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Iggy Frome prided himself on seeing what others missed. It could be a tremor in a voice, a hesitation before a confession, or the way pain hid behind humor.
What he refused to see was himself.
Since Vijay fell ill, fear had lodged itself in Iggy’s chest like an unwanted guest. He told all the staff that hope mattered, that their anxiety was understandable and that control in a pandemic was an illusion.
And then, quietly, methodically, he stopped eating.
If he didn’t eat, he wouldn’t binge.
If he didn’t binge, he would be in control.
If he could control his feelings, his fear, maybe he would hate himself a little less than before.
By the time his vision blurred in his office, he had already forgotten Gladys’ name twice, and couldn’t remember the password for his next Zoom session.
When he leaned against the door for support, suddenly feeling clammy and dizzy, his legs gave out completely, like jelly.
The last thing he felt was the cold metal of the handle colliding with his temple.
Gladys knocked on the door three times.
“Iggy? It’s me. We’ve had a call from pediatrics, who need you to go down. A kid has been self-harming while under lockdown.”
No answer.
She tried the handle but the door stayed stubbornly in place.
Her breath caught painfully in surprise.
She knocked harder, panic seeping into her voice. “Iggy? You there? You never lock your door.”
Silence. With a growing sense of doom, her hands shook as she dialed.
"Dr. Bloom?” Gladys said, voice breaking. “It’s Iggy. Something’s wrong. He’s been pale, dizzy, confused all morning, and now he won’t answer the door. I think he’s locked himself in. Can you come up?”
Lauren was already running.
Lauren hit the door hard with her shoulder.
It barely moved.
“Again, let's try together,” she snapped, motioning Gladys over.
They slammed into it together. The door shifted an inch, and stopped.
Lauren froze in realization. “Oh God,” she breathed. “He hasn’t locked it, I think he’s behind it.”
They shoved again, forcing the door open just enough to squeeze inside.
Iggy lay crumpled on the floor, blood streaking down his temple, soaking into the carpet. His skin was clammy, slick with sweat.
He was terrifyingly still.
Lauren dropped to her knees, and started to assess him. “Iggs. Hey. Stay with me, Ok?”
She pressed her fingers to his neck. His pulse was there but worryingly slow.
“Gladys, call a code. Now.”
The ER descended into controlled chaos.
“BP’s 76 over 38!”
“Heart rate in the low 40s!”
“Sinus bradycardia, junctional rhythm!”
Lauren moved automatically, adrenaline sharpening her focus.
“Two large-bore IVs. Oxygen. Draw labs: CMP, magnesium, phosphorus, ABG. Get an ECG now for a rule-out M.I.”
The ECG came up in a few seconds.
Lauren stared. The QT interval was prolonged.
Her stomach dropped.
Then the monitor screamed.
“Run of VT!”
“Push magnesium,” Lauren ordered. “Carefully. What's going on, Iggy? Help us here.”
Max Goodwin arrived mid-crisis, immediately taking in the scene.
“What do we have?”
“Iggy collapsed in his office. Bradycardic, hypotensive, arrhythmias, prolonged QT, severely dehydrated,” Lauren said rapidly. “He’s not responding to atropine.”
Max stepped closer to the bed, eyes fixed on the monitor.
“Could it be COVID?” he asked, “He spent a lot of time with Vijay.”
“Gladys said his PCR this morning was negative.”
“False negative?”
Lauren hesitated. “Maybe. But something’s off. He doesn’t have a fever, if anything, he’s too cold.”
Max examined the ECG screen. "Prolonged QT...torsades de pointes, he's at risk of cardiac arrest."
"Tell me something I don't know. Nothing we're doing is helping."
“ICU is full, we’ll need to keep him here.” Max ordered. “We need cardiology on standby.”
The VT resolved, but his rhythm remained unstable. Blood pressure barely responded to fluids.
“Should we intubate?” Casey asked.
Max and Lauren exchanged a look.
“Not yet,” Max said. “But be ready.”
“Call Martin,” Max added quietly. “Now.”
Lauren nodded, and ran.
Iggy’s office felt haunted as she rifled through his desk looking for Martin’s work number, tearing through drawers until she was stopped short by the contents of one drawer.
Junk food.
Then she saw the yellow Post-It.
Don’t eat you fat pig!!
You’re disgusting!
Her chest constricted painfully.
“No, oh Iggy.” she whispered.
The pieces slammed together in her mind; QT prolongation, bradycardia, dehydration.
He had stopped eating.
