Chapter Two: While the Clock Stands Still

 

Olga

The ambulance pulled away, sirens fading into the morning. For a moment, Olga stood frozen in the hallway. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

Returning to Zoyi, her hands moved on instinct, guided by the muscle memory of a woman who never let chaos show on the outside. Olga pulled the blue dress over Zoyi’s head with one hand, already reaching for the pink jacket hanging in the hallway. Meanwhile, Zoyi struggled with her yellow socks, her little fingers fumbling, eyes swimming with tears.

“Here, let me,” Olga said. She knelt briefly, slipping on the red sandals and pushing her feet into them.

She grabbed Zoyi’s hand. In one breathless motion, she pulled the door open and rang the neighbor’s bell.

Natasha opened the door, still wrapped in her bathrobe. A pleasant aroma of something freshly baked wafted through. They were friendly. Their kids shared the same class, yet despite efforts, the children had never truly played together. This wasn’t the moment for small talk.

“Please, I need your help,” Olga said, her voice catching. That lump in her throat wouldn’t go away. “Eugene is in the ambulance. I have to go to the hospital. Can you take Zoyi to school? Maybe watch her after if I’m still there?”

Natasha nodded, her eyes filled with concern and fear. “Of course. I’ll take her to school and keep her until you’re back.”

Olga crouched to Zoyi’s level, gently brushing the tears from her face. “Sweetheart, I need you to stay with Natasha for a bit, okay?” Her voice was soft, reassuring. “She’s going to take you to school with Max.”

Zoyi sniffled but agreed, still clinging to her mother.

“Call the school to let them know I’m dropping her off and might pick her up later,“ Natasha said softly. She took Zoyi’s hand. ”Don’t worry, I’ve got her.“

Olga only nodded. She couldn’t say a word, holding her tears in place.

The drive to the hospital was a blur. Olga’s heart pounded as she stepped through the sliding doors of Palisades Hospital. It looked more like a hotel than a medical facility. Colorful flowers filled big vases, and inviting soft couches lined the lobby.

A hospital receptionist greeted her near the entrance. “How can I help you?”

“My husband was rushed here in an ambulance not long ago. His name is Eugene.”

“Ma’am, could I have your name and ID, please?”

She checked Eugene’s information on the computer. “Yes, he’s been admitted,” she confirmed. “I’ll have someone escort you to the ICU waiting area. Please clip on your pass.”

Olga noticed the vivid orange pass. “ICU” stood out in bold black letters.

As she followed the hospital escort, her legs were heavy, like she had thousand pound weights attached to them. The sterile, bright lights of the emergency department obscured her vision. She barely registered the sounds of bustling nurses and beeping monitors around her. She focused only on the distant knowledge that Eugene was somewhere inside, unconscious, fighting for his life.

Olga was led to a small room with two cushioned chairs facing a low table littered with outdated magazines. A box of tissues sat untouched in the center. The air carried a subtle scent of antiseptic and stale coffee.

“May I see my husband?”

“The doctor will see you soon.”

The minutes dragged on, and Olga felt she might suffocate from the waiting. Her heart raced, and a familiar cold sweat broke out across her back.

Olga had lost all track of time when a doctor in a white coat over black scrubs stepped in. His warm eyes and compassionate voice cut through Olga’s overwhelmed consciousness.

“Hello, I’m Doctor DeFeo. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Olga.”

Olga nodded, struggling to process the words.

“Your husband is in critical condition. We managed to restore a heartbeat. Right now, he’s on a ventilator to support his breathing. He’s receiving intensive care. We’re closely monitoring his brain and organ function.”

Olga felt the doctor’s words like sharp nails striking through her mind. She saw his lips move, heard the sentences, but their meaning kept slipping past her. The doctor took a deeper breath, and a cold drop fell through her stomach. In a split second, she experienced that familiar sensation of falling, like in nightmare dreams where the ground disappears.

“I need to ask, does Eugene have any advance directives, a living will, or someone designated with medical power of attorney?“ The question hung in the air. ”This helps guide our decisions if he’s unable to speak for himself.”

