“His temperature is extremely high,” Bashert says, glancing at the monitor. “We’re running labs now. It could be sepsis. We won’t know until the bloodwork comes back, but he’s showing multiple signs.”
My stomach drops.
“What… what does that mean?” I ask, my voice barely there.
“It means the body is fighting something serious,” the doctor explains. “We’ve started IV fluids, antibiotics, and oxygen. His blood pressure is unstable but improving. For now, we’re watching him closely.”
I don’t even know how long all of this takes. My brain keeps skipping moments, like it’s censoring everything too traumatic to process. His blood pressure monitor keeps beeping.
Oxygen tubing keeps fogging.
Nurses move around him like they’re all performing a dance.
My God… he was fine. This morning when he left, even though he was taciturn, he was… he was fine.
This feels like a dream.
All of it.
And then… his fingers twitch.
His eyelids flutter.
And suddenly Lincoln’s eyes open fully, wide and terrified. Within seconds he starts hyperventilating, his whole chest rising fast.
“Gabby! Ga—Gabby! GABBY!!! GABBY!!! GABBY!!!” he calls out, frantic, his voice breaking as he tries to sit up before the nurses gently hold him down.
I shoot up from the chair.
“NO! GABBY! Where’s my wife!? I need my wife! Where—”
“Lincoln, everything is okay,” one of the nurses cuts in to attempt to calm him.
Another does the same. Nothing works and a male nurse has to step in to restrain him.
“GABBY!!!! GABBY!!!!!” he yells so loud his vocal cords sound like they pop.
“LINK! HEY! Hey, I’m here, Link. I’m here,” I say quickly, going right to his side.
He reaches out his hand past the nurses, and when I hold out mine, he grabs it like he’s drowning.
His eyes, God, his eyes, they look so big, like he’s burning alive in some kind of hell, desperate for something familiar to hold onto.
He is terrified.
Completely out of it.
His skin is cold and hot at the same time, his grip tight, almost painful.
“Gabby… please don’t leave me!” he begs, choking a sob, his voice cracking as he hyperventilates. “Please… I—I’m scared… please… please don—please don’t—please don’t le—leave me!”
I want to cry. I’ve never seen him this terrified in my life.
A nurse moves closer.
“He has a bit of white coat syndrome,” I explain gently. “It’s really bad.”
“I know. We’re giving him something to calm down.”
