Well into midday—I have it recorded as 3½ hours after this morning's medicine—Ma Schmidt started to get agitated again. After another fifteen minutes I texted Schmidt, who was up in their shop working on his late job. He crushed more anxiety medicine into a spoonful of simple syrup for her. I suggested three pills at once, and he agreed—especially since she might not drink it all.
Well, she drank it all but it didn't calm her down. After the medicine, she continued to get more agitated.
"I can't breathe!" she shouted. (She appeared to be breathing fine.)
"If I can't breathe, I'll die!"
"Why are you trying to kill me?"
"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Help me!"
Meanwhile I told her, "You're safe and all you have to do is relax."
She clutched at her sweater and at her diaper, as if those were restricting her breathing.
"Get me into the car!"
This went on for a while. Finally she began to settle down, and her voice became calmer and quieter. She started remarking about things outside the sliding glass door, that they were beautiful. She pointed to some things I couldn't see. Finally, about an hour after taking her anxiety medicine, she fell lightly asleep.
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