“What is it? I do not understand!” Olga couldn’t swallow. A sharp pain on the left locked her breath in place. Her eyes burned from the inside. She understood every English word, but the phrases themselves felt unreal. In Russia, no one spoke about death or directives. It was a forbidden topic, unsettling and avoided. As if acknowledging mortality could bring it closer. People simply lived as though they would live forever. Olga had been raised with that silence.

“An advance directive is a legal document in which an individual specifies the type of medical care they would or wouldn’t want if they become unable to communicate their wishes,” Dr. DeFeo explained. “It can detail preferences such as whether they’d want to be on life support, receive CPR, have a feeding tube, or receive end-of-life care.”

Pressure built behind her eyes, a physical ache. Her brain felt too full to absorb anything more.

“Some people also name a healthcare proxy,” he went on. “Someone they trust to make decisions for them if they’re unconscious or unable to communicate. Do you know if Eugene ever filled something like that out?”

She had no idea. Her thoughts spun in a whirlwind of fear and disbelief. In America, she always let Eugene handle the complicated things like insurance, paperwork, and decisions. Now, she stood alone with questions she had never imagined answering. Each one tightened the panic in her chest.

“End-of-life care? A feeding tube?” she whispered, almost choking on the words. It felt unreal, like lines from someone else’s tragedy. Eugene had never signed anything, as far as she knew. None of it made sense.

“We never talked about it,” Olga said softly. “He is only forty-two.”

Dr. DeFeo nodded, calm and professional, no drama in his face. “All right. We will note that. For now, our focus is on stabilizing him.”

After Dr. DeFeo left, the ICU nurse continued with routine questions. She was asking if Eugene had any medical conditions or allergies. But all Olga could hear in her head were those words: “End-of-life directives . . . Keep him on a machine.”

What would Eugene want?

“Do you have your husband’s insurance information with you?” she asked. Her tone was clinical, almost distant.

Olga searched for her purse and found Eugene’s insurance card. She handed it over.

“You can see him now,” the ICU nurse said, completing the final line of intake information.

Olga followed the nurse down the sterile corridor, her heart pounding in her chest with every step. The smell of antiseptic was sharp in the air, mixing with the sound of distant beeping machines and muffled voices. Her mind started processing the chaos of the morning, the sight of Eugene falling unconscious, and her fight to keep him alive with CPR. Now, she was here, in the hospital, in the ICU, and everything felt like it was happening too fast.

The nurse stopped in front of a door and pushed it open. Olga hesitated, then stepped inside. The sight that greeted her nearly stopped her heart.

Eugene lay motionless on the bed, his body enveloped in thick blankets. Olga sensed an unusual, deadly chill emanating from them, sending shivers through her. He was connected to multiple machines, some beeping in monotonous, indifferent rhythms, while others traced thin, flickering lines across dim screens. Yet, the only sound that truly reached her was the pounding in her ears.

She moved closer to his side. His lips were gray, his skin pale and waxy. The warmth she had always associated with Eugene was absent, replaced by an unnatural stillness. She couldn’t make sense of the man she had just been talking to. The one who laughed and joked. Now, he lay there, unmoving, cold to the touch.

The chill seemed to crawl under her skin. She shivered uncontrollably. The sight of him, so lifeless under the blankets, sent a sharp stream of pain through her body. His chest rose and fell with the hiss of the machine that breathed for him. Olga reached out to touch his cheek. His skin felt like lifeless porcelain. A creeping horror washed over her: This is what a morgue must feel like.

The nurse, standing a few steps back, noticed the shiver. She explained gently, “It’s part of the cooling treatment. We’re lowering his body temperature to help protect his brain while we stabilize him.”

Olga’s eyes locked on Eugene’s face. It was hard to see him like this. Is he still in there? Will he ever come back?

Eugene appeared in her mind as vividly as if he were standing beside her. She recalled his first visit to St. Petersburg after he had moved to the United States with his family. He seemed so American then. His Russian carried a faint foreign accent, and his smile had that unmistakable American brightness, radiating confidence, well-being, and success. No one smiled like that in the gray streets of St. Petersburg. It was such a contrast to the slightly crooked, forward-tilted broken teeth she remembered from their youth, the ones he used to hide when he laughed. He was still the boy she had grown up with, yet also a fully formed, successful man. They connected effortlessly, although at the time, Olga was caught in the whirlwind of her own life—her university studies for her biology degree and the all-consuming first love that would later become her first marriage.

