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Connor doesn't admit it, but having asthma makes him feel a bit of a nerd. Cool people in high school didn't feel short of breath before an American literature test (he thought he was going to die in that cramped bathroom stall) or after they were valedictorians in their college graduation (while everyone threw their mortarboards up, he was using his inhaler, hoping to breathe normally when that frenzy was over) much less after an emergency surgery, however successful (which is happening right now).
He gropes in his pockets, trying to find his inhaler, but finds nothing, everything is smooth, without any relief. Connor tries to look for whatever air is left, anything that doesn't make him die in the middle of the hallway, and tries to do it as normal as possible so that no one knows about his problem. He tells himself that he doesn't tell anyone about asthma because he doesn't like people worrying about him, but deep down, he knows he doesn't tell anyone about his condition because he is too proud. He is a fucking cardiothoracic surgeon, how dare he have asthma?
Connor takes the elevator, and relief takes over when he realizes he's alone. All he has to do is go to the doctors’ lounge, open his locker and get his second inhaler. These are simple steps, but just thinking about them makes him feel even more tired. God, he can't die in his workplace. That would be too much even for him.
The elevator stops on the sixth floor and he curses in thought, but when he realizes that he is in the maternity ward and two newly dads step into the elevator with a small five-day-old baby, Connor regrets having thought anything bad of them. Their happiness is so contagious that even airless Connor smiles at both men and their little baby.
The minutes to the emergency floor are endless, and the pressure on his chest is even greater. This is it. He will die in front of two parents who have just had their child, turning a once-happy day into a traumatic episode.
When the elevator opens for emergency, Connor runs--and regrets shortly afterwards because the breathlessness is even bigger--and reaches the doctors' lounge. Clumsily, he opens his closet and goes through his things, only to realize he didn't bring his second inhaler. Shit, shit, shit.
He rests his hands on his knees, trying to find any oxygen crumbs in his lungs, but there is nothing. The pressure in his chest increases and he feels a pain he would not be able to describe to his pulmonologist. Everything around him starts to get a little distant, and it takes Connor a while to realize that Ava is by his side.
"Hey, hey, are you having an asthma attack?" She asks. Her accent stands out when her emotions are very clear. In times of worry, ecstasy or deep sadness, it is impossible not to detect her South African origins.
"I--I can't breathe," Connor replies, with a tremendous effort to be understood. His voice is breathy and hoarse, exposing that his asthma attack is worse than he thought.
“Here, get it,” Ava orders as soon as she takes a inhaler out of her white coat.
Connor picks up the inhaler the next second, thanking all the deities he knows. He could kiss Ava right now, but then his shortness of breath would get even worse.
She helps him sit on the couch while he uses the inhaler. Ava watches him with a careful, concerned look. Her expressionless face is an attempt not to show Connor how distressing it was to see him hunched over, silently begging for air, as if panting in a room a few square feet could instantly resolve his asthma attack.
As the pain in his chest dissipates like cotton candy in the water, and his breathing returns to normal, Connor feels Ava's hand holding his. He can't say why, but the familiarity of Ava's touch and the cold meeting of her wedding band with his skin are comforting. He coughs a little, and puts the inhaler in his pants pocket.
"Thanks," he mutters, taking a deep breath.
"What happened? Did you take Advil, Ibuprofen? Do you think you have a flu? Was it some dust? Did you come close to something--”
“Ava. Calm down,” Connor asks. He knows that these attacks, however rare, make her worried. Since they've been together, Ava has seen Connor's lungs missing air four times. "I don’t know what happened. I think it was the stress of surgery. I didn't have the inhaler in my pants or closet.”
“You probably forgot at home.” Ava caresses his hand while the other caresses his shoulder. “Good thing I always have one with me.”
“You literally saved my life.”
“Now you can use the cheesy metaphor that I'm like air to your lungs.”
Connor laughs, coughing, and then affectionately kisses the surgeon's cheek. Ava is the only one who can pull out a smile or a laugh in extreme situations. Some people interpret it as inconvenient, but Connor loves his wife's ability to turn a horrible moment into something… less horrible. She often reminds him of when Hozier sings that his love is the giggle at a funeral.
Ava smiles, a little more relieved.
“I need to get back upstairs,” Connor says, wanting to get up.
"No. You need to get some rest. Stay here for a few minutes, and then I'll come call you back. Drink some water and leave the inhaler with you, okay?” Ava demands, and Connor sits back down. She kisses his forehead, and offers her best warm smile. The kind that hugs Connor in situations like this. “Love you, see you later.”
“Love you,” he replies in a whisper as his blue eyes follow in his wife's footsteps.
With love, he watches Ava weaving between patients, doctors and nurses. Relief fills his chest, not only because he has just escaped a harrowing asthma attack, but because he knows that no matter what situation he is in, he can always rely on her.