Oh God, not Jed, not my Jed. The words became a mantra in my head as the car rushed me to GW. My agents told me that Zoey is OK. But Jed. Oh God, my Jed was hit. Somehow I knew it my heart that it was bad. The way they were rushing me to the hospital proved that. Oh God, not Jed. Not my Jed. The hospital was a flurry of activity as I strode in and saw Zoey huddled in a chair being comforted by CJ.

"Zoey...Baby?"

Zoey looked up with a tear stained face. "Mommy!" She raced into my outstretched arms. My heart lurched at the sight of the blood on my daughter.

"Are you OK, sweetie?" I asked, while frantically checking her over.

"It's not my blood, Mom. It's Daddy's," she began to sob. "He's hurt really bad. They shot him. More than once. There was blood everywhere. It was coming out his mouth."

"Oh Zoey," I murmured. I was terrified for Jed's life and aching for what my daughter had witnessed tonight. I noticed that CJ was splattered with blood and looked as if she was in a daze. "Were you with him?" I asked, desperate for news about my husband. "Were you with Jed?"

"Y...yes," CJ said. "Zoey and I were already in the limo when the shooting started. Then Ron shoved the President in. I thought he was dead." Tears filled CJ's eyes at the memory.

"Was he shot in the head, CJ?" I ask, hearing my voice shaking as I tried to get the image of JFK in Dallas out of my mind.

"No, it was his chest and his stomach."

"Was he conscious?"

"Briefly. He asked for Zoey. I think he was trying to find out if she was OK. When he heard her voice, he said your name twice. He said 'Abbey, I'm so cold' and then he lost consciousness."

Oh God, I covered my mouth with my hand trying to keep myself under control.

"Mom, he was hurt so bad," Zoey cried. "Please don't let him die. Please Mommy, don't let him die." My heart broke at her pleas with me.

"I'm not going to let him die," I assured her. “But, I need to go to him. Will you be OK with CJ?"

"Yes," Zoey nodded, "Just don't let him die." I nodded through tears and turned blindly to find out information on my husband. Down the hall, outside a trauma room, I saw Leo.

"Leo...Leo, how is Jed?"

Leo turned to me; his face pale and shell shocked.

"He's in surgery."

"How does it look?"

"Abbey," Leo warned.

"Dammit Leo, I need to know."

"It's not good. He was flatlining when they brought him in here."

"Leo..." I felt my knees give way and Leo grasped my arms. But, I didn't let go. Jed needed me and I wasn't about to let him down. Leo led me to a seat.

“They were able to bring him back with the paddles and a shot to the heart and they were able to get him stabilized enough to get him into surgery. That's all I know.”

After three hours of anxious pacing and waiting the surgeon came out. From the look on his face I knew it wasn't good. He was trying to be optimistic but it wasn't good. They had to leave one of the bullets in; it was lodged next to his spinal cord.

"What are his odds?" I asked briskly.

"Ma'am..." He was reluctant to give me that information.

"Look, I’m a doctor. I want to know my husband's chances."

"Well, um...maybe 25%."

"That he'll die?" I asked.

"That he'll live," the doctor said grimly.

Leo gripped my arm again for his own support as well as mine. "Abbey," he said. "Jed's beaten worse odds than that before. He'll beat this."

I nodded my eyes swimming with tears. "I want to see him," I said as calmly as possible. I knew they wouldn't let me see him if I were hysterical.

I entered Jed's room. I am a doctor, I should be used to this sight but I am not. I am not ready to see someone I love in this state. This was the most powerful man in the world. This was Jed. This was my virile, commanding, bigger than life husband reduced to this pale, lifeless form. Dozens of tubes ran from his body. Breathing tubes, drainage tubes, catheters, and IV's. The only sound in the room was the 'whoosh' of the respirator that pumped air into Jed's lungs and inflated his chest and the beep of the monitors that showed he was still alive. His heart was still beating. My fingers moved to my trembling lips but I was not going to lose it. I approached the bed cautiously.

"Hi pumpkin," I said softly, "I'm here now." I brushed a tendril of his sandy brown hair back from his brow. "You're a fighter, Jed. You always have been. I need you to fight now with everything you have."

I pulled a chair up beside the bed and took his limp hand between my two hands as if I could will my strength into him. This hand, I thought, this hand that I know so well. This is the hand that placed his grandmother's antique diamond engagement ring on my finger when he actually got down on one knee and proposed to me out by the pond on his parents' farm. The farm that later became ours. This hand that taught my untrained virgin body all it knows about the pleasure of passion and everything erotic. The same hand that through the years came to know my body better than I did. That could be so exquisitely gentle and tender as he reverently made love to me, or so forceful and strong when the sex had to be wild and passionate.

This hand that shook slightly taking the light from his single candle as I did mine, and together we lit the marriage union candle, symbolically becoming one, while 'Ave Maria' was sung at our nuptial wedding Mass. This hand that took mine and gently placed the gold band on my finger as he pledged, "With all that I have and all that I am, I honor you in the name of God." Those vows had been more than just mere words to both of us. They were the words we lived by every day. The words that kept us together when the passion of anger replaced the passion of pleasure.