The 1990s in Russia were wild and unstable. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, being a woman who did not have to work became a symbol of real success. Olga married into a “New Russian” family, one with connections and privilege. Russians held an unspoken belief: an educated, beautiful woman proved her worth by managing the household with elegance, creating order and taste in a chaotic country, and most of all, by becoming a mother. Olga embraced that role with all her perfectionism and desire to build something beautiful.

She thought about Eugene only when his letters arrived in bright envelopes. They seemed to hold the scent of a different life from abroad. He remained just a memory, a small bright light beneath her skin.

The dream she had built for herself slowly shattered into a thousand pieces of frustration. Years of trying to get pregnant took an immense emotional toll. Nothing seemed to work. Eventually, her marriage dissolved in a tragic and painful way. Olga felt like a failure, and she found herself slowly withdrawing from the world around her.

Eugene called her in that dark moment. This time, everything was different. He was calm, grounded, reflective. He spoke about his life in America and his ambitions. Olga felt a warm tenderness growing inside her. She had never imagined she would be with him in this way. It was an invitation to something new. When he asked if he could visit, she said yes.

When he arrived, it was as though time had folded itself, bringing them together. Being with him had always felt easy. Eugene was no longer just the friend from childhood; he was a man. She could see a future together. He seemed like someone she could be with in a way that felt right. She imagined the children they might have—little ones who would look like them in their youth, running around with that same energy and playfulness.

After that visit, he had asked her to visit him in America. It seemed like the answer to everything she had been struggling with. She was ready to leave behind the life she had in Russia and was open to this unknown chapter with a new purpose. She felt secure in Eugene’s presence, comfortable in a way she hadn’t been in years. It was a reunion and reawakening.

She visited Eugene in the States for the first time. It was supposed to be temporary, but being with him felt natural. At that point in her life, she realized she didn’t just want a partner. She wanted someone who truly knew her. They laughed at the same jokes, finished each other’s sentences, and slipped into a shorthand built over decades. It was a comfortable trust, a sense of safety, warm and romantic.

Before she flew back to Russia to finalize her move, they got married. It wasn’t planned. It felt so right.

Just a few days ago, he had talked to Olga about getting a dog for morning walks. He had joked with Zoyi about her messy room. Now, it all seemed surreal. Those moments felt like they belonged to a thousand years ago.

He was young, just forty-two. Nearly healthy. Brimming with plans.

Yes, they liked good food. Yes, he enjoyed fast food now and then, and cola when she wasn’t looking. Eugene filled the pantry with potato chips, fat and crispy, in multiple flavors. Olga despised the habit because he left crumbs and greasy spots everywhere. He insisted the chips helped him focus during late night work.

But they were happy. Active. Curious. They ventured out to restaurants, relishing the discovery of new places together. Life felt full.

“We’ll give you some time later, but I need to take you to the waiting area now.” The nurse’s voice brought Olga back to reality. “The cardiologist will visit you soon.”

Dr. Druz, the ICU cardiologist, entered the room with a gentle smile just as they were about to leave. She carried herself as if this tragic story were routine to her. Her hair fell loosely around her face, framing her warm eyes.

“Olga, I understand this situation feels overwhelming. Let me explain the steps we’re taking for Eugene. It might bring you some clarity.”

“First, when someone goes into cardiac arrest, like Eugene did, it means the heart stops beating, and circulation halts,“ she explained gently. ”Without blood flow, the brain and other organs are starved of oxygen. That can lead to serious damage if not addressed quickly.“

She paused, letting it all sink in.

Right after the arrest, you initiated CPR. That was critical. You kept blood circulating to the brain. If done quickly, it can minimize damage. EMTs used a defibrillator to shock the heart and restart it. The sooner that happens, the better the chances for recovery. But even if we’re successful in restarting the heart, we need to take extra precautions for his brain.

Olga’s heart skipped a beat. “What is going on with his brain?” The familiar pressure built behind her eyes.

