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Samira is trying to catch up on her charting when EMS brings in a patient. She gets up to meet them. The patient on the gurney is doubled over in an intense coughing fit as the medics wheel him in through the doors. He looks groggy but alert, and his cheeks are flushed, probably from the fever. It could also be from the truly shocking amount of layers he is wearing for Pittsburgh in August. The medic reports out,
“This is Frank Iero, 44 year old male. Passed out around 20 minutes ago, but now alert. Reporting shortness of breath, persistent cough, fever of 102, and pulse ox measured at 91.” She gestures over her shoulder, “This is his husband, Gerard.”
“Mr. Iero, I’m Dr. Mohan, when did these symptoms start?” Samira asks, guiding the medics towards a (thankfully) open bed in South 19. Frank has stopped coughing for now, but he’s rubbing a tattooed hand on his chest and clearly still catching his breath. Samira looks to his husband, who talks out of the side of his mouth in a nervous pitch,
“Uh, about a week. Colds always hit him pretty hard, so we didn’t think too much of it. The cough has gotten worse, though. He passed out this morning when he tried to get out of bed. Just totally went down, fast. That’s when I called 911” Gerard says, nervously rubbing Frank’s shoulder.
“Did he hit his head?” Samira asks, wondering if they need to monitor him for trauma to the brain as well.
“No, no, I caught him mostly, thank God,” Gerard replies, voice quiet with worry, “I dunno if he lost consciousness, but he definitely couldn’t keep himself upright. It happened fast, I don’t know.”
“That’s ok,” Samira says, “What you told me is great, the most important thing is that he didn’t hit his head. You did great.”
Gerard looks at least a little relieved by her assurances. Samira spots Whitaker as they reach the room, coming from the scrubs dispenser and looking a little frazzled. She calls him over, thinking that this is a good teaching case for a relatively slow day at the Pitt. She sits by Frank’s bed as Whitaker introduces himself to the couple.
“So Gerard, you said Frank gets sick a lot?”
“Yeah,” Frank pipes up, voice raspy, “I have the immune system of a wet paper towel, basically, have since I was a kid. In my 20s I got mono from Epstein-Barr and the fatigue never really went away. I catch everything, especially when we’re on tour.”
“On tour?” Whitaker asks as he starts the standard physical exam for patients who present with a respiratory illness.
“We’re playing PNC Park tonight,” Frank says, grinning. Besides him, Gerard huffs and rolls his eyes. Samira wonders who these guys are, to be playing a stadium show. They don’t look like big celebrities. Frank, maybe, with all the tattoos, but his floppy hair and cozy outfit aren’t screaming ‘famous musician’ to Samira. Gerard especially looks like an assuming person in their late forties. She would guess that they are a couple years older than Frank, with grey chin length hair swept to one side and bulky glasses. They certainly don’t hold themself like a performer might. They have terrible posture and a nervous gait.
“I dunno about that, Frankie,” Gerard says, looking at Frank now with big eyes of concern, “Your fever’s only gotten higher.”
“I’m fine,” Frank insists, “Gee just worries too much. I always get sick on tour. It’s probably bronchitis again. We could have gone to Urgent Care.”
“Do you smoke, Frank?” Samira asks, interrupting what she is pretty sure is a well-trodden argument between the two.
“I did for a long time,” Frank grimaces, “But I mostly quit almost twenty years ago and I haven’t had a cigarette at all for the last five.”
“Do you vape?”
“Unlike this one,” he gestures teasingly at his partner, “I do not.”
“I’m not the one who passed out when he tried to stand up, Frankie,” Gerard answers, voice teasing but eyes pinched with worry.
“Yes, you fainted. Tell me about that.”
“Gee is exaggerating. I just got a little dizzy when I stood up too fast. I’m probably just dehydrated,” Frank says, waving a hand dismissively. He talks with his hands a lot, which is a little amusing and distracting considering Samira’s eyes are reflexively drawn to the dozens of tattoos there.
“Whitaker, what are our next steps,” Samira prompts, turning to him.
“Uh, well, it could be bronchitis, but with his history we should get a chest X-ray to rule out pneumonia,” Whitaker reports. Frank groans something indistinct that sounds like ‘another fucking X-ray’. Gerard chides him gently but takes his hand and squeezes it.
“Sounds like you’ve had your fair share of chest X-rays?” Samira asks. It’s not uncommon for chronically ill patients to have heightened medical anxiety. Frank doesn’t seem anxious, though. He just seems tired of it all. He snorts at Samira’s words.
“You could say that. I’ve had every test under the sun, really. I don’t really like sitting still,” Gerard lets out a little laugh at that as Frank continues, “or being poked and prodded. Or being told that if I just exercised more or something I’d be fine like this is all my own fault anyway.”
“That’s understandable. We’ll keep the poking to an absolute minimum. We’ll just run the tests needed to understand what’s going on with you. And I promise you that no illness is ever your fault, Frank,” Samira says. This is far from the first time she has cared for a patient who had negative experiences with the healthcare system in the past. She doesn’t know who is out there telling patients that anything they are going through is their fault, but she’d like to have a word with them. Frank blinks at her, clearly a little surprised that her attitude seems so different from what he’s heard in the past. Samira turns to Whitaker,
“What do we need to order while we wait for the X-ray?”
“Fluids, tylenol for the fever, and test for viral infection. Pulse ox is low, so we can start a nasal cannula for oxygen. Three liters,” Whitaker says confidently.
“Good,” Samira says as Whitaker moves to the computer to put in the orders. She turns to the patient, putting on a comforting smile, “You’re in good hands, Frank. We’ll start treating your symptoms, and if it’s pneumonia, it’s likely that we can clear it up with antibiotics in just a couple of days.”
“Thanks, doc,” Frank rasps. He squeezes Gerard’s hand and says, “See, Gee? Nothin’ to worry about.”
Gerard drags a hair through his greying hair and draws his mouth into a thin line, but scoots his chair closer to Frank’s bedside to knock their heads together gently. Samira smiles at the sweet sign of affection and excuses herself from the room.
