Micheal Robinavitch - 907

The rain outside of Robby's brownstone taps agasint the windows softly while the city beyond the windows turns blurry with a mix of golds, and grays.

You sit in the middle of the couch, your legs crossed like you're back in elementary school. The hoodie you're currently wearing is an old Pitt hospital hoodie one that belongs to Micheal. You stare blankly into the tv looking at the pause button that keeps flashing across the screen at you.

While the heating pad that is resting agasint your lower belly continues to make the underneath of your own blanket a personal sauna. The period cramps had started early in the morning, Micheal called out of work right away.

By noon you won't dare say it out loud but you're more then happy that he stayed home today. The exhaustion has hit you like a freight train, and by evening you feel like your emotions have been cut into exposing parts of you that you didn't want exposed.

Add on the PMDD which just makes you feel like someone had ripped you apart from the inside and turned everything raw.

Micheal knows the cycle by now. After two full years of being with you and a year of finally understanding. He's got it down to a 't' most of the time. He comes out from the kitchen with two mugs one in each hand of an herbal tea you keep for exactly this kind of day.

His curls are still a little damp from his shower. The low hung sweatpants, and the long-sleeved shirt pushed up to his elbows he takes his seat next to you on the couch.

Setting on mug onto the coffee table underneath an old yard sale coaster you had bought a few months into your living together. Before he looks at you for exactly half a second.

"You've be saying 'i'm sorry' for most of the day." He says. You blink out of your daze. "What?" Complete lost in the pain, "Motek you keep saying your sorry like every ten minutes."

Your chest tightens and you play with your fingers. "I know I'm just…" You see Micheal shake his head from next to you. "There you go again." He mutters quietly.

You look away far too embarrassed.

See the worst part about PMDD isn't really the pain anymore. It's the overflowing guilt you consistently feel. The feeling that you're getting too emotional, too sensitive, and become too difficult to love anymore.

Micheal lets out a tired sigh, leaning back into the cushion of the couch with a groan. "Do you wanna know what you've been up to today?" He asks, "barely fuckin' surviving." You mutter bitterly under your breath.

"You've folded all the laundry." He begins holding up one finger, "You fed yourself, which we both know wouldn't have happened if I had gone to work today." He say adding another finger. "And you even yelled at me for reorganized the cabinet in the bathroom the wrong way."

There is a reluctant smile that tugs at the corners of your lips. "I for one think I did it correctly." He argues playfully. "You put the skincare next to the pain cream. What are you a pscyho?" Micheal shakes his head at you, "It's called being efficient Motek."

You laugh weakly before another wave of emotions comes crashing taking your smile away. "I really just hate feeling this way." Micheal face softens immediately.

Robby reaches over pulling both of your legs into his lap gently even though you protect muttering "I'm all gross and hormonal." He scoffs "Yeah." He says flatly "It's tragic. A human women feeling, and experiences hormones. Please lets alert the entire Pittsburgh media team."

You snort even though you don't want too, as Robby rubs the smallest circles of comfort into your skin absentmindedly. The motion is grounding you without making a huge deal out of it. This is his way, always steady, and never dramatic.

"You know Motek you don't have to earn being taken care of." He says quietly after a few moments pass. The words hit harder and cause you to swallow dryly. "I know that it probably gets very exhausting."

You've never seen Robby turn so quickly, his brows knitted together like the sheer suggestion of you annoying him, of you making him exhausted annoys a part of him deeply.

"Do you honestly think that i love you with conditions?" He asks sounding genuinely hurt.

"Well… no."

'Good because I don't." His voice stays certain and calm. "I love you. Not some sort of mode you put on for everyone else." You feel your eyes start to burn and the way your throat tightens.

Robby takes notices immediately "Don't you start crying either cause that will mean I've only made this worse." You let a weak laugh "There's my sweet girl." He murmurs.

The Pittsburgh rain still continues outside the window. Your insides still feel like someone is stabbing you over and over. Your emotions are still crashing over your likes waves on the beach front.

Yet Robby stays right there. One hand resting warm and gentle against your leg. While the cup of tea he pulled out is slowly getting forgotten on the coffee table.

As if none of this will end up scaring him away. As if loving you through the hardest parts of your life is the easiest thing in the world for him.

Frank Langdon - 951

The only light on in the apartment is the dim light that you always leave on above the stove. You hear the front door unlock and you know that Frank has gotten home. According to the clock it's sometimes after midnight.

There is the familiar sound of Frank dropping his keys into the ceramic bowl near the entrance of the front door. You hear the long exhausted sigh that Franks lets out.