“That’s where the coma induction comes in,” Dr. Druz continued. “We use medication to safely induce a state of controlled sedation, kind of like a medical coma. The purpose is to slow down brain activity and protect the brain from any further harm. When the brain is sedated, it doesn’t need as much oxygen, and that helps it recover better.”

Olga felt the room tilt. The floor seemed to slide away beneath her. “He is in a coma?”

“Yes,” Dr. Druz affirmed with a slight nod. “It’s a protective measure. We aim to reduce the risk of any secondary brain injury following cardiac arrest.”

Olga took another breath. Her mind felt like it was going to explode.

“And now he’s undergoing cooling,” Dr. Druz continued. “It’s a process called therapeutic hypothermia. We lower his body temperature to slow down brain metabolism, prevent swelling, and protect the brain from oxygen loss. This method is one of the best-proven ways to improve recovery after cardiac arrest. Especially when started within the first six hours.”

Olga’s mind was oversaturated with the new information. Cooling, a coma… It all felt absurd.

“It sounds like a lot, but every step is designed to give Eugene the best chance,” Dr. Druz explained to her. “After cooling for about twenty-four to forty-eight hours, we’ll start warming him up slowly. This helps avoid any complications. The idea is to make the process gentle, allowing his body to adjust gradually.”

Olga nodded, feeling the mix of dread and relief.

“And then, when he’s stable, we will slowly reduce the sedation, and he’ll start waking up. During this time, we’ll carefully assess his brain function and check for any signs of neurological damage,” Dr. Druz explained. “Rehabilitation will be important too, but the goal is to help him recover, whether it’s through physical therapy or cognitive support.” She moved her hands slowly, marking each word with careful emphasis.

Dr. Druz gave Olga a reassuring smile. “This is a journey, but it’s one that has a better outcome for patients who undergo this treatment. The MRI was done, and there was no visible brain damage. With the right care and time, Eugene has a good chance of making a recovery.”

Something in the doctor’s explanation gave Olga a glimmer of hope.

Olga’s voice quivered. “What are the chances?” she asked. “Will he be okay?”

“I can’t promise anything right now, Olga,” Dr. Druz said softly. “You literally saved his life. We’re doing everything we can.” The cardiologist squeezed Olga’s arm and quietly left the room.

Olga looked around the room. It had no windows, no sounds except those that seeped through the walls. Through those thin partitions, she heard what grief sounded like when it was raw and unrestrained. A woman sobbing. A child’s voice, small and questioning. She didn’t see anyone else. Yet, she felt the presence of sorrow surrounding her. No clock on the wall, no sense of time; this room was built for grief and uncertainty.

A social worker appeared at the doorway, her smile gentle and rehearsed.

“Olga? I’m here to talk about what happened.”

Olga shook her head. “I’m all right.”

Words would have required air. Everything seemed unnecessary, even dishonest.

The social worker nodded, then left.

Olga found herself thinking about God. Not in any practiced or religious way, but in the way people do when science suddenly stops making sense. She wasn’t praying; she didn’t know any sacred words. She had never been given any religious explanations in St. Petersburg, where such things were forbidden. Every spring her mother sent her to the synagogue to buy matza, no explanations offered.

Her first real encounter with God had been under the Chuppah. It happened during her small wedding to Eugene, as she signed the Ketubah.

Now she searched the silence for someone larger than herself. Someone who might actually be listening.

How could something like this just happen?

She had believed in American medicine. In the systems, the technologies, and the expertise. How come no one had seen it coming?

The waiting seemed endless. Her mind was pocked by the fear that she might never see Eugene the way he was before. Olga glanced down at her phone. The number of notifications was a reminder of the world continuing to move outside of this small hospital room.

She pulled out her phone. First, she sent a quick message to Eugene’s parents. Then, she fired off another to the dental office where she worked.

“Eugene had a heart accident. He is in the Palisade Hospital ICU.”

Almost immediately, her phone began to beep uncontrollably, notifications flooding in from family and friends. Olga was overwhelmed by a wave of guilt but couldn’t bring herself to respond. With no energy for conversations, she turned off her notifications.