—
Now that Frank is in a hospital gown instead of his sweatshirt and two cardigans, Whitaker realizes that he’s the most tattooed man he’s ever seen up close. His arms and hands are totally covered. Some of the ink is old and fading and other patches are vibrant and eye-catching.
“No way I’m letting you cancel tonight,” Frank is telling his husband in a low voice, sounding a little hoarse but resolved, “Even if I can’t play, there’s at least three people on the crew who can step in. But they can’t play without you. C’mon Gee, someone needs to get slapped around by that fucking clown. Charlie would be so disappointed if we cancelled.”
“No fucking way am I leaving while you’re still here,” Gerard hisses, withdrawing his hand from Frank’s and crossing his arms over his chest. Dennis has some definite questions about what exactly goes on at this band’s concerts. It sounds like some sort of sex thing? He wants to ask about it, but he also thinks it might open a whole can of worms and he has other patients to see to.
“Baby,” Frank starts, but his words are stopped by another round of harsh coughing. Gerard’s hands return to him instantly, rubbing his back as he mutters soothing words. When he finally stops coughing, they don’t return to their earlier argument. Frank leans back against the pillows, eyes sliding shut. He looks more exhausted than he’s let on so far.
“The viral swab is done, no COVID and no flu. You try to rest and let the fluids and tylenol do their thing,” Whitaker says, “I’ll come get you when they’re ready for you at X-ray.”
Dennis backs out of the room and falls into step with Trinity, who is breezing by on her way to the foot vs. glass window injury in Trauma 2.
“How’d you get stuck with Mr. Respiratory Infection in there?” she asks, “Seems boring.”
Whitaker has gotten used to her bluster now that they are friends. He knows she would go above and beyond to care for even the most ‘boring’ patient, but she’ll complain up a storm to any other medical staff who will still listen.
“Mohan pulled me in,” Whitaker shrugs, “Besides, the patient and his husband are interesting. They must be in some kind of band. They said they’re supposed to perform at PNC Park tonight?”
“What?” Santos says, voice flat and eyes going wide as she stops in her tracks, “What did you say the patient’s name was?”
“Uh, Frank,” Dennis responds, “Frank Lero or something like that, why?”
“Oh my fucking god, you’ve got to be kidding me!” Trinity hisses at him, voice a little too high and a little too loud, “Frank Iero is here?”
“Do you know their band or something?”
Trinity listens to a lot of music Dennis has never heard of. He grew up listening to a lot of county top 40 hits and Christian talk radio. Now that he’s living with Trinity, he’s grown accustomed to trying to sleep while she plays stuff with a lot of drums and guitar and loud vocals. He doesn’t think that stuff is necessarily bad, but he much prefers the stuff that Mel has recommended to him. She very kindly made him a whole Megan Thee Stallion playlist when he asked what she was singing to herself while taking a break in the ambulance bay. It’s very different from what he grew up with, but Dennis finds that refreshing.
“How do you not? Jesus, you’re such a fucking huckleberry. They’re from My Chemical Romance, dude,” Trinity rolls her eyes, “Do not let me go in there, I will fucking embarass myself.”
Dennis thinks to himself for a minute. The band name sounds kind of familiar.
“Oh,” he says, “that song about teenagers? Are you a fan, or something?”
“They like, saved my fucking life in middle school,” Trinity groans while giving him a withering gaze. Before she can chew him out further or say what she means by that, Robby is poking his head out of Trauma 2,
“Santos, let’s go, you’re with me.”
She hurries away and Whitaker marvels at how openly emotional Santos got when talking about the band, if only briefly. Her usual non-chalant mask is hard to break. He really isn’t familiar with their music, but it must be pretty powerful for her to react that way. His mom always said that emo stuff was demonic. He wonders what she would say about Mel’s playlist and chuckles to himself under his breath.
—
Frank has to admit that he is pretty miserable right now. His chest hurts, and each round of coughing only seems to make it worse. He feels cold all over from the fever. He’s nauseous too, and not in the way he usually is from his various stomach problems. He’s trying to put on a brave face because he really doesn’t want Gee to worry more than they already are, but he feels weak and bone-tired.
Worse still is the grudging admission to himself that there’s no way he can safely play tonight. Really, he knew that as soon as Gee called 911, but it always crushed him not to be able to perform. It hits just as hard as it did the first time he had to skip a show due to illness, if not more. If he were ten or even five years younger, he’d probably be putting up more of a fight about not playing. On one of the first My Chem tours outside Jersey, he’d played every show with some persistent bug, hallucinating on crazy doses of cough syrup. He knows Gerard feels incredibly guilty now for how he’d been too fucked up to really notice how bad Frank had gotten until Ray made an executive decision, pulling the van over and asking a gas station attendant for directions to the nearest emergency room.
Since he got sober and they finally got together for real, Gerard has always worried more than he should over Frank’s health. Frank tries to be mindful of that, really, because he knows it comes from a place of love. If taking it a little bit easy from time to time gives Gee peace of mind, Frank has begun to willingly do so. He doesn’t insist on playing while seriously ill anymore, as a rule.
Still, there is no way he’s letting Gerard cancel the show entirely. There’s no reason the show can’t go on. Gerard does not have to be stuck here watching Frank pathetically cough himself stupid all night.
“Gee, please,” Frank murmurs. Gerard’s hand is cool where it’s stroking his cheek and Frank leans into it, saying, “Just cause I’m sick doesn’t mean you can’t go out there and kill it.”
“Frankie, we’re not discussing this until you get your chest X-ray and we know what we’re dealing with,” Gerard says, their tone final. Frank sighs, but allows himself to close his eyes and focus on the feeling of Gerard’s comforting touch. They wait for a long time, Gerard occasionally reading him encouraging and funny texts from Mikey and Ray.
“Mikey says that if you die, he gets the first pick of your ridiculous guitar collection. And that he’s scattering your ashes at Dodger Stadium. He also said something really unflattering about the Yankees, but I’m not repeating it out loud.”
Frank tries to laugh, but it hurts too badly, so he settles for an amused snort.
“Oh, and Ray sent this, look how cute,” Gerard says, holding up his phone for Frank to see. It’s a meme of a kitten in bed with big white text telling him to rest and get well soon. The image is deep fried in jpeg rot and littered with like five different water marks of instagram handles. It’s ridiculous, and Frank feels old just looking at it, but also cute and touching.