She ripped the note free and sprinted back to the ER. He’d been starving in plain sight, hiding behind charm, credentials, and just enough function to convince everyone, including himself, that he was fine.
The lab results confirmed it. Potassium. Sodium. Magnesium. Phosphate. The list went on, each measure marked as a concern. All electrolytes were out of whack, potassium and sodium were critically low.
Lauren’s voice shook despite herself. “This isn’t COVID. He’s stopped eating, god knows for how long.”
Max stared at the numbers, then at Iggy.
“He looks fine,” he murmured, shaken.
“That’s the problem,” Lauren said. “He’s not but we didn't see it.”
Max snapped into action.
“Careful refeeding protocol,” he ordered. “Telemetry, continuous cardiac monitoring. Electrolytes corrected slowly, make sure we do not cause refeeding syndrome.”
As IV fluids and electrolytes began, Martin burst into the ER.
“What’s happening?” he demanded, eyes wild.
Lauren met his gaze. “He collapsed. His bloods show that he's not been eating. Has he been sick at home?”
Martin swallowed hard, guilt flooding his face.
“I knew something was wrong,” he said hoarsely. “He cooked every night this week. Full meals. Sat with us. Watched the kids eat. And when I asked, he said he’d already eaten at work, that he wasn’t hungry.”
Max closed his eyes briefly.
“We’re stabilizing him,” Max said. “But he’s not out of danger.”
He glanced at the monitor, then back at Martin. “We'll help him with whatever's going on, OK?” he said quietly.
Iggy woke hours later in a side room.
Monitors beeped softly. IV lines threaded from his arms. His heart rate was steadier, but fragile.
Martin sat at the bedside, eyes never leaving him.
“I’m sorry,” Iggy whispered, tears spilling immediately. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Martin’s voice trembled with restrained anger and terror.
“You promised me,” he said. “You promised you’d tell me if this started again.”
“I tried,” Iggy breaking down. “I really tried.”
Martin stood abruptly. “I can’t...” His voice cracked. “I love you, but I can’t watch you do this to yourself again.”
He left.
Iggy broke apart completely, shoulders shaking as he lay there alone.
Lauren watched from the doorway, heart aching.
The next morning, Iggy was more alert but weak. Every movement exhausted him.
Martin returned, red-eyed, guilt-ridden.
“I tell people every day how to survive their worst thoughts,” Iggy whispered as Martin embraced him in silence. “I don’t understand why I can’t do it myself.”
“I shouldn’t have left,” Martin said softly. “I’m sorry. I love you. We'll get through this together, alright?”
He stayed.
Hours passed.
Martin spoke quietly to Lauren in the hallway.
“This started long before I met him,” he said. “His father… he was cruel. He starved Iggy as punishment. Called him disgusting. Weighed him every day. Told him love was earned by being thinner.”
Lauren listened, throat tight.
“I tell him he’s beautiful every day,” Martin continued. “That he’s more than worthy. But he doesn’t believe me. Nothing I do or say convinces him.”
Lauren nodded. “That voice isn’t yours. Or his father’s anymore. But it feels like the truth to him. He's been going through a lot with Vijay and the effect isolation is having on his therapy sessions, this must be the only way he can control the uncontrollable.”
Inside the room, Iggy stared at the ceiling.
When Lauren sat beside him, he didn’t look at her.
“I know what you’re going to say,” he murmured. “Inpatient. Programs. Therapy.”
Lauren met his eyes. “I’m going to say you almost died.”
He swallowed hard. “It wouldn’t be for the first time,” he muttered. Lauren looked away.
“There are options,” she continued gently. “Medical stabilization here. Inpatient eating disorder treatment...”
“No,” Iggy barked vehemently, his fingers tightening in the sheets as if bracing for restraints he knew were coming.
“Ok,” Lauren continued slowly, “partial hospitalization, outpatients, online groups. You need therapy that gets to the root of the problem.”
Iggy looked down, ashamed.
“I’m scared, how can I help others if I’m broken?”
“I know,” Lauren said. “I asked the same question when I got sober. And yet you stayed with me.”
He nodded slowly.
“Now it’s my turn to stay with you,” she said.
Tears slid down his cheeks as he whispered, “I don’t want to hate myself anymore.”
“You don’t have to,” Lauren said. “But it’s not something you can do alone. The good news is that we're all Team Iggy here.”
That night, Martin slept in a chair beside Iggy’s bed, their fingers loosely intertwined.
The monitors hummed steadily, keeping the man he loved alive as they talked about the next steps.
Lauren and Max watched them through the window.
And for now, that was enough.