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Jack dreams of absolutely nothing which is new. No nightmares, nothing, just even breathing and an empty mind. There is a sound though, maybe a feeling that pulls him up from his sleep. It's not loud or sharp but it is a disturbance. The mattress shifts beneath him, again and again. Robby was always a messy sleeping, changing positions multiple times through the night. Jack doesn't open his eyes at first.
Robby's body goes rigid. It's not a jerk or a twitch but it's a sudden, total stillness. It's almost like a wire being pulled to tight. His back arches slightly and his shoulders are locked, arms pressed hard against his sides. Jack feels the tension through the sheets before he understands it, he opens his eyes.
"Robby?" he never uses Robby's first name unless he's angry or worried.
Robby doesn't answer, Jack sits upright in bed and scoots closer to Robby. In the low light from the streetlamp outside Robby's face is strange. His face is strange, jaw clenched, teeth barred and lips pulled thin. His chest isn't rising and there is a sound coming from his throat, a strangled exhale that doesn't repeat.
Jack's brain tries to make sense of it, a mental medicine book opens up in his mind. He goes over the most innocent options. Nightmares, cramps, sleep paralysis. All innocent and benign this that live at the edges of the night.
Then Robby's body begins to shake. A rhythmic jerking, uneven and spreading from his shoulders down his arms and then legs. The bed shakes with him softly, wood ticking against wood. Robby's hands curl inward and his fingers crawl. His head jerks to one side, saliva spilling down from the corner of his mouth. It hits Jack then and there, Robby is having a seizure. Jack is now completely, horribly awake now. He reaches as best as he can and pulls Robby up on his side so he doesn't aspirate.
"Mike!" he says louder, his hand is on his shoulder and he feels the muscle locked hard as stone beneath his palm. It's too hard, that's wrong.
Jack pulls his hand back as the convulsions intensify, Robby's body is now moving up and down, uncontrollable. His heels are striking the mattress and knees are knocking together. First thing Jack notices is that he's breathing wrong. There is absolutely no rhythm to it. There is no inhale and exhale Jack can follow. Just gasps that don't seem to pull air in at all.
Jack sits up, heart hammering. He scans automatically, clinically, even as panic claws up his throat. Tonic-clonic. Generalized. He thinks of all the times he has seen this from a safe distance, fluorescent lights overhead, a team around him. This is different. This is his bed. This husband.
He reaches for his phone with shaking hands. It slips from his grasp, clatters onto the floor. He scrambles for it, fingers numb, mind racing ahead even as he begs it to stop. He knows the numbers. He knows the protocol. He knows the clock has already been running. He dials.
"911, what's your emergency?" he hears a soft voice, his eyes start tearing up.
"My husband had a seizure and can't breathe." he says as calm as he can. Jack looks at Robby’s face, at the stillness where breath should be, at the color of his lips. Jack drops the phone onto the bed, speaker on.
"I need you to check is airway." the dispatcher says, he's already doing it.
He rolls Robby fully onto his back, then tilts his head, lifting the chin the way his hands know by muscle memory. Robby’s jaw is slack now, heavy. Jack sweeps two fingers through his mouth, clearing saliva, a smear of blood from the bitten tongue.
"Misha." he uses the name that only his mother and grandmother calls him, it's saved for special occasions. He says it softly as if saying his name might call him back to his body but there is nothing.
Jack puts his ear to Robby’s mouth, watches his chest but there still no movement. The skin beneath Jack’s fingers feels warmer than it should and it's too still.
"He's not breathing." Jack says, he forgets that he is a physician at that moment. This is personal and despite being known as the calm under pressure guy, he is completely freaking out.
"Okay" the dispatcher replies, "I’m going to tell you how to give rescue breaths."
"I know how to do it" Jack says, and hates how sharp it sounds, "I know."