Eventually, Frank is taken to get his X-ray. It’s a familiar experience and pretty painless, if a little tedious. On the way back, Frank has another coughing fit. It feels like his lungs are trying to force themselves out of his body. Gerard keeps looking at him with that wide-eyed stare, a well-worn look that mixes concern and sadness with a sizable dose of ‘I told you so’. It’s starting to make Frank wince.
“Why don’t you go find the cafeteria and grab a snack? Maybe you could call my mom for me, and update Mikey and Ray while you’re there,” Frank suggests. He loves Gerard so much, but he’s starting to feel like a few minutes of space will do them both some good. Gerard frowns at him, but in the end acquiesces, saying,
“Ok. I’ll bring you something if they have anything you can eat. You skipped breakfast and I know you barely had anything last night.”
After dropping a kiss on Frank’s warm forehead, Gerard goes. Frank watches their little awkward shuffle fondly as they push the curtain aside. As he leaves, the kid doctor with the big, wet eyes returns.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Iero?” he asks, looking at the big computer terminal in the corner of the room.
“Kid, you’re killing me, just Frank is fine,” Frank grimaces. Nothing makes him feel older than being called Mr. Iero. Well, maybe that time an interviewer called The Black Parade an ‘oldie’. That one hurt.
“Frank, then,” the kid says, offering him a somewhat tense smile. He sits down by Frank and clips the pulse oximeter back on Frank’s finger.
“I feel the same,” Frank tells him, “To tell you the truth my chest hurts like a bitch, but I didn’t wanna say that in front of Gee.”
“Why not?” the kid tilts his head.
“They just worry way too much. I’m used to all this bullshit, I’ve been dealing with it my whole life. We’ve been together a long time, but it still freaks them out every time like they’ve never seen me sick before,” Frank huffs. He can’t blame Gerard, and he knows they just want what’s best for him, but he always bristles under too much concern. Frank can’t count the number of family members, friends, and doctors who have advised him to quit touring over the years. If he’d taken their advice, he’d never be where he is today, filling stadiums with his favorite band and doing what he loves. Gee would never suggest he quit, but Frank can’t help but become over-defensive at any implication of taking a break.
“I’m sure it’s just hard for them to see you in pain,” the kid says, smiling sympathetically. The device on Frank’s finger beeps and he removes it to examine the reading, “Ok, the oxygen flow has helped bring your pulse ox up a bit, but it’s still not where we would like it to be. We may need to move to a mask.”
“Ah fuck,” Frank sighs, “I hate those things. I hate not being able to talk or even move my head much. And it looks so dramatic, like I’m fucking dying or something.
“I understand, but it’s better than suffocating,” the kid shrugs. Frank snorts at that and mumbles an agreement. He’s right, but Frank hates feeling so confined in a hospital bed and Gerard is gonna freak out.
“So, how’d you and Gerard meet?” the kid asks, moving over to the computer to do whatever it is he has to do over there. Frank grins, thinking back to 2002, when he’d first met Gerard at a party at the Eyeball house.
“It was love at first sight,” Frank shrugs, not-so secretly thrilled to talk about it, “He was in my favorite band.”
“Oh yeah? And you were a lucky fan?” the kid laughs.
“More like their only fan,” Frank snorts, “But yeah, I worked at their merch table, gave them my practice space, and hung around while they worked on stuff. Eventually, they asked me to join the band.”
“Wow, so how long ago was that?”
“This is the part where you make me feel old. That was 2002, so 24 years ago.”
The kid snickers, “I’m 24.”
Frank just groans and scrubs a hand over his face. Gerard comes back in then, holding a Diet Coke and a handful of various snacks. Frank spots his favorite brand of pretzels and makes grabby hands.
“Are you whining about something, Frankie? Dr. Whitaker, is he giving you a hard time?” Gerard asks, returning to his seat beside Frank. They hand him the pretzels and Frank presses a grateful kiss to Gerard’s cheek just to make them blush a little.
“No, no, if anything I’ve been torturing him,” the kid, Whitaker, as Frank has now been reminded, assures Gerard.
“He’s as old as Bullets,” Frank explains to Gerard. Gerard shudders and frowns. A nurse pops her head around the curtain and hands a folder to Whitaker, announcing that they are Frank’s X-rays.
“Thanks, Perlah,” Whitaker nods to her, then flips open the folder.
“Can we see?” Gerard asks nervously.
“Of course, let me just go get Dr. Mohan and we’ll both discuss the results with you,” Whitaker disappears behind the curtain. Frank reaches out to lace his fingers with Gerard’s.
“It’ll be ok, baby,” he whispers. Gerard just pouts at him and squeezes his hand.
—
Samira has just stepped away from her patient, a young guy who had gone head over handlebars of his electric scooter, when Whitaker calls her name,
“Dr. Mohan,” he says, “I have Frank’s X-ray here. Looks like it’s definitely pneumonia.”
“Okay, let’s take a look.”
Whitaker opens the folder in his hands and reveals the X-ray. Samira grimaces. She’s surprised he hadn’t come to the emergency room sooner. An infection progressed this far must be causing him a lot of pain. She wants an attending’s eyes on this.
“Dr. Robby,” she calls, spotting the man heading in the direction of the men’s room. Robby sighs and turns towards them.
“Our respiratory infection patient’s chest X-ray. Looks like advanced pneumonia,” she reports. Robby looks at the X-ray and whistles.
“He’s on fluids, tylenol, and oxygen. His pulse ox is up a bit from where it was when he came in, but still not breaking 92,” Whitaker says. Samira thinks he’s sounding a lot more confident now that he’s an intern. He’s becoming a very competent and empathetic doctor, really. He’s come a long way since his first day.
“What are your next steps?” Robby asks, peering at them from over his glasses.
“Upgrade him to an oxygen mask,” Whitaker offers. Robby nods.
“And start IV antibiotics right away,” Samira adds.
“Excellent, make sure you include any diagnosis you eliminated in the chart,” with that, Robby turns and rushes to the bathroom before he can be pulled away again.