Normally… usually you'd be there already to greet him by the front door.

Tonight is different though. You're stuck in bed unable to move. Curled tightly underneath the blankets on the couch. A heating pad pressed hard against your stomach as you stare at the uneaten and cold take out that sits lonely on the coffee table.

The cramps all day had been brutal. Like mini warriors battling in your lower stomach. It really wasn't the cramps that had drained you today. It had been the onslaught of PMDD spiral you had gone through.

The exhaustion.

The sadness.

And the certainty that everything around you was just becoming far too much to handle. There is a flash of Frank in the hallway, dark scrubs still hugging his taller frame. The curls that are always maintained to perfection are now flattened after a 12 hour shift in the ER.

The second the man sees you his overworked and tired expression changes. "Hey sweetheart." He says quietly. You try to smile but it's fake and he can tell right away. "Hi."

Frank is slow to cross the living room, tossing the old jacket of his over the back of one of the recliners before crouching at the side of the couch. There is one warm hand settling against your skin through the couches throw blanket.

"How bad is it sweetheart?" He asks, You swallow and breath out. "It's bad enough that I was crying over a fucking target commercial earlier." Franks brows pinch together. "That bad, baby." He whispers.

"There was this girl, and her mom…" You start to feel your eyes getting wetter the more you start to explain. "I'm not judging you honey." He interrupts you gently.

You really fucking hate this part. The feeling so fragile, the feeling like your own body and hormones are just hijacking your brain every month. Turning everything into a heavy unbearable thing. "I'm sorry, Frank." You whisper.

You feel Franks tighten instantly. "Nope." He says shaking his head at you. You just blink at him. "We are so not doing this tonight." You curl tighter into the throw blanket. "I know that I can be dramatic sometimes…'

"Sweetheart absolutely not." his voice is calm, but firm in the same way that sends a wave of okayness over your body. "You are in pain, probably have been all day long. Those are very different things."

The tears actively now long before you can stop them. "Fuckin' hell." Franks mutters. He stands, disappearing down the hallway. He's gone for just a few minutes. When he returns he's wearing an old pairs of sweatpants and carrying on of his now your oversized hoodie.

Without a single word spoken between the two of you he helps you sit up gingerly pulling the hoodie over the top of your head like he's afraid you might end up breaking in his hands if he moves to fast with you.

Once you're finally settled once again he's back to crouching at your side. "Did you eat anything?" He asks, you make a face, "Yeah I thought that was gonna be your answer."

It's ten minutes later and the kitchen light is now on. He returns with a plate in one hand buttered toast, in his other hand is a glass of water and your pain meds. He's mostly muttering to himself probably has been for the entire time he's been in the kitchen.

"You think with half the population suffering through this warfare medicine wouldn't act shocked by it anymore." Regardless of the pain in your lower stomach and the emotional rollercoaster you've been on today you let out a weak laugh.

He looks up and smiles at your sweetly. "There's my girl." He says right away. You roll your eyes, but feel the way your chest starts to loosen just a little bit now.

Frank settles onto the couch as close to you as he can get. Pulling your legs into his lap, his thumb drawing small circles against your ankle while the TV plays some horrible late-night sitcom that neither of you are actually watching.

"You what sucks sweetheart?" He asks you after some times has passed. "What?" You ask with pinch brows and some toast dust on your fingers. "That I can literally keep someone from dying at work, but this right here is something that I can't fix for you."

There is an honestly in Franks voice, but a twinge of hurt too. Too much hurt that you can't imagine that this is a joke. You shift on the couch, the heating pad and blanket falling from it's spot as you climb into Franks lap .

"You help anyways." You saw resting your head in the crook of his neck. His arms wrap around your waist and pull the blanket with you to cover your back.

Frank presses a tried kiss, but nevertheless a kiss to your temple. "Good, sweetheart." He murmurs, "Because you aren't gettin' rid of me anytime soon."

Outside the city continues passing by, but here curled into Franks chest with his warm hands pressed into your back you don't have to pretend that you're okay. That the ache inside you has finally started to feel like it's not all consuming anymore.

Jack Abbot - 1040

It's the ninth hour of your night shift, and you're one-hundred percent sure that your fucking body is trying to kill you slowly. Hour by hour, minute by minute, or maybe second by second.

The ER is buzzing with noises overlapping, the beeping coming from monitors all over the floors, the sound of wheels on stretchers rattling aggressively agasint the tile flooring, or the yelling of some other nurse asking for respiratory.

