ALEX
I open my eyes as little as I could, holding my breath. A responder attaches some kind of breathing bag into my mouth and presses air into my lungs. I cough and turn away at the intrusion.
“He’s breathing,” the responder says.
The doctor glances at me, narrowing his eyes. He uses his stethoscope and places it on my chest. I hold my breath.
“He’s fine,” the doctor says.
No. No. No.
I open my mouth to speak, but I’m too weak to do so. I gasp for air, trying to oxygenate my brain as soon as possible.
“He’s back. I’ll take it from here. Just leave the ambu-bag, will you?” The doctor says.
“But…” the responder starts. “Are you sure? He still needs to be checked at a hospital.”
“I’m a doctor. I can take care of my own husband.”
I shake my head, tears spilling out of my eyes. I mov