“One other thing I wanted to talk to you about,” Whitaker says, “It seems like Frank is inclined to downplay his symptoms when his husband is in the room. He’s concerned about making them worry, but we should keep in mind his pain may be worse than he’s letting on.”
“Good observation, we’ll have to keep that in mind,” Samira praises. She’d suspected as much herself. The man had brushed off fainting suddenly as ‘dizziness’ and he clearly doesn’t want Gerard to worry any more than they already are.
Samira and Whitaker head back over to Frank’s room. When they pull back the curtain, the couple is holding hands and both are staring anxiously at the ground. Frank is wincing a little with every breath.
“Hello,” Samira greets as she sits at Frank’s bedside, “How are you feeling?”
“It’s a little harder to breathe, to be honest,” Frank croaks. Samira nods. For a patient like Frank, one who downgrades the severity of their own illness or the acuteness of their own pain, admitting that it’s getting worse takes a lot, especially in front of their concerned partner. Samira doesn’t take that lightly, especially given what Whitaker had already observed.
“Based on your X-ray, you most definitely have pneumonia,” Samira explains, keeping her voice level and calm. Gerard swears under their breath and Frank runs a soothing hand down their forearm. Samira shows them the X-ray image, circling the obvious areas of concern with her index finger, “It’s fairly advanced, but like I said before the treatment is straight forward. You’ll have to be here at least overnight as we start the course of antibiotics.”
“We’ll work on getting Frank admitted so he doesn’t have to spend too much time down here, but beds are scarce upstairs,” Whitaker explains, “We’ll start the antibiotics here regardless. We’ll also need to increase the oxygen flow you’re getting by moving to a mask instead of the cannula.”
“Ah, fuck,” Frank sighs. He sounds more resigned than resistant, Samira notes.
“Is he not getting enough air? Is that a bad sign, that the cannula isn’t working?” Gerard asks, eyes looking a little frantic. Their leg is bouncing up and down rapidly and their anxiety is palpable. They open their mouth to voice more worries, but Samira cuts in smoothly before they get the chance,
“Frank’s oxygen level has improved with the cannula, but still just a bit below what’s considered normal. The mask is just to increase the flow and ensure he’s getting enough to feel a little better, does that make sense?” As she speaks, Gerard seems to visibly calm down, nodding along with her words.
“Yeah, ok,” they say, taking a deep breath. Then, in a teasing voice and poking at Frank’s cheek, “At least with the mask he can’t yap at me.”
“Do you guys have any questions for me?” Samira asks, smiling as Frank grumbles affectionately at his husband. He seems a little cheered up now that Gerard is able to joke.
“Yeah,” Frank rasps, “Is anything likely to change with my condition in the next like, six hours?”
Samira pauses before answering. The question is a little odd, but easy enough to answer.
“Well, no. You’ll just be here resting and starting the antibiotics.”
“Gee,” Frank says, turning to his husband with pleading eyes. If he weren’t a grown man in his forties, Samira would call them puppy dog eyes. “Please go.”
“Frankie,” Gerard sighs, closing his eyes and letting his forehead fall on Frank’s shoulder gently, “I fucking hate playing shows without you.”
“I know that, it’s like you love me or something, dude,” Frank snorts sarcastically, “But you heard her, I’m gonna be sitting on my ass resting up for the night. You don’t need to be here to watch me to do it, right, Dr. Mohan?”
He swings his entreating gaze towards Samira, looking for back up. Usually, Samira wouldn’t get involved in a marital dispute, but Frank has a point, and Samira thinks he’ll probably get more rest if Gerard goes. She nods,
“Ideally, Frank will spend the next few hours resting, maybe sleeping if he can with all the noise down here.”
“I can sleep anywhere,” Frank grins, “All those years on tour buses, man.”
“You’d call me, right, if anything changes?” Gerard asks, swinging his gaze up to Samira and Whitaker.
“Of course,” Whitaker affirms.
“Please, Gee, you have to go play an awesome show for me. You and the guys have to rock out twice as hard while I can’t,” Frank pleads. His voice is thin with the strain on his lungs.
“Alright, ok, I’ll go. I can make it in time for sound check if I hurry,” Gerard sighs, and Frank smiles softly but totally sincerely.
“Thank you, baby, thank you,” Frank murmurs, bringing Gerard’s hand up to his mouth and pressing a kiss to their fingers. Gerard stands up and pats their pockets for their phone and wallet. They bend down to press a tender kiss to Frank’s forehead, then another to his cheek. They whisper together for a moment, words Samira can’t hear but can guess. When Gerard straightens up, but clearly can’t quite convince themself to actually leave the room, Samira offers,
“Whitaker, while you help set up the oxygen, I’ll walk Gerard out,” then turning to Gerard with a kind smile, “that way I can make sure I have your number just in case.”
Outside Frank’s room, Samira takes down Gerard’s number and promises again to call him with any updates. She’s fairly certain there won’t be any, and she tells Gerard as much.
“Thank you, Dr. Mohan, really. You’ve been really helpful,” Gerard says effusively, “I just worry a lot about him, even when I know he’ll be ok.”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” Samira assures him. Gerard still doesn’t look ready to move, eyes flickering to the closed curtain of Frank’s room. He starts to talk, words rushing out of him fast,
“You know one time, when we were touring right at the beginning, we were in this piece of shit van in the middle of winter. We slept in there in the cold between shows, and somewhere in all of that Frank got sick. He refused to miss a show, and after like the fifth one since he started feeling bad, he just collapsed. Like, totally passed out in the back room of that dirty ass club we played that night.”
Gerard pauses for a breath and looks down at their well-worn sneakers. They worry at the hem of their flannel shirt as they continue,
“We took him to the hospital and it was pretty bad. Pneumonia, like this time. The doctor took a look at his history and how bad the infection was and told him that her medical advice was that he quit touring. It’s too much on his system. All the travel, the stress, the exposure to tons of people with tons of germs…”
Samira nods at Gerard, sensing that this is something they need to get out. She doesn’t really know them, but she always makes a point to be a listening ear for her patients and their families. Oftentimes, it’s the most important thing she can do for them.