Yet every single sounds feels muffled under the twisting sharp pain of cramps in your lower abdomen. The flare-up is a bad one. Probably record breaking as you keep moving around anyways because that's what nurses are excepted to do.

You smile sweetly at patients, update the chart that need it, pass off meds to residents, and ignore the pushing wave of nausea that is curling in the middle of your stomach.

It's only when you do nearly drop a tray supplies "Whoa!" A hand catching the edge of the counter before you're hitting the floor. You look up slowly and right into the senior attendings Dr. Abbot's concerned expression.

"Are you okay?" He ask, you lie automatically. "I'm fine." You say with that sweet smile. Jack just stares at you for exactly two seconds. "You should try harder to lie, angel." You try to laugh it off really, but then there is another crushing cramp that hits you hard enough to steal your breath away.

You reach your hand instinctively to the counter beside you. Trying to give yourself some sort of leverage to push through the pain. You watch in real time has the demeanor of your night shift attending changes immediately.

"Hey!" He says softly, "Talk to me." You shake your head, breath through the wave of cramps. "It's just my PCOS flaring up." His brows pinch together. "Flaring up?" He repeats as he if doesn't understand the words you've spoken to him. "You look like you're about to pass out in my ER right now."

"I can still finish my shift, Dr. Abbot." Jack shakes his head disapprovingly at you. "That's not what I asked you, angel." You hate how the feeling wraps around your stomach and your throat and finally behind your eyes as you feel tears start to burn them.

The pain is almost always like this, stripping you away from your ability to have patience, your pride, and the ability to remain as if everything is manageable. Jack notices right away, "Oh, angel." He whispers and honestly the nickname alone almost destroys the rest of your defenses.

"Seriously, Dr. Abbot I'm okay." You whisper and end up just sounding incredibly weak. "No you're not okay, you're just trying to be okay." Before you're even able to argue with the night attending he's taking the charts from your hands and passing them off to another nurse who's walking by you.

"You'll be covering her patients for the next ten minutes." He say smoothly, but still demanding. You blink rapidly at him and then towards a fellow nurse. "Dr. Abbot…" The word die in your throat when Jack looks back at you with sharp eyes trained on you.

"That isn't up for discussion, angel." You think that normally his teasing would maybe annoy you, but right now you barely have the energy for standing. Jack guides you towards the break room, with a careful hand agasint your spine, moving slower when he realizes that you're sincerely hurting.

The second that break room door shuts behind both of you, the exhaustion of the day hits you all at once. "I really fucking hate this." You admit not thinking of the foulness leaving your mouth. Folding your arms over your stomach.

Jacks face softens, "Come here." He says, you allow him to pull you into his chest far too tired and in pain to protest. His jacket smells like shitty hospital coffee, and hospital grade soap. In an instant you're grounded.

Just for a minute he holds you there while the chaos of the night ER stays outside the break room door. "I wish you would have told me sooner, angel." Jacks murmurs into your hair. "I wasn't trying to be dramatic." You answer muffled in his shoulder.

Jack leans back to look at you, more or so visibly offended. "Angel, having a chronic and hormonal condition isn't anything dramatic." "It's always felt dramatic, Jack." You whisper. "That's because other people don't have empathy, and they fucking suck."

There's a startled laugh that escape you, "Yeah there's my angel back." He says quietly in the break room, even a small smile tugging on his lips. Then with a quick efficiency you've seen hundreds of times before. Jack shifts into caretaker mode.

He brings back a heating pad from the pediatrics ward on the floor, a water bottle that you're pretty sure has some electrolyte packets already inside of it, a sleeve of crackers that he had tucked away for a 'just in case' moment, and some pain meds that had already been cleared with the higher ups.

When Jack returns carrying all the items you stare at him with a certain level of disbelief of utter confusion. "Did you just steal from the floor, Jack?" He gives you that look, the one that say the next words coming out of his mouth are going to be something quick witted.

"I would rather call it borrowing for creative reasons." This time when you laugh it's weaker. Jack crouches down next to you in the chair. His large forearms resting against the tops of your knees while he keeps looking at you carefully.

As if staring at you might break you completely. "You don't have to earn the rest anymore, angel." He says, "You don't have to earn the care you deserve either." There's such a leve lof sincerity in his voice that you can feel your thaort tightening again.

Outside the break room doors the ER floor is still continuing in a loud relentless motion. Patients, nurses, doctors. The repeating cycle the never ends. Yet, inside here with Jacks warm arms and hands wrapped around your, and his full attention of you.

