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The fluorescent lights in the staff room flickered faintly, their hum grating on his already frayed nerves. Dr. John Frost rubbed his temples as he sank into one of the worn chairs near the lockers. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion. There was something heavier pressing down on him, like a weight he couldn’t shrug off, though he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
The day hadn’t been bad, not really. No codes, no life-or-death races against time. The worst he’d seen was a teenager with a fractured femur from a botched skateboarding trick. It had been the kind of shift that gave him a chance to breathe—rare at Chicago Med. But instead of relief, an uneasy emptiness gnawed at him, making everything feel heavier than it should.
"Yo, Frost," came a familiar voice, snapping him out of his thoughts. Dr. Mitch Ripley strode in, the picture of confidence in his navy scrubs, stethoscope dangling carelessly from his neck. “You done for the night?”
John nodded, leaning back in the chair. "Yeah. Just grabbing my stuff."
Mitch raised an eyebrow as he grabbed his coat from a nearby hook. "You look like hell, man. Long shift?"
"Not really," John admitted. "It’s been... fine."
"Fine?" Mitch repeated with a knowing smirk. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you describe a shift that way. You’re either fired up or tearing your hair out.”
John managed a weak chuckle. “Guess today’s an exception.”
Mitch studied him for a moment, his amused demeanor slipping slightly, concern bleeding into his tone. “Alright, well, you’re off the hook. But listen, we’re all heading to Molly’s after this. Come grab a beer, decompress a little.”
John shook his head before Mitch could even finish the invitation. “Nah, I’m good. Just need to get home, get some sleep.”
Mitch didn’t press, though his brow furrowed slightly. “Suit yourself. But you know where to find us if you change your mind.” With a wave, he disappeared down the hall.
John exhaled slowly, the sound shaky even to his own ears. He sat there for a moment, trying to summon the energy to stand. His chest felt tight, the muscles in his neck tense and unyielding. The thought of the journey home loomed in his mind like an insurmountable task. He still had to catch the bus. Then cook something, even if it was just heating up leftovers.
The more he thought about it, the more impossible it all seemed. His heart began to race, his breathing growing shallow. He placed a hand on the table in front of him, hoping to steady himself, but the surface felt unsteady beneath his fingers, as if the entire room were swaying.
A wave of dizziness washed over him, and his hand slipped off the table, sending his bag tumbling to the floor. The loud thud echoed in the quiet room, sharp and jarring. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out.
“It's okay,” he whispered to himself, gripping the edge of the table as if it could anchor him. His chest heaved, his breaths coming in fast, shallow bursts. It felt like his lungs couldn’t expand enough to take in the air he so desperately needed. “It's okay. Breathe. Just breathe.”
But it wasn’t working.
The tightness in his chest grew worse, a crushing weight that made his head spin. His hands were trembling now, and when he tried to lift one to rub at his face, he realised they were clammy, slick with sweat.
“Calm down,” he muttered, his voice trembling. But the words were useless, swallowed by the rising tide of panic that he couldn’t seem to control.
His mind raced, thoughts tumbling over each other in a chaotic blur. What if he was having a heart attack? Or a stroke? The rational part of his brain tried to tell him it was just anxiety, just exhaustion catching up with him, but the fear was louder, drowning out everything else.
The room felt smaller, the walls closing in around him. He tried to stand, thinking maybe he just needed to get outside, to feel the fresh air on his face, but his legs wobbled beneath him, and he had to clutch the back of the chair to keep from collapsing. His vision blurred, dark spots creeping in at the edges, and his breaths came faster, each one shallower than the last.
“Stop,” he gasped, though he wasn’t sure if he was talking to his body or his mind. “Stop it.”
But it wouldn’t stop. The panic had taken hold, and it wasn’t letting go. His hands were shaking violently now, his fingers curling into fists as if trying to physically fight off the crushing weight in his chest. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked them away, too overwhelmed to care about the shame that would follow.