“He was really upset, of course. The thing is, performing is Frank’s like…purpose in life, you know? I couldn’t stand seeing him so fucking dejected. I was really young and dumb and kind of an asshole, so I told him she didn’t know what she was talking about. That he couldn’t ever quit touring, that he couldn’t ever let any illness or whatever else get between him and the stage. I said we needed him, like the band was more important than his fucking health.”
Gerard’s voice pitches up, and he gets more upset as he continues. He crosses his arms over his chest and hugs himself tightly. Samira slowly extends her arm and places a comforting hand gently on his elbow. He lets out a deep breath and mumbles,
“It’s just that maybe if I hadn’t said that, he wouldn’t be here now in so much pain.”
“Gerard,” Samira says, firm but still kind, “Lots of people with chronic conditions like Frank’s choose to do what they love, even when it sometimes complicates their health. That’s his choice, and it seems to me like you do your best to be a supportive partner and care for him when he needs it. There’s no reason to beat yourself up.”
Gerard nods and blinks, continuing to take deep, even breaths for a few moments.
“Sorry for unloading all that on your, Dr. Mohan. Thank you, really.”
Samira smiles and nods.
“It’s nothing. Good luck with your show tonight.”
Gerard thanks her and she walks him out. Samira will count this as an instance where taking an extra moment to comfort a family member of a patient did some good.
—
Whitaker walks by Frank’s room, sparing a moment to pop his head in and make sure he’s still holding up well now that the oxygen mask is in place. He’s unsurprised to see Frank holding it away from his face, as he has been every time Dennis has checked on him in the last few hours. Dennis sighs and enters the room.
“The mask can’t do much good if you aren’t gonna use it, man,” Dennis reminds him. Frank smiles sheepishly, like a kid who got caught stealing candy.
“Sorry, doc,” he wheezes, “It just feels so weird on my face.”
“Let me see if we can adjust the strap to make it more comfortable,” Dennis offers, bending over Frank to fiddle with the straps of the mask. One of his neck tattoos, high up by his ear, is a faded scorpion. Dennis looks closely at it, feeling like something is off with it. Finally he realizes,
“Oh, your scorpion here only has three legs on one side, did you ever notice?”
Dennis realizes how stupid that sounds as Frank turns to look at him with a flat expression.
“Dude, I’ve had this tattoo your whole life,” he deadpans, then cracks a smile when Dennis blushes a bit from embarrassment.
“Does it mean something?” Dennis asks, trying to recover from his blunder and still messing with the mask’s straps.
“Yes and no. The scorpion itself was just meant to be badass, but the placement meant a lot to me. I got it the day I decided I never wanted an office job. Figured a neck tatt would prevent that pretty well. Actually, the guys in our band pooled together money to pay for it, cause I had like five dollars to my name” Frank reminisces, smiling genuinely now, “I was 21 and dumb, but it was the right call.”
“Wow, that was pretty bold.”
“Yup,” Frank quips, “But I knew I wanted to perform forever, you know? Everyone’s gotta make some bold decisions when they’re young. And when they’re old.”
“That’s true. The boldest decision I ever made was going to med school, does that count?”
“Depends, why’d you decide to go?” Frank asks. Dennis thinks for a moment, finishing up with adjusting the first strap and moving on to the second.
“Well, I grew up on a farm in Nebraska,” he explains, “I majored in Theology in undergrad. Everyone expected me to come home and get really involved with church and help out on the farm. But that didn’t feel right. I wanted to help people, really help them, so I went into medicine.”
Dennis feels like that story is a little silly compared to getting a crazy tattoo. Usually med school is what people are pressured into, not discouraged from. But Frank seems to get it and grins at him and offers him a fistbump, saying,
“That’s pretty badass, man.”
“Thanks,” Dennis replies, smiling back at him. He finishes adjusting the straps and fixes the mask back over Frank’s nose and mouth, “How’s that feel?”
Frank offers a thumbs up, and Dennis takes another reading of Frank’s oxygen levels. When it beeps, he removes the device from Frank’s finger and frowns slightly.
“Your pulse ox is still down from what we’d like to see. Since the mask doesn’t seem to be helping, we might need to try something else to help get you oxygen. We don’t want you hypoxic,” Dennis explains. Frank offers him an exaggerated thumbs down and a frown behind the mask.
“I’ll go talk with Dr. Mohan and we’ll be back to explain more,” Dennis says, standing up, “Try to keep the mask on.”
Whitaker finds Mohan leaving the room of her cannabis hyperemesis patient. She breathes in the relatively fresh air outside of that particular room as she exits. Dennis can sympathize— he somehow gets stuck with a lot of patients who are vomiting uncontrollably. He catches her eye and joins her as she walks over to the board.
“Frank in South 19 isn’t tolerating the mask well, so it hasn’t been very effective. His stats are down to 89 on five liters,” Dennis reports. Samira hums thoughtfully, and Dennis continues, “I adjusted the straps and reminded him to try to keep it on. I guess if they continue to drop, we’ll have to try BiPap?”
Samira opens her mouth to respond, but is interrupted by a shout from the other side of the ED,
“I need a doctor over here!”
They both whip their heads around and see that the source of the yell is Perlah, whose head is sticking out of Frank’s room. Dennis and Samira make surprised eye-contact before rushing over.
“I checked in on him and his mask was on but his stats are dropping,” Perlah reports, “He’s altered and tachy.”
“What’s the diagnosis?” asks a voice Dennis realizes is Dr. Robby, who has appeared over his shoulder. Dennis isn’t sure how long he’s been standing there. Luckily, Mohan is quicker on her feet and responds,
“Spontaneus pneumothorax, his lung collapsed.”
“Stats are getting worse,” Dennis says, “It looks like he’s not protecting his airway.”
“We’ll need to intubate,” Robby says, “Whitaker, you’re up.”
Dennis takes a deep breath. This is always harder with patients who come in stable at first. It’s always shocking to go from chatting about tattoos one minute to precisely forcing a tube down their throat and past their vocal cords so they can get air and survive. He supposes though, that this is what drew him to medicine and then to go into emergency med, like he told Frank. To really help people, he had to be there at that critical moment between sitting up and chatting and a collapsed lung. That’s why he was happy when he matched into residency here, even though his first day was a total disaster. With Robby and Mohan’s guidance, Whitaker completes the intubation and Frank’s stats begin to improve.