He pinches Robby's nose shut. He takes a breath of his own, deep and controlled, the way he’s taught a hundred times. He seals his mouth over Robby's. He breathes in. Robby's chest rises, just barely, but it does. The sight hits Jack like a blow, relief and terror at once. He pulls back, counts silently. He gives another breath. Again, the chest lifts, then falls. Still no spontaneous breath follows. He keeps going. Breath, watch the chest rise, pull back, count. His hands are steady but his breathing is not.
He watches Robby's face between breaths, searching for any sign. Seeing if there is a twitch, a swallow, the smallest attempt to inhale on his own. Robby's eyes are half-open, unfocused, staring at nothing. His lips are dusky now, blue bleeding into gray. He breathes for him again.
Time stretches. Jack is acutely aware of everything. The way Robby’s ribs feel under his palm, the sound of air moving where it shouldn’t need help, the smell of sweat and saliva and sleep. This is his husband’s mouth, his lungs, his life.
The dispatcher’s voice checks in, counting with him, anchoring him to the rhythm. Jack adjusts Robby's head again, repositions, making sure the airway stays open. He knows hypoxia. He knows neurons are dying even now, quietly, invisibly. He knows there is no undoing minutes. He keeps breathing anyway.
"Robby" he says again, and this time there’s no attempt at control, "Please." but nothing changes and Jack continues, because stopping is unthinkable.
The sound of sirens comes first as a low wail, distant, then louder, slicing through the quiet of the neighborhood. Jack doesn’t turn because he doesn’t need to. He keeps his hands on Robby's chest, his mouth sealed over his husband’s, counting silently, feeling the tiny rises and falls he is forcing. The front door bursts open. Two paramedics rush in, eyes scanning, hands moving instinctively. Jack steps back, still holding the airway tilt, his own breathing ragged.
"He had a seizure" Jack says quickly, "I didn’t see it start. He’s not breathing and he hasn’t been for maybe six, seven minutes.” sis voice breaks; he swallows, forces it down.
"I’ve been giving rescue breaths." his voice cracks and tears start running down his face.
He can't exist in the world as a doctor at that moment, he is the family of a patient, family of Robby. The paramedics put on gloves, attach monitors, and immediately check Robby’s pulse, oxygen saturation, and airway. Jack watches, frozen between relief and terror. The oxygen monitor is clipped onto Robby's finger.
"Bag-valve-mask" one paramedic says. They lift the mask over Robby's face, squeezing rhythmically. Jack steps back, hands pressed to his knees, letting them take over. Robby's chest rises more steadily now, assisted by the mask. The paramedics exchange a glance.
"We’ve got him" one says quietly, and Jack thinks of it as a strange, sharp kind of punctuation. Not the end, not the beginning, just a pause before whatever comes next.
They work with practiced speed, hooking oxygen, securing IV access. Jack is shoved to the periphery, watching every motion, every breath forced into the man he has loved for decades. The room smells of antiseptic, sweat, and fear.
Jack’s phone is still in his pocket. He can feel the weight of the 911 call, the seconds he couldn’t reclaim, the knowledge that each moment mattered. Robby's body lies still and fragile, eyes half-open, lips a muted gray. He is alive but he is changed. Already, Jack can feel that life has shifted, forever. One of the paramedics looks at him.
"We’re ready to move him to the ambulance" she says. Jack nods, swallowing.
He helps lift Robby carefully onto the stretcher, adjusting blankets around him, his hands lingering for a heartbeat longer than he intends. They wheel him out into the night, sirens piercing the darkness now fully. Jack runs alongside, silent, heart thundering, clutching the small, unbearable hope that somehow, somehow, it isn’t too late.
Robby is wheeled into the emergency bay, still on the stretcher, oxygen mask over his face. Monitors beep softly. The smell of antiseptic and the faint tang of blood fill the air. Jack follows, hands gripping the side rail, feeling every bump along the way. Thank God they aren't going to the PTMC. It would be more emotionally challenging if Robby had to be treated at the hospital he works at, in front of all his colleagues. A nurse speaks quickly, checking vitals: pulse, blood pressure, oxygen saturation.