For a single moment you finally feel like the pain isn't as loud anymore.

Dennis Whitaker - 988

The first sign that Dennis gets when something is wrong with you is when you stop responding to his messages. Not completely stopping, just some answers becoming shorter.

kay

later?

I'm ok

Which most people would probably think is normal, but Dennis knows you. He's spent enough time around you to know that 'I'm ok' really mean, almost always means the exact fucking opposite.

By the time Dennis gets off work and to your apartment he's past worried. He knocks three times before you open the door wearing a pair of mismatched pj's, while one of his hoodies sits oversized over your shoulders.

You stare at him with tired, and unfocused eyes. "Oh…" He says as he looks at you. "You're in pain, babe." You blink at him, "Hello to you too." His shoulders drop, "I'm sorry babe." He says stepping inside quickly, shutting the apartment door with ease behind him. "Hi. You look miserable."

"Thank you." You murmur, walking away from Dennis and further into your apartment. "You know what I mean." You did know what he meant. From that point forward Dennis hovers awkwardly.

Like he's sure he wants to touch you but isn't sure if it will cause you pain. Then his own tired eyes catch the heating pad practically clutched in your hand and pressed hard against your lower stomach.

"PCOS?" He asks, and when you nod weakly Dennis knows there is more going on then just the pcos. "And PMDD." you add. "Which just really means for the rest of the day there's a half chance I will end up crying if you even look at me for too long."

Dennis's expression softens so fast that you can feel it start to crumple your defenses. "Oh babe." Those simple two words seem to be your breaking point because your face crumples instantly. "Oh no… god don't do that."

Your groan out feeling the mortification and tears start to spill down the puffiness of your cheeks. "Great now I'm fucking crying again." You mutter, hands flying up to cover your face.

You sense the immediate panic that Dennis goes into. "Okay, hold on, crying is fine. I wasn't meaning that you couldn't cry. Cry if you gotta cry, babe." Dennis starts to ramble.

You can't help but laugh through the tears, "Good." He says quickly with relief in every word. "Laughing is much better then crying." "You are really fucking suck at this." Dennis shakes his head, "I know babe."

The simple way that Dennis say it, makes you laugh so hard that Dennis is relaxing slightly at jus the sheer sound of it. He sits down carefully beside you in the couch. Not sitting too close as to crowd you, but close enough that his keeps bumping into yours.

"Tell me what helps, babe." His question catches you off guard right away, because most of the time people are quick to try and jump straight to a solution.

Have you tired this?

Did you take your meds?

Maybe it's just your diet

Dennis sits there practically still as a statue waiting for your answer. "Some heat usually helps." You admit to Dennis quietly. "And honestly? Most of all the distractions helps the most." Dennis nods as if his life depends on it, as if he's still in the ER doing some life-saving mission. "Okay."

Over the next few hours, Dennis tries, well attempts to take care of you the best way he can, with the energy he has left over from working a 12 hour shift. It's clumsy because he's tired, it's very clumsy.

He almost burns the microwave mac and cheese in those little cups, he drops the TV remote at least two times and it gets stuck under the couch. Dennis spends far too long fighting with the heating pad before realizing that the damn things wasn't even plugged in.

"Are you sure that you work in emergency medicine?" You ask from underneath the pile of blankets on the couch. "Yes, I'm pretty sure I work in emergency medicine." You nod at him.

"Yet you let electricity beat you." He laughs weakly, "You know that's a cruel thing to be sayin' to a man who's just tryin' his best." Despite the craziness and the disasters he's never stopped trying.

When your cramps make you wanna curl into yourself and cause you to curl forward. Dennis is right there with his hand rubbing gentle circles up and down your back without making a huge fucking deal out of any of it.

When the stupid PMDD had you convinced that you're just acting like it's 'too much' Dennis is there to shut it down right away. "You are literally existing while being actively sick." He says, "That babe isn't being difficult at all."

It's much later when all the days exhaustion have finally pulled you into the quiet. Dennis looks over from where he sits tangled beside you on the couch. "Can I tell you somethin'?"

You hum, sleep coating your voice.

"I really fuckin' hate the people that have made you think that you need to ask for forgiveness for being hurt." Dennis's words catch you off guard and have your throat tightening on thick emotions. Dennis noticed right away and is pointing a long finger into your face as a warning.

"No. No more crying. I was barely hangin' on before I got this operation all together." There's a laugh that escapes you before you can manage to get your hand over your mouth. Dennis smiles at you.