Eugene’s parents arrived at the hospital shortly after Olga’s message. His father entered the room slowly, the buttons of his jacket straining across his middle. His mother followed, her lips pressed into a thin line. Even here, they moved in their familiar rhythm. A few clipped words exchanged, the palpable friction of two people who had argued for decades yet remained bound by habit.

They viewed their togetherness as an act of kindness toward their grown children, setting an example of unity despite the circumstances. Perhaps it was also the only way to avoid becoming lost, unable to survive apart in a country they did not fully understand.

Olga had never been close to them. They always carried a current of dissatisfaction in their voices, constant judgment in their eyes. Her mother-in-law’s subtle, critical remarks about her parenting had long ago taught Olga to keep her guard up, to measure her words carefully. The bottom line was simple for Olga: they did not provide warmth, and she worked hard to avoid contact whenever she could.

She had always promised herself she would never become like them—never teeter on that edge of control or feel the need to constantly correct. Yet, in rare moments, especially when she tried to change something in Eugene’s behavior, she heard the faintest echo of her mother-in-law in her own tone. She hated to admit the resemblance.

Olga forced something that was meant to be a smile, but it felt more like a grimace.
 “Hello,” she said, her voice flat despite her best effort.

Her mother-in-law gave a curt nod. “What happened?”

“You can see him in the ICU room,” Olga replied, her tone neutral. Her hands tightened around each other until her knuckles turned white. She rose, taking a small step back. Already retreating.

“It’s time”, she said,” I have to pick up Zoyi from school.” She walked slowly to the ICU desk,   “When will he wake up?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“We’ll begin reducing his sedation tomorrow morning,” the nurse explained. “Then, we’ll start the process of warming him up. You can go home for now and return tomorrow.”

“Eugene’s parents want to see him.”

Olga longed to stay with him, but her body was already shaking with exhaustion. She had to make arrangements for Zoyi.

Her whole being felt fragile and old once she walked out of the ICU. Olga picked up her daughter from school, moving like a programmed toy, going through the motions without really being present. She took Zoyi home, made her a simple meal, and sat quietly in the living room, watching her play with her toys. Zoyi didn’t ask any questions, her usual chatter completely absent, until it was time for dinner, bath, and bed. Zoyi refused to sleep in her own bed and curled up next to Olga in their master bedroom.

Olga’s eyes burned with exhaustion, but sleep refused to come. She cried soundlessly through the night, her mind unable to rest, caught between moments of drowsiness and waking. She felt the warmth of Zoyi’s body, and heard the loud sound of her breath, noting mentally that Zoyi slept with her butt up for a significant part of the night, her legs jerking in restless movements.

Olga snapped out of her sleepy haze when she felt a wet sensation in the bed. She moved Zoyi to her own bed and started removing the sheets.

She didn’t feel rested at all, but she had to keep going. Olga walked to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. The horror of the previous morning settled over her like an entrapping net, and the darkness of the unknown stretched out before her.

She got Zoyi ready and took her back to the neighbor’s house, asking Natasha once again to take Zoyi to school. With a final kiss to her daughter’s forehead, Olga headed back to the hospital to be there when Eugene woke up.

For a moment, she almost turned toward her dental office, the place she worked with the same turn she made every morning. The routine used to suffocate her.

Mornings: chores, Zoyi, school, work.

Evenings: the same, just in reverse.

It was all so overwhelming.

Now, everything seemed so small.

She missed the comfort of that routine. The order it brought. The illusion of control.

She thought of Dr. Sokolina. She was her boss, but also her only friend in America, the one person who made her feel seen in this new world. They worked side by side in the dental office, connected by patient care, curiosity about people, healing, and the question of why some lives fell apart while others stayed afloat.

They had both come from St. Petersburg, carrying the same language and a shared mindset into their American lives. Olga admired the way Dr. Sokolina could read the human body. She looked inside a mouth, observed a bite, a tongue, a breathing pattern, and understood what the body was hiding. Olga had watched her solve cases that other doctors missed.

If anyone could make sense of what happened to Eugene, it was her. If anyone could explain how something like this could strike without warning, it was her.

She parked next to the hospital and checked her phone. Eight missed calls.  Five messages.
 All from Dr. Sokolina.

.