"Low" she murmurs, more to herself than to Jack. Jack knows, he has known the whole time. A neurologist arrives, brisk, calm, clipboard in hand. She doesn’t flinch at Robby' state.
"Let’s get him stabilized and run a full neuro assessment" she says, directing the team.
Jack steps back slightly, but can’t stop watching. Robby lies limp, chest rising unevenly under the mask, eyes half-open, blinking slowly. The neurologist notes the signs: sluggish pupillary reflexes, subtle facial asymmetry, fine tremors in the fingers.
"He’s survived the seizure" she says, "But he experienced significant hypoxia. His oxygen was critically low for several minutes."
Jack stiffens, he already knows this, he already expected this. It broke his heart though, not knowing what is left of his beloved husband. Jack swallows and stares at Robby's face, the same face he’s kissed a thousand times. It's already changed by the minutes he can’t undo.
She turns to Jack fully. "He’s stable for now. We’ll continue oxygen support, run imaging, and monitor him closely. But be prepared: he may not recognize things he just learned, and his ability to live independently may be compromised."
Jack nods, silent, hands gripping the stretcher as if letting go would mean losing him completely. Robby breathes, assisted but steady, unaware of the weight of the words or the magnitude of what has just happened. The neurologist steps back, leaving Jack alone beside Robby for a moment, and Jack places his hand on his husband’s arm, pressing lightly, memorizing the warmth, the weight, the life that is still here but irrevocably altered.
Jack walks slowly down the quiet hospital corridor. The hallway is bright, antiseptic, sterile but every step feels heavy. He can still see Robby lying in the bed, chest rising under oxygen, fingers twitching faintly, eyes half-closed and unaware of the gravity of what has just happened. A social worker waits outside the neurologist’s office, folder in hand. She gives him a soft, professional smile.
"Mr. Abbot" she says gently, "we need to talk about next steps for Mr. Robinavtich's care." she says softly, sympathetically.
He nods, though his throat feels tight. He already knows. He’s lived through the seizure, the rescue breathing, the monitors, the neurologist’s honest words about Robby's deficits. The question isn’t whether Robby can live safely, it’s how. The social worker leads him to a small consultation room. She sets out brochures for care facilities, home-care services, therapy programs. Jack glances at them without seeing the colors. His mind is elsewhere.
"He’ll need constant supervision" she begins, "Even simple tasks: meals, bathing, moving around safely, will require assistance. Cognitive deficits are severe. Memory loss, confusion, difficulty with executive tasks. Even with home care, you’ll need to be involved." she finishes.
Jack nods again, silent. He’s already imagined it all: Robby wandering into danger, forgetting to eat, frustrated and afraid. He’s imagined himself at the hospital, night after night, holding his husband’s hand, exhausted but unable to stop.
"I can’t manage that on my own" Jack admits, voice low, "I’m his husband, yes, but I can’t, I can’t provide the level of care he needs 24/7." he feels the guilt rise up in his chest.
The social worker doesn’t flinch. "That’s understandable. Many families face this, a care facility can provide structured routines, trained staff, therapy, and safety. It doesn’t mean you’re abandoning him. It means you’re ensuring he lives in the best conditions possible." she says.
Jack swallows. He closes his eyes briefly, picturing Robby: the vacant eyes, the short attention span, the confusion. The man he loves is still there, but the life they shared is already altered beyond repair.
"I want him to be safe" Jack says finally, his voice trembles, "I want him to have structure, someone who can manage the things I can’t. I want him to live, even if it’s not the life we had." he takes a deep breath.
The social worker nods, "Then a care facility is the right choice. We can tour some tomorrow. You’ll be involved in choosing the one that feels right for both of you."
Jack nods again. He looks at the folder on the table, at the photos of sunny rooms, staff helping residents with daily routines. He can’t think about tomorrow yet. He can only think about tonight, about Robby lying in the hospital bed, breathing slowly, oblivious to the weight of the choice he’s making for him.