“Excellent,” Robby tells him as they prepare to wheel Frank’s bed to the trauma bay and hopefully inflate his lung.
—
The show went alright. Frank put together an awesome setlist for the B stage of course, and as always Gerard had a blast playing with Mikey and Ray and everyone else they dragged onto this ridiculously elaborate tour. It wasn’t the same without Frank, but the tech who subbed in for him at the last minute did an excellent job, and Gerard is confident that the band put on a good show for everyone who came out, even one member down.
Gerard is toweling off show-sweaty hair in the band’s dressing room. Mikey and Ray are teasing each other about their on-stage bits and laughing around him. He reaches for his phone and his heart drops into his stomach when he sees several missed calls from a Pittsburgh area code. Dropping the towel and swallowing heavily, he raises the phone to his ear to listen to one of the voicemails.
“Hello, this is the charge nurse at the PTMC Emergency Department, calling for Gerard” the voice of a woman with a gruff local accent rings out, “There’s been an emergency in your husband’s care. He’s currently stable. Please come back to the ER as soon as possible, and the doctors here will explain everything.”
As soon as Gerard heard the words ‘charge nurse’ their ears had started ringing. They struggled to suck in a breath of air, and their eyes burned.
“Gee?” Mikey asked, “What’s going on? Is it Frankie?”
Gerard couldn’t reply, but they somehow managed to weakly thrust their phone in Mikey and Ray’s direction. Their breaths were coming faster now, sounding distant to their own ears. Gerard feels like their head has been plunged into a bucket of cold water, like they can’t see or hear or feel anything around them. Then, they feel a warm hand on their shoulder and their eyes snap up and meet Ray’s.
“Gee,” Ray says, his familiar voice cutting through the ringing in Gerard’s ears, “Take a deep breath with me.”
Against all odds, Gerard does. Their head starts to clear a bit.
“Mikey is going to take you to the hospital, ok?”
Gerard nods, feels their head moving up and down like it isn’t really theirs.
“Listen to me,” Ray says, squeezing their shoulder, “The nurse said he’s stable. Frank is going to be ok. Go and take care of him, and let Mikey take care of you.”
He folds Gerard into a quick but tight hug. Gerard breathes shakily into his shoulder.
“Love you,” Ray says, “Give my love to Frankie, I’ll come over there as soon as I can.”
Gerard nods again. Ray is right. Frank is stable. Gerard just needs to get to the ER now. Mikey takes him by the shoulder and leads him down some long hallways and finally into a car that is waiting for them around the back of the venue. Gerard isn’t sure who arranged it, but he suspects Mikey and the band’s manager need to be effusively thanked when this is all over. Gerard can’t really think on the drive over except to repeat to himself that Frank is stable. Frank is going to be ok. Frank is stable.
The bright lights of the ER hit Gerard’s eyes like a flash bomb. He gives his name to the staff member behind the desk and he and Mikey are led back into the department.
“Ah,” says an older woman with CHARGE NURSE on her name tag, “You must be Frank’s husband. I’m Dana, I left you the voicemail. Who’s this?”
“My brother,” Gerard croaks, shaking Dana’s hand. Dana smiles warmly at Mikey and shakes his hand too. Gerard feels himself start to shake a little. Mikey places a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
“Alright. Frank is ok, but his lung collapsed. The doctors are working on getting it fixed up right now. He is stable, and the treatment for this has a very high rate of complete success.”
Oh God his fucking lung collapsed. Gerard blinks rapidly. While they were playing some stupid show, Frank’s lung fucking collapsed. And he was alone when it happened. Gerard crosses their arms over their chest and hugs themself tightly.
“Do you want to go be with him while they work?” Dana asks, looking at Gerard with sympathetic but war-weary eyes.
“Yes,” Gerard answers quickly, “Please, take me to him.”
Dana nods gravely and leads them to a large room bustling with doctors and nurses. At first, Gerard can’t see Frank through them.
“This is Frank’s husband and brother in law,” Dana announces to the room, showing Gerard and Mikey where to stand out of the way as the doctors work around them. It’s only then that Gerard looks up and sees Frank.
He’s laying flat on his back, and his hospital gown has been stripped off of him, tattooed skin looking pale in the harsh overhead lighting. There’s something in his mouth covering most of his face, and his eyes are closed. A doctor is marking a point on his chest. Gerard sucks in a shaky breath. It’s comforting to lay eyes on Frank, to see that his chest is moving so he’s breathing, to hear the steady beep of his heart on the monitor. At the same time, Gerard has never been more terrified. Seeing their lively, unstoppable, energetic husband flat and unmoving on the hospital bed is nothing short of excruciating.
Their spiral of thought is interrupted by a doctor coming to stand in front of them. He’s a tall guy around Gerard’s age wearing a sweatshirt over his scrubs.
“I’m Dr. Micheal Robinavitch, I’m the chief attending physician here. I want you to know your husband is in great hands,” he says, voice level and calm. Gerard just nods. They can’t take their eyes off of Frank. The doctors around him are talking to each other in clear, clipped voices. They spot Dr. Mohan, who looks to be explaining something to the younger Dr. Whitaker. A nurse brings them something large wrapped in sterile plastic. When Whitaker unwraps it, Gerard sees that it is a very large needle attached to a tube. Their stomach lurches violently and they can’t help but gasp. They feel Mikey’s hand clutching their elbow. Gerard can’t speak, can’t bring themself to ask what the hell is going on.
“What are they doing with that needle?” Mikey asks, because he’s the world’s best brother and ten times more composed than Gerard ever could be.
“We need to give Frank’s lung room to inflate,” Dr. Robinavitch explains, “Frank developed a small hole in his lung, which caused air to leak into the chest cavity. The pressure built up as more air leaked out, and that’s why the lung collapsed. We use the chest tube to remove that extra air, which should allow the lung to reinflate.”
“Is whatever’s on his face helping him breathe?” Mikey asks.