His eyes crinkling around the corners, his smile a little crooked and just unbearably fond looking. Then Dennis is reaching out for one of your hands that is tucked underneath the blanket. Just holding it there carefully for the right of the long night.

Like just taking care of you was the most utterly natural thing in the word for Dennis to do.

John Shen - 936

John should know that something is seriously wrong because you simply snap at him over soup. A soup that John had spent the last twenty making.

All because you hadn't eaten a damn thing all day long and the second he had placed the bowl down in front of you. The tears were bursting out and trailing down your cheeks all because the spoon in your words had been "too loud".

Even though John is a ER attending for just one terrifying second he had really thought that someone had died, not that the spoon had been too loud. "Okay" He says carefully, taking a seat down in front of you. "I feel like we might have skipped a few, probably several steps here, darling."

You're quick to cover your face with mortification. "I'm sorry, John." You say into your palms. "Nope, we're not apologizing yet. I really just need some context here." Even though the tears are falling you let out a very weak.

It seems just the sound of your laugh makes John relax just a little in the chair. You take a shaky breath in and out, "It's just my PCOS, and my PMDD. It just sometimes before my period everything is just…" You say using your hand to gestures around helplessly. "Everything feels horrible." You finally admit.

John's expression shifts immediately. There is no pity, just a deep rooted focus on you. Like someone had handed him a problem and he was intent on not only understanding it, but also coming up with a solution.

You guys end up going back and forth.

"How horrible, darling?"

"Emotionally, or physically, John?"

"Both."

You answer the man honestly. "Physically? I feel like my organs are having a battles with each other." You answer looking down at the table. Following the grains of the wood. "Emotionally?" John asks. "Yeah I feel like my brain just suddently really fucking hates me."

The pure honesty in your voice had Johns chest aching deeply. "Hey." John whispers. You look up from the table, "I really need you to know that I'm scared of any of this." You have to clench your teeth together to stop the way you can feel your throat tightening.

There was the thing about John. He was an observant man in a way that really could sneak up on you and others. The calmness, the patients. It was the type that noticed any tiny change. From your postures, or to the tone before anyone else was able to catch it.

So over the next few weeks John learns your patterns with accuracy you wish he would put to good use somewhere else. Like say the lottery.

John notices that right before flare-ups you're quieter around the house. As if you're mentally preparing for the uphill battle. He remembers what foods are 'safe' for when the nausea will eventually hit you.

John starts carrying around any of your pain meds, with a packet of electrolytes in his backpack without even mentioning it to you. The first time you catch John he's researching PCOS on his laptop in the middle of the morning and it nearly causes to cry again.

"What are you doing up so late?" You ask from the doorway of the hallway. Without even looking up, John answers. "Apparently becoming a endocrinologist against my will." You laugh quietly but then you noticed the ten tabs open on his computer screen.

The hormonal disorders

Pain management.

PMDD symptoms

Support strategies?

You feel your chest tighten uncomfortably. "John you don't have to do all this." He finally looks up at you in the dimly lite living room. "I know that, darling." That somehow makes it worse.

One very bad night, when the cramps become unbearable halfway through a shift at the hospital. You've barely made it into an empty staff room, before the pain is causing to fold in on yourself.

It's only a few minutes later when the door is cracking open. There is John stepping inside carrying a cup of steaming tea and stopping when catches the tears that are streaming down your face in a steady pace.

"Oh, darling." He says softly. The embarrassment is quick to flood you. "I'm alright, John." He shakes his head at you. "No you're visibly not alright." You let out a shaky breath. "I just need a minute."

Instead of arguing with you, John just crosses the room quietly and sits down next to you on the floor. There is no hovering, no panicking.

John is just there.

After a long moment passes, John holds out the tea. "It's probably very bad, cause it's from the cafeteria." He admits, "I didn't even think about ordering from dunkin' darling." You accept the cup with trembling hands due to the pain. "I really fucking hate this, John." You whisper as you blow into the steaming cup of tea.

John sits there quietly for a second before answering you. "I know, darling." There is no forced positivity, no 'It could always be worse', instead there is just a level of understanding.

Then very carefully he reaches over and takes your hand in his. "You wanna know what I think, darling?" He murmurs in the quiet of the staff room. "What?"

"I think that you've survived this for a long time, and so many times that everyone forgets the surviving it still hurts." The tears have returned, John just sighs dramatically staring up towards the lights and ceiling. "Okay." he murmurs to himself.

"Now we're just both having a terrible fucking time." You laugh and squeeze his hand in comfort.