The Labor Party

1 in 3 people experience some sort of anxiety disorder during their lifetime. Alistair Bowmore was hit by another panic attack as he entered the hospital. On the ride there he hadn't been able to keep his mind focused. What kind of father was he to forget that his wife was pregnant? He'd lost touch of who he was, and as he ran down the hall to get the room she was going to give birth in he felt more drowsy and dizzy with each step. His last thought before hitting the ground was 'when will Stalin call?" 

Monica's heart was broken when she found out her husband was in the next room, unconscious, and that he probably wouldn't be able to make it by the time the baby arrived. "He's too unstable," one doctor had said, "I'm so sorry Mrs. Bowmore, but I'm afraid you're husband suffered from a bad anxiety attack. The last thing he needs is...this." Her reaction was adequate, she cussed him out. 

Alistair Bowmore didn't come to his senses for quite a while. He was not whisked back in time, but he dreamt. And his dream felt somehow real. He was once again with Vitia Malinkow, the Soviet spy who'd helped him reach Comrade Stalin. Strangely, in this dream, all he could think about was Monica and his yet unborn child. 

"I fucked it up," he said, uncharacteristically swearing, "She's going to hate me. Probably will file for divorce." For once Vitia didn't have a quick answer. He sighed and ran his hand through his silver hair, something he only did in special circumstances - like this one. 

"Listen, Alistair," he said with a growing smile, "you'll wake up eventually, after you're body feels rested enough, and then you should go to her, no matter what your doctor tells you. By the way, I missed the birth of my second daughter as well."

"You did?" Alistair asked, eager to know if Vitia's wife had left him or not. 

"Yes. I'd promised to show, but my comrades called at the last minute. I called up the hospital and told them that nothing I could say would smooth it over with my darling wife, so I made them send the most attractive doctor into her room with the message; 'since you can't look at your stunningly handsome husband, find comfort in this beautiful man's expression.'" 

Alistair burst out laughing. "You did not!"

"I did. She hated it, threw her glass of water at the doctor. But during the hardest part of giving birth she made him come back. And after she'd birthed my daughter she took his face in her hands and said; you might be as handsome as my Vitia, but you're no where near as funny." Malinkow chuckled at the memory. "She slapped me across the face several times the next time I saw her, and then she told me that if my sense of humor wasn't so good she'd have killed me by now."

"Things come easily for you." Alistair said with a sad smile. "They don't for me."

"You're the President of the United States, Alistair. That takes much, much more than hard work. You're one lucky bastard, so wake up and go to your wife." Vitia's smile became blurred as Alistairs eyes snapped open. 

He shook the weird dream out of his head. Three bodyguards and two doctors were in his room. "Excuse me, I'd like to see my wife?" He said, his words were a bit slurred. Had they drugged him?

"I'm afraid you won't be able to do that Mr. President. The-"

"It's not going to trigger my anxiety," he snapped, "I'm sorry," he quickly apologized, "I know myself and I know what triggers me. I don't think this will." He made an attempt to stand up but failed. "What did you pump me full of?" Again he'd snapped impolitely. "I apologize again, it must be the drugs getting to me."

"Of course Mr. President." But they hadn't given him any drugs. The doctor knew that it was better to lie with patients like him; he'd freak if he found out this weird and unfamilair feeling was one he was having without being under any influence of narcotics at all. 

"So, can I please see my wife?"

"Yes, you can." The doctor shot the other doctor a wary look; the other understood perfectly. Get a wheelchair, an oxygen mask and some sedatives in case anything goes wrong. He proceeded to help Alistair out of bed and take him to his wife's room. 

Alistair was greeted with shouts and curses flung his way by the mess of a woman in the bed. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was tangled, Monica was not calm by nature, and knowing her man had left her like this made her freak. But when he still knelt next to her, enduring her flailing arms and screechy shouts she suddenly calmed. "How is whatever you're going through worse than this?" She hissed at him. 

"It isn't darling, it isn't." And he kissed her on her forehead which was drenched with sweat. 

He had to chuckle quietly to himself as she writhered in pain. Men were funny, weren't they. They could see a woman like this, and still, in merely a few days, be down to fuck the same person. He caught himself thinking this hideous thought and pushed it away. Leaving space for the anxietyt to come crashing back in. 

But Alistair stayed. His vision often swayed in and out of focus and several times went all black, leaving him only with his hearing. But he refused to let anyone know he was on the verge of collapse. He owed it to his wife to stay. 

I'm a terrible person, he thought over and over again. I'm not who I said I was. Not just in my campagne, but also to my family and friends, I'm not the man I promsied Monica at the Altar. 

Who the fuck am I.