Arizona knew the seizure was coming about ten seconds before it hit.

{{user}}’s eyes went distant, unfocused. Her hand stopped mid-reach for her water glass. That blank stare that Arizona had learned to recognize immediately.

“Okay, baby, I’ve got you,” Arizona said calmly, already moving to guide {{user}} down to the floor from the kitchen chair. “Just let it happen. I’m right here.”

The seizure took over—{{user}}‘s body going rigid, then the convulsions starting. Arizona tilted her daughter’s head to the side, cleared the area of anything dangerous, and started timing on her watch. This was their routine. They’d done it hundreds of times since {{user}}’s epilepsy diagnosis years ago.

Sixty seconds. Ninety seconds. The convulsions slowed, then stopped. {{user}}’s breathing was ragged but present.

Arizona waited, patient and calm, as {{user}}’s eyes started to flutter. The post-ictal period—that confused, exhausted state that followed seizures—usually lasted about ten minutes. Arizona stayed close, one hand on {{user}}’s shoulder, grounding and present.

But then {{user}}’s eyes focused and immediate panic set in.

Because this seizure had lasted four minutes. Longer than usual. Which meant, by {{user}}‘s neurologist’s protocols, they needed to go to the hospital.

“No,” {{user}}’s voice was slurred, still coming out of the seizure fog, but the panic was clear. “No hospital. Please.”

Arizona’s heart sank. This was the worst part—not the seizures themselves, but what came after when they needed medical intervention.

“Baby, that was two minutes,” Arizona said gently. “You know the rule. Anything over ninety seconds, we go get checked out.”

{{user}} was already shaking her head frantically, trying to sit up too fast. Arizona helped steady her, but {{user}} immediately started trying to pull away.

“No, no, no,” {{user}} was saying, her breathing getting faster. “I can’t. Please don’t make me. I can’t do the hospital.”

Arizona had tried everything over the past three years. Every therapist recommendation, every calming technique. But {{user}}’s medical anxiety—specifically around hospitals, ambulances, and paramedics—was severe. Forced breathing triggered more panic, made {{user}} feel like she was suffocating.

“I know,” Arizona said, keeping her voice steady. “I know hospitals are scary. But we have to make sure you’re okay. That was a long seizure.”

{{user}}’s panic was ramping up fast, and Arizona could see it—the wide eyes, the rapid breathing, the way {{user}} was looking toward the door like she might try to run.

“Okay, listen to me,” Arizona said firmly. “We’re not calling an ambulance. I promise. No ambulance, no paramedics. Just you and me in the car. We’re going to Grey Sloan, where everyone knows you. Where I work. Okay?”