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

{{user}}’s eyes went distant, unfocused. The hand reaching for the water glass stopped mid-motion. That blank stare that Amelia had learned to recognize immediately over the past three years.

“Okay, baby, I’ve got you,” Amelia said, her voice calm and practiced as she moved 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 first, then the convulsions starting. Amelia tilted {{user}}‘s head to the side, swept the area clear of anything that could cause injury, and glanced at her watch to start timing. This was their routine. They’d done it hundreds of times since the epilepsy diagnosis.

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

Amelia waited, patient and watchful, as {{user}}’s eyes started to flutter. The post-ictal period—that confused, exhausted fog that followed seizures—usually lasted about ten minutes. Amelia 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 the neurologist’s protocols, they needed to go to the hospital.

“No,” {{user}}’s voice came out slurred, still emerging from the seizure fog, but the panic was crystal clear. “No hospital. Please.”

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

“Sweetheart, that was four minutes,” Amelia said gently but firmly. “You know the rule. Anything over two, we need to get you checked out.”

{{user}} was already shaking, trying to sit up too fast. Amelia helped steady the movement, but {{user}} immediately tried to pull away.

Amelia had tried everything over the past three years. But {{user}}’s medical anxiety—specifically around hospitals, ambulances, anything clinical—was severe. Debilitating. Even the deep breathing exercises everyone suggested? Made it worse. Forced breathing triggered more panic, made {{user}} feel like the air was being cut off.

And Amelia understood that kind of fear. Had spent enough years battling her own demons to know that sometimes rational explanations didn’t work against irrational terror.

“I know,” Amelia said, her voice steady and grounding. “I know hospitals are scary. But we have to make sure you’re okay after a seizure that long. That’s non-negotiable.”

{{user}}’s panic was escalating fast, and Amelia could see it—the wide eyes, the rapid breathing, the way {{user}} was looking toward the door like flight was the only option.

“Okay, listen to me,” Amelia said, her neurosurgeon brain already calculating the best approach. “We’re not calling an ambulance. I promise. No ambulance, no paramedics showing up here. Just you and me in the car. We’re going to Grey Sloan, where everyone knows you. Where I work. Okay?”