His head dropped into his hands, his fingers gripping his hair as he rocked slightly in the chair. The dizziness was worse now, his stomach churning along with it. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think past the deafening roar of his own heartbeat in his ears.
And then, just when he thought he might lose consciousness, a voice broke through the fog.
“John?”
He jerked his head up to see Mitch standing in the doorway, a frown creasing his face. The other doctor was holding his stethoscope, which he must have forgotten earlier.
John tried to straighten up, to force a casual smile, but the effort crumbled as quickly as it began. His face contorted, and before he could stop it, a sob escaped his lips.
“Hey, hey,” Mitch said softly, stepping into the room and setting his stethoscope aside. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
John shook his head desperately, the tears coming faster now, unstoppable. His chest heaved with the effort to breathe, each gasp feeling like it wasn’t enough. “I... I can’t—”
“Alright, alright,” Mitch said quickly, crouching in front of him. “Look at me. Just look at me, okay?”
John’s eyes locked onto Mitch’s, wild and filled with panic.
“I don’t—” John choked, his voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I can’t... Mitch, I can’t breathe—”
Mitch’s expression softened further, his voice calm and steady. “Hey, listen to me. It’s okay. You’re having a panic attack, that’s all. I promise, it feels awful, but you’re not in any danger. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
John sobbed harder, shaking his head. “No, no, it’s not—this feels wrong, Mitch. My chest—” He pressed a trembling hand to his chest. “It hurts.”
“I know,” Mitch said, his hand resting firmly but gently on John’s shoulder. “I know it feels awful, but it’s not your heart. It’s the adrenaline talking. It’s making everything feel worse than it is. But you’re okay, John. You’re safe.”
John squeezed his eyes shut, his whole body trembling. “I’m so scared,” he whispered.
“I know,” Mitch said, leaning closer so John couldn’t look away. “But I’m right here. We’re going to get through this together. Just focus on me, okay? Nothing else. Just me.”
Mitch placed a hand over John’s, anchoring him. “Feel my hand? That’s real. You’re real. You’re here. We’re here. And we’re going to take this one breath at a time.”
John’s breaths were still shallow and fast, but he tried to follow Mitch’s exaggerated breathing. In through his nose. Out through his mouth.
“Good,” Mitch said, nodding encouragingly. “That’s good. Keep going. You’re doing great, John. Just like that. A little slower now.”
Bit by bit, John’s breathing began to slow. The tears kept falling, and the tightness in his chest lingered, but the crushing weight began to ease. His hands, still shaking, slowly unclenched.
When his breathing finally evened out, he sagged back in the chair, utterly drained. Tears still streaked his face, and he wiped at them with trembling hands.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?” Mitch asked, his tone gentle but insistent. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. You hear me? Nothing. This happens to the best of us.”
John shook his head, a fresh tear slipping down his cheek. “I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been fine all day, and then—”
“You’ve been holding it together for weeks, man,” Mitch interrupted. “No one can keep running on empty forever. Your body just decided it was time to hit the brakes.”
John didn’t respond, too drained to argue.
“Come on,” Mitch said, standing and grabbing John’s bag from the floor. “You’re not taking the bus like this. I’m driving you home.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” Mitch cut him off firmly. “Let’s go. No arguments.”
And for once, John didn’t fight back.
John let Mitch guide him out of the staff room and into the parking lot. The cold night air stung his skin, but it helped clear his head a little. Mitch unlocked his car and opened the passenger door for him, waiting until John was settled before climbing into the driver’s seat.
The ride was quiet, the only sound the low hum of the engine. John leaned his head against the window, the exhaustion he’d been fighting all day finally overtaking him. His eyelids grew heavy, and before he knew it, he was asleep.
Mitch glanced over at him at a red light, his expression softening. “You’re gonna be okay, Frost,” he murmured, though John wasn't awake to hear it. For the first time in weeks, his face was peaceful. And Mitch? Mitch was just glad he’d come back for that stethoscope.