He exhales slowly, pressing a hand to his forehead, "Okay" he whispers. And somewhere deep inside, Jack feels the ache of loss. Not just the man he has now, but the life they can never return to.
The room is dim except for the monitor glow. Green lines crawl steadily across the screen, the soft beeping almost polite, as if trying not to intrude. Jack sits in the chair pulled tight against the bed, one hand wrapped around the metal rail, the other resting lightly on Robby’s forearm. He’s afraid to grip too hard, he is afraid to let go. Robby is awake. That alone feels like a miracle that tastes faintly of grief.
His eyes move constantly, tracking nothing, skittering from ceiling to wall to the corner where an IV pole stands like a sentry. His mouth opens and closes, lips dry, working as if he’s trying to remember how to use them.
"Hey" Jack says softly. His voice sounds too loud in the quiet room. He leans forward a little, keeping his movements slow and deliberate.
"Hey, Mike. I’m right here." Robby turns his head at the sound, but the movement is delayed, overshooting slightly. His gaze lands on Jack’s face and slides off, unfocused. His brow furrows, deep lines carving into his forehead.
"Where? Robby whispers. The word falls apart halfway through, breathy and uncertain.
"You’re in the hospital" Jack says gently, "You had a medical emergency. You’re safe." he explains. Robby’s eyes widen. His breathing picks up, shallow and fast.
"No" he says, shaking his head, the motion jerky. He trails off, confusion tightening his features. His hand lifts from the bed, fingers twitching, then drops again like it’s too heavy to manage.
Jack moves closer, "It’s okay. You don’t have to remember right now."
Robby looks at him again, more intently this time. His gaze catches, snagging on Jack’s eyes. For a brief, terrible second, there is nothing, there is no recognition, no warmth. Jack feels something inside him crack, quiet and precise. Then Robby’s face changes.
"Sir?" Robby asks, voice thin, Are you, are you a doctor?" Jack’s breath stutters.
He swallows hard, forcing air into his lungs, "I am" he says carefully, "But I’m also your husband." he finishes as tears are running down his face.
Robby recoils slightly, confusion flashing into something closer to fear. "That’s not" he shakes his head again, harder now.
"That’s not right. I don’t, I don’t have…" his voice rises, panicked, "I don’t know you."
Jack stands, heart pounding, and places both hands on the bed rail, grounding himself. He doesn’t reach for Robby yet. He remembers the neurologist’s words. Severe deficits. Disorientation. 'Be patient.'
"That’s okay" Jack says, and it nearly breaks him that it’s true, "You don’t have to know me right now. I know you."
Robby’s eyes dart around the room again, searching for something, maybe an exit, "Where’s my wife?" he asks suddenly.
Jack flinches, but only for a moment, "You don’t have a wife" he says softly. he stares at Robby.
Robby frowns, lips trembling. "No" he insists weakly, "I would remember that.”
Jack nods, "I know you think you would." Silence stretches between them, thick and heavy. The monitor beeps on, indifferent.
Robby’s gaze drifts back to Jack, lingering longer this time. He studies his face with slow, painstaking effort, like trying to read a language he once knew. His expression softens, confusion giving way to exhaustion.
"You look…" Robby murmurs, "You look sad."
Jack lets out a shaky breath. "I am" he admits, "But I’m also really glad you’re here."
Jack stays there as Robby drifts in and out, confused questions repeating in different shapes. Each time, Jack answers them all: his name, where they are, that he’s safe. Every time Robby looks at him without recognition, Jack answers anyway.
Jack sits in the empty visitor chair, the late afternoon light stretching across the small room where Robby now sleeps in a corner bed. The room smells faintly of disinfectant and detergent, a sterile sweetness that makes Jack’s stomach churn. Outside, he can hear distant chatter, footsteps, the clatter of trays. Inside, the quiet is heavy.
