, until I was convinced that I could drive. And so, I drove home.
DW was away, on a camping trip, but my kid was at home. When I got back, I told her about what I had experienced. She told me that what I described was similar to the anxiety that she has experienced during a panic attack, but just to make sure, she made me take some Aspirin and she contacted DW.
DW wanted me to go to the hospital, to make sure I wasn't, in fact, having a heart attack, but I said that going to a hospital would stress me out, and I had finally calmed down (though, I felt as though the adrenaline was still working its way through my system).
Our kid kept me company until it was time to go to bed, and as soon as I was under the covers, I was out like a light. The next morning, before she left for work, my daughter gave me a tight hug and let me know she loved me.
A panic attack is a terrifying experience. Having my first-ever attack at such a late stage in life was one of the scariest things I've ever experienced. I don't know what caused it and there's no way to know if I'll ever have one again, but if I do, there's one thing for certain.
I hope my kid will be around.
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