“Any dizziness or vomiting?” I ask, making sure to keep my voice soft and soothing.
“Dizzy, yes, kind of. No v-vomiting, though.”
I nod. “Okay, and can you tell me when these symptoms started, Larry?”
Squeezing his eyes shut, the hand pressing against his chest drops, gripping the armrest on the recliner, his knucklesblanch. “A while now,” he rasps as he opens his eyes and meets my gaze. They’re wet and bloodshot. “Since I lost my Dolly. B-but it’s never been like this.”
“Is Dolly your wife?”
“We were married for fifty-four years before she died,” he laments, voice trembling, the anguish and poignancy he feels palpable.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say sincerely. “When did she pass?”
“Three months ago,” Larry offers, barely above a whisper. “Came home from running errands one day and found her unconscious on the floor in front of her vanity.” The corner of his mouth twitches as a longing, thoughtful look passes through his gaze. “Dolly would do her hair and put on makeup every single day, even though I always told her she didn’t need to. She was just as beautiful without it, but she loved it. It made her happy.” The thoughtful expression turns sad. “I called 9-1-1, and they took her to the hospital, but it was too late. They couldn’t save her. An aneurism in her brain.” Larry drags in another ragged breath. “They couldn’t save m-my Dolly.”
My throat tightens. I can’t imagine loving someone for fifty-four years, and then losing them in the blink of an eye. Death is inevitable; we all experience loss at some point, but I don’t think anything—not time, not wisdom, not age—can prepare us for the pain that comes from outliving the person you love most in this world. It’s heartbreaking.
Given what Larry’s told us and the way his breathing is slowly returning to a normal pace, I have a hunch about what happened this morning, but I won’t know for sure until we find out some more information.
“Can you walk us through your mornin’ up untilyou called 9-1-1?” I ask, hoping something stands out that can prove my hunch.
Larry nods as he removes the oxygen from his face. “I’m what my Dolly called a creature of habit. Been that way since my time in Vietnam.” He chuckles. “Every mornin’, I wake up at six, shower, eat breakfast, then spend a couple hours outside, readin’ the newspaper and workin’ in my vegetable garden. My Dolly loved gardening.” A far-off look clouds his gaze as he glances out the sliding glass door to the balcony. Following his gaze, I spot the garden he describes, taking up about a third of the space out there. “When I moved in here after she died, I wanted somethin’ that reminded me of her. Workin’ in the garden has become my favorite part of each day.”
“That’s sweet.” A smile tugs at my lips. “I’m glad you found something that brings you joy. What did you do after working in the garden?”
“Well, then it was time to check the mail. After walkin’ down to the mailboxes, I was feelin’ hungry and had planned to eat once I got back up here and opened the mail. The chest pain came on before I had a chance to fix myself somethin’ to eat, though.” Then Larry reaches for a piece of paper stuck under the medic bag and hands it to me. Reading through the letter, it’s a notice to enter and do an annual inspection from a property management company who appears to own the building. “I don’t want no fuckin’ strangers comin’ in my house,” he grumbles.
Folding the paper, I hand it back to Larry. “I understand that. I’m not fond of people comin’ in my personal space either, but it looks like they do this every year for all units. They’d probably be in and out in no time.”
“No!” he booms, the grip on the armrest tightening as his breathing kicks up again. My gaze flits over to James,and he nods, putting the oxygen mask up to Larry’s mouth. A minute later, he relaxes some, and as he takes the mask off, his shoulders sag and he looks down to his lap. “I don’t know how it got this bad,” he murmurs quietly. Confusion wrinkles my forehead until he continues. “I know how my house looks. The boxes, the trash, the dishes. I know, okay? I’m not proud of it. I just… I can’t bring myself to get rid of any of it. I tell myself I’ll tackle a room tomorrow, then tomorrow comes, and I can’t. They can’t come in here and see all this. My Dolly would be so embarrassed.”
His voice cracks as a tear spills over, streaming down his flushed cheek. I’m hit with the strongest urge to wrap him in a hug when he turns his head away from us, as if trying to hide his emotion—a reaction I’m all too familiar with. Not wanting to overstep or make the patient uncomfortable, I don’t do that. After we administer more oxygen and finish our work up, we’re able to conclude it’s not a heart attack Larry’s experiencing, but instead, most likely anxiety. Meaning, my hunch would be correct. Given when his symptoms started, I’d say Larry’s been struggling with it since losing his wife, and what happened this morning was likely a panic attack caused by the inspection notice.
Once my team explains everything to Larry, we strap him to the gurney and prepare him for transport to the hospital. Firefighters aren’t medical professionals, so we aren’t able to diagnose anyone. Given how intense his symptoms were and how they mimic more serious medical conditions, like a heart attack, we prefer to err on the side of caution and have the patient checked over by a doctor. Outside, James and Chandler get him loaded in the back of the ambulance before they head to the hospital while me and the rest of the crew hop in the engine and start the short drive back to the station.
With a deep breath, I grab my phone and pull upHive, reading the notification waiting for me.
KnockinBoots: What part freaks you out?
“Is that what I think it is?”
At the sound of Remi’s voice, my head snaps up and meets his gaze as I fumble with locking my phone. “Sorry, what?”
Nodding toward the phone in my lap, he smirks and asks, “That wasHive, right? You took my advice?”
“Whoa, hold up.” Kian cuts in from the driver’s seat, lifting his gaze to the rearview mirror. “You tellin’ me Captain’s on the hunt for a pretty fella to warm his bed? Since when?”
“That’s what I’m tryin’ to find out,” Remi drawls. “Since when, Cap?”
Sam chuckles to himself from the front seat beside Kian while Millie, who’s sitting directly across from me, turns her gaze out the window as she tries—and fails—to bite back a grin.
Jesus Christ.
“It’s none of your damn business,” I grumble, cheeks heating. “And never say ‘pretty fella’ ever again.”
Kian clicks his tongue. “Come on, Cap. Where’s the fun in that?”
“My personal life isn’t meant to be fun foryou.”