He stares at Robby's profile. He's slumped, fragile, oblivious to the weight of the world. His hand twitches slightly, brushing against the blanket, and Jack flinches, wishing he could just hold him. The guilt presses in immediately, sharp and insistent. I’m the reason he’s here, Jack thinks, heart hammering. 'If I’d seen him sooner… if I hadn’t fallen asleep… if I’d done something differently…' The “ifs” spiral endlessly, each one a stone in his chest.
He remembers the seizure, those minutes he can’t erase. The feeling of Robby's body going rigid, the choking silence, the desperate breaths Jack forced into him. The paramedics arriving, the sirens, the rushing. 'I should have saved him faster. I should have kept him alive without this.' but Robby is alive. That part of him wants to speak up, to remind Jack that he did everything humanly possible. That love, not failure, carried them through those minutes. Yet the guilt drowns that thought, persistent and relentless.
Jack runs his fingers along the armrest of the chair, the faint scratches and warmth of previous visitors under his touch. He thinks about the life they had, the plans, the routines, the laughter. All of it feels stolen now. And it’s his fault, even though logically, he knows it isn’t.
He imagines the coming months, years even. The daily routines, the reminders, the endless small failures Robby will experience. The questions Robby will ask again and again, the confusion, the frustration. Jack knows he’ll be there every step but the knowledge of how much he can’t do, of how much he can’t fix, curls around his chest like steel.
"I did what I had to do" he whispers, almost to himself, "I gave him the best chance but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough." he cries
His fingers tighten, knuckles white. He feels like a criminal of circumstance, a witness to the destruction of the life they shared. And yet, he also feels a stubborn, quiet determination: he will stay. He will be Robby's anchor, even if it breaks him. Jack leans back, closes his eyes, and lets the tears come. They're silent, private, the ones he can allow himself before he steps into the lobby and the world resumes. Because guilt and love can exist at once, tangled and raw, and right now, that’s all he has.
The sunlight slants softly through the blinds of Robby's room at the care facility, scattering golden lines across the carpet. Jack sits in the chair he knows by heart, worn leather molding to his shape, the hum of distant activity a steady backdrop. Robby lies in his bed, awake now, staring at nothing in particular, fingers twitching as if reaching for memories that no longer live in him.
Jack watches him and smiles softly, though it’s tinged with sorrow. The man before him is not the man he knew, but he is still Robby. Still the one who laughed too loudly at bad jokes, still the one whose hand fits perfectly in Jack’s.
The guilt that once pressed like stone has softened, settling into something quieter. A dull ache that reminds him of his responsibility, yes, but also of his love. He comes every day, sits beside Robby, reads aloud, hums old songs, tells him stories they shared. Sometimes Robby responds with a smile, a sound, a blink. Sometimes he does not.
Jack has learned to measure success in smaller increments now: a laugh, a moment of recognition, a hand squeezed in reassurance. He has learned that caregiving is not heroic—it is patient, slow, unglamorous. It is love distilled into routine, presence, and the willingness to keep showing up when the world feels like it has ended.
One afternoon, as a breeze stirs the curtains, Robby shifts slightly, his eyes meeting Jack’s for a fleeting moment. Jack leans forward, catching the gaze, and whispers, almost to himself, "I’m still here. I’ll always be here."
Robby blinks. A faint smile curves the corner of his lips. It is enough. Jack exhales, letting a breath he didn’t know he was holding finally escape. Time has changed them, reshaped their lives into something unrecognizable, yet not without meaning. The future is uncertain, the losses undeniable but love, stubborn and enduring, remains.
He takes Robby’s hand gently in his own and holds it, letting the warmth of presence speak louder than words ever could. Outside, the world moves on. Inside, Jack and Robby exist in the quiet rhythm of breathing, together, still. The story of what was is over. The story of what remains is slower, harder, but no less real. And for Jack, that is enough.