“Frank wasn’t able to keep his own airway clear, so he wasn’t able to breathe on his own. We intubated him so that the machines can breathe for him and keep him stable while we fix up his lung.”
Oh fuck. Gerard’s heart clenches. Frank can’t even breathe on his own. The machines are forcing air into his lungs, keeping him alive because he’d already have suffocated without them. Gerard feels like his stomach is full of lead. He can feel his eyes burning again, tears of dread threatening to spill over. His eyes stay fixed on Frank as Dr. Whitaker brings the needle to his chest and slowly inserts it, breaking the skin. Gerard finally tears his eyes away from the terrible scene, folding his face into Mikey’s shoulder and collapsing against his brother’s side. Frank isn’t breathing on his own. They’re forcing a huge needle into his chest to try to fix his lung, which has collapsed.
For a moment, one thought rings clear in Gerard’s panicked mind. Frank is going to die. Maybe he’s already dead, and the doctors are just humoring his hysterical husband by carving into his flesh to enact medical theater. Maybe it’s all a show to give Gerard some false hope. Gerard imagines calling Frank’s parents and breaking their hearts. He imagines Frank’s guitars collecting dust at home. He thinks about going back to their hotel room alone. About looking at Frank’s rumpled side of the bed, at the cardigans draped over the desk care, and at his ratty notebook full of song ideas on the bedside table. He thinks about packing all that shit back into Frank’s bags and bringing them home, and then what? He sees their dogs sniffing around their home, looking for Frank but not understanding that he won’t ever come home. Gerard feels wet tears on his face, but he can’t hear himself cry or really hear Mikey’s soothing words murmured against his head.
“I can feel the lung reinflating,” Whitaker announces. Gerard clings to those words.
“Excellent,” Dr. Mohan says, “You can start to slowly withdraw the needle.”
Gerard’s mind is still racing, and they can’t bring themself to look yet. The doctors and nurses working around Frank continue to talk. It’s all numbers and medical terms Gerard can’t make sense of, but they can just about process the positive tone. Still, Gerard can’t stop themself from thinking that the worst is happening.
“Mikey,” they say into their brother’s shoulder, voice thin with panic,“I don’t think I can look. Just tell me, ok? Whatever happens?”
“Ok, Gee” Mikey says in a low voice. He sounds just as scared as Gerard is, but Gerard loves him for being strong. Gerard still can’t look up. What if they do, and they watch as things spiral out of control, as Frank dies. After a moment, Mikey speaks again, “He’s gonna be alright, I know he will. Ok?”
Gerard isn’t sure what to believe, but they nod and finally look up. A nurse is placing a bandage on Frank’s chest and replacing the top of his hospital gown.
“Great work, team,” Dr. Robinavitch says before turning to Gerard and Mikey, “Frank’s body has responded extremely well to the treatment. Once the sedatives we’ve given him have worn off, we can remove the tube and he should have no trouble breathing on his own. We’ll take him back to a regular room and you all are free to sit with him. When he’s awake, we'll talk about next steps.”
Gerard is still too overwhelmed to speak, despite the doctor’s comforting tone. They just about manage to nod, and thankfully Mikey says,
“Thank you, doctor.”
The nice nurse from earlier, Gerard remembers her name is Perlah, accompanies them back to the regular room. Gerard is walking alongside Frank’s bed. They want to reach out and take his hand, but he somehow feels like maybe they aren’t allowed. Perlah catches their eye as they walk and nods at them,
“It’s ok, you just shouldn’t touch near the chest tube site.”
Gerard feels a little silly for feeling otherwise, since really it should have been obvious. But they’re so rattled, nothing feels obvious right now. All they can do is wrap their hand around Frankie’s and squeeze tightly. Gerard can feel that he’s running hot like he always is. His skin feels dry but warm and alive. They let out a shaky breath and rub their thumb gently over Frank’s tattooed knuckles.
When Frank’s bed is settled in the room, Gerard immediately drags a chair as close as possible and leans over Frank’s face. He brushes his hair off of his forehead where his slightly grown-out curls have settled. He stays there, petting Frank’s hair softly and finds himself whispering to him, even though he’s still sedated and can’t hear anything.
“You’re ok, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a feather-light kiss to Frank’s temple, “I love you so much.”
He stays like that, muttering to Frank as he touches him delicately, affirming to himself that Frank is still alive, for who knows how long. Eventually, he feels his voice start to crack and he closes his mouth around a dry swallow. He lays his head down on Frank’s pillow so that his face is pressed near Frank’s neck, right by the scorpion tattoo blazed there.
—
When Frank blinks awake, his lungs ache and his throat feels wrong. Dimly, he’s aware that his mouth is being held open around something.
“Frank?” a female voice says. Dr. Mohan’s face appears in his field of vision. “Right now, there’s something in your throat that is helping you breathe. We’re gonna perform a test now to see if it can be removed.”
Frank tries to nod but fails. His head and neck feel stiff. Someone pushes the head of his bed into a sitting position, and he can finally see more of the room. Gerard is there, looking rumpled and sweaty in their usual post-show outfit of a band t-shirt and camo jacket. Their eyes are puffy and red, like they’ve been crying. They are holding his hand with both of theirs.
“You’re ok, Frankie,” they murmur, squeezing his hand. Their voice sounds raw and wobbly. Have they been crying? What the fuck happened? Frank tries to remember as Dr. Mohan walks him through the test they are doing. The last thing he recalls is fussing with the oxygen mask again, then a sharp pain in his chest. Did he have a heart attack? He forces himself not to panic. Clearly, Gee is already freaked out enough by whatever went down. Dr. Mohan announces that he has passed the test, and the tube in his throat can come out. A nurse he doesn’t recognize applies suction to his mouth, making it dry. He’s told to cough as they pull out the tube, which he has no problem doing, as painful as it is.
He sputters and flexes his jaw when the tube is finally out. Gerard reaches one hand up to stroke his cheek gently, and Frank leans into the touch. He tries to say their name, but it just comes out as a pained wheeze.
“You can expect to feel some soreness and trouble talking, but there’s been no damage to your vocal cords,” Dr. Whittaker explains. Another doctor is in the room, a tall guy with a beard not much older than Frank. He sits down at the side of Frank’s bed not occupied by Gerard.
“I’m Dr. Robinavitch, I’m the chief attending physician here. You can call me Dr. Robby or just Robby is fine. Why don’t I fill you in on what happened?” he says. Frank nods eagerly. “In short, your lung collapsed due to a small hole that formed, likely as a complication of the pneumonia.”
Frank’s eyes widen in shock. Collapsed? He squeezes Gerard’s hand.
“We successfully reinflated your lung by inserting a needle into your chest and drawing out the excess air around the lung, allowing it to expand. The procedure went perfectly, and the leak in your lung is tiny and should heal on its own with plenty of rest,” Dr. Robby explains, “However, recurrence is a major risk for this kind of thing.”
At that, Gee makes a distressed noise beside him, and Frank squeezes his hand.
“There’s up to a 50% chance of it happening again, usually within 2 years of the first incident. You’ll need to watch out for signs of chest pain or shortness of breath, but there’s no reason to believe in your case that it’s quite that likely, barring another severe bout with pneumonia.”
“But he’ll be ok now, right?” Gerard asks, leg bouncing up and down. Frank can see all the places where they didn’t quite manage to wipe off their stage make up. It’s still smeared white by their ears where they always forget to clean it up. They must have come straight from the show. Their face is pinched with anxiety, mouth in a sad slant. Frank wants nothing more than to assure them that he’s fine, to hold them and comfort them. But he can’t really speak yet, and he’s stuck on this damn bed.
“Yes,” Dr. Robby assures them, “Dr. Mohan and Dr. Whitaker did an excellent job intervening with the collapsed lung, and there’s no reason he shouldn’t continue to recover normally from the pneumonia. We’ll want to keep him here for a while longer, just to keep an eye on him, but that’s just a precaution.”
“Thank you, all of you,” Gerard says sincerely in a small, subdued voice.
“Of course,” Dr Mohan says, smiling, “Why don’t we step out and give you guys a moment?”
The medical staff files out, leaving just the two of them in the brightly lit hospital room. Gerard’s face immediately crumples, and Frank’s heart aches for him. He leans forward and rests his forehead on Frank’s shoulder lightly and takes a deep breath.
“Fuck,” he says after a moment, “I’ve never been more fucking scared in my life, Frankie.”
Frank lifts his hand to brush into Gerard’s greasy hair. He takes a deep breath and winces, then manages a quiet whisper.
“I’m so sorry.”
Gerard lifts his head to look Frank in the eye.
“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have let you convince me to leave. After the show I had missed calls from the hospital, and I didn’t know what to think. And then I came here and you were on the ventilator and they were sticking giant needles in you,” Gerard says, voice cracking, “Maybe it was ridiculous, but I thought I was going to watch you die.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Frank says hoarsely, shaking his head. He will not let Gerard blame himself for this. He can’t even imagine how terrifying it must have been. He imagines seeing Gerard in the same situation and shudders. He can’t help but think and worry about what Gerard would do if he had died, if something had gone wrong and in an instant Frank was gone and Gerard was left alone. He feels tears threaten to spill over. Gerard brushes an errant tear away with his thumb and leans down to press a chaste kiss to Frank’s sore and chapped lips. When he pulls back, he steels himself before saying,
“Something has got to give, Frankie. I’m not saying you quit or we stop touring entirely, but I will not let anything else like this happen to you. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you push yourself to the brink anymore.”
They look at Frank with their serious business expression, their eyebrows drawn tight and their mouth in an inadvertently adorable pout. They’ve had this conversation before, and usually Frank puts up a fight. But this time, he’s tired and Gerard is right.
“Ok, Gee,” he whispers, squeezing Gerard’s hand.
“We’ll talk about it more when you’re feeling better, ok?”
“Promise,” Frank assures them. Gerard kisses his cheek and then his forehead. They pull their face back to look at Frank. They look like they’re drinking him in with those big eyes of their’s, like they can’t stand the idea of looking away from Frank’s face.
“I love you,” Gerard says, sincere and full of feeling.
“I love you too, so much,” Frank rasps. He lets his eyes slip closed as Gerard pets his hair and leans forward in their stool so the two of them can be close.
—
The next day, Dennis clocks in for his shift and sees that Frank is still there. Luckily, someone on the night shift had convinced Gerard to go back to their hotel and shower between when Whitaker had left last night and now. Gerard looks much fresher with washed hair and much less devastatingly sad now that Frank is doing much better on the antibiotics. Dennis looks in on them at the beginning of his shift.
“Hey, man,” Frank greets him, chipper if still a little hoarse from the extubation.
“How are you feeling?” Dennis asks, smiling. Gerard is sitting at his bedside, clearly still reluctant to leave him, but looking much less anxious than they had last night.
“Great,” Frank reports, “Much less sore, and I’m breathing a lot easier. I’m actually feeling hungry.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Whitaker smiles, “Breakfast should be served soon, since you’re an admitted patient, but I can have someone grab you a sandwich in the meantime?”
“That’d be awesome,” Frank grins. Dennis is relieved to see him up and smiling so soon after the drama of last night.
Dennis leaves the room and returns to the chaos of the rest of the department. The ED is completely swamped this morning, in addition to being understaffed. As he leaves, he spots Gerard’s brother and another man, taller with long curly hair and a full beard, enter Frank’s room with visitors' badges on. He moves to the board to see what cases he can pick up, and he spots Santos charting.
“Trinity,” he starts, trying to sound as pathetic and in-need as possible, “Could you please bring my patient in South 19 a sandwich? I really need to get back to the bowel impaction patient with the med students…”
“Huckleberry, I told you I can’t fucking go in there, especially not now, the whole fucking band just walked into that room,” Trinity hisses at him.
“Well, I guess you could take the poop cannon and I can bring the sandwich to the nice, non-poop related patient…” Dennis suggests.
“Fine,” Trinity groans. She stalks to the food cart and selects a sandwich, then closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before walking uncharacteristically slowly to Frank’s room. Dennis laughs under his breath at the dramatics.
A little while later, he sees her leaving the room wide-eyed and red-faced, clutching a piece of paper with four big signatures on it as she exits.