This hand that ran over my cheek with awe when I told him I was pregnant with Elizabeth while he assured me that everything was going to be okay. This hand that rubbed my back while I threw up every morning, that weighed my new fuller breasts, and was permanently attached to the mound of my belly waiting for a kick or movement as I got bigger and bigger. This hand that later dialed the phone so frantically when I went into labor. This hand that wiped my brow and got crushed by mine as I tried to deal with the overwhelming pain of contractions and the agony of trying to push our child into the world. This hand that rested on my knee as he stood between my parted thighs and got the first glimpse of our emerging child. ”My, God, Abbey, you’re REALLY doing it. I can see the head coming out.” His voice had been reverent with the awe of witnessing such a miracle. This hand that was shaking with nerves and fear as he reached out to cut our squalling newborn’s umbilical cord then had so gently cradled his brand new daughter’s head as he showed her to me for the first time. This hand that tentatively stroked the downy strawberry blond peach fuzz on her head while she nursed at my breast, telling her quite solemnly “Hello, Elizabeth Bartlet. I’m your daddy and I’m going to love and take care of you for the rest of my life.

This hand that so tentatively patted Elizabeth’s back when he burped her, so afraid that he was going to hurt her. This hand that loved to stroke her cheek and my breast while she nursed with him stretched out next to us on the bed so that I felt like everything that I loved was right there in that bed with me. This hand that reached out so eagerly as our daughter took her first shaky steps from my arms into his.

Then, a few years later, this same hand of his held my arm tightly as he walked me through the halls of the farmhouse when I was in labor with Ellie. This hand that raked furiously through his hair with fear and frustration as Ellie and our midwife, my best friend Millie took their sweet times arriving. This wonderful strong but gentle hand that caught Ellie's body as she slipped out of mine and into our lives, born in the same bed that she had been conceived in.

There was no chance of that with Zoey. She had been a difficult pregnancy. I almost lost her and had to have two months of bed rest. Jed really came through that time. This wonderful hand of his made breakfast, packed lunches, combed hair, fixed barrettes, gave baths, wiped noses, and patched skinned knees. This hand held tiny tea cups and pretended to sip while he played tea party with the girls. This hand carved pumpkins at Halloween and the turkey at Thanksgiving, it cut down our Christmas tree and put together bicycles and dollhouses long after midnight mass was over, then still had enough energy and cheer to lift the girls into the air when they came jumping into bed with us at 6:00am shouting that Santa had come.

This hand that rubbed my temples and stroked my head while they took Zoey by C-section and I was crying that it was too early. “It’s okay, Abbey” his voice was so soft in my ear. “Don’t’ cry sweetheart, everything is going to be fine.” This hand that was able to cup our premature almost three pound daughter, so terrified of losing her that the fact that she was not a boy barely even registered. This hand that later held our tiny daughter hooked to tubes and heart monitors the tears spilling down his cheeks as he prayed for her to live. This hand that ran so lovingly over the jade Celtic rosary I had given him for Christmas one year as he knelt beside our daughter’s incubator, praying and willing her to live.

It was me who wanted to try again. To try once more for a son. Three years later I was pregnant again. I was sure this one was a boy. I was right and Jed’s hand held me tight while I miscarried that tiny little boy. Peter Michael Bartlet was perfect except for the fact that he was too tiny to survive. I had only been in my fifth month. He fit perfectly in Jed's palm and he’d held him in that palm studying the only son he thought he'd ever have with tears streaming down his cheeks. We named him Peter after St. Peter because he was going to be our special angel who would greet each of us when we finally joined him in heaven, which had been Elizabeth’s idea. This hand that took mine and while he told me so earnestly adamant “"No more babies, Abbey. You mean more to me than any son. I don't want to take a chance I might lose you or have you go through this again." I knew he was right but, as much as I loved my daughters with all my heart, as much as I knew Jed loved them with all his heart, as stupid as I knew it was, I always felt like I'd failed him by not carrying his son to term. But I agreed with him, I didn't want to go through that again.

That's why I knew Jed wouldn't take it well when I told him the real reason I wasn't feeling well tonight. That, thanks to one careless weekend in India when we visited the Taj Mahal on the way to the G8 summit and I had forgotten my birth control pills, I was again pregnant. I had been so afraid to tell him, but now, oh God, if only he would wake up and yell at me for not letting him withdraw from my body when he had wanted to. Maybe subconsciously I knew I was taking the chance. My one last chance to give Jed a son before it was too late. It's funny how all my thoughts go back to the personal, private, and family moments we have shared before he was President. I don't think about his hands as they shake hundreds of others on the campaign trail. All those hands reaching out to touch his, to touch something great. I only briefly touch on Inauguration Day when Jed's hand rested on his mother's bible, which I was holding, while he took the Oath of Office. That's because while the rest of America was waiting to hear news about their dying President, I was right there waiting with my dying husband.

I squeezed his hand again, willing him to remember all those good times just as I was, to remember them and fight to have more. "God Jed, please...please don't leave me," I plead. "I don't know how to do this alone. I don't remember a time when it hasn't been you and me. I'm too old to raise this baby alone. You need to wake up Josiah Bartlet. Oh Jed...please...please don't leave me. I love you so much." I began to cry then, my lips pressed to the back of his lifeless hand. The door to the room opened and a nurse walked in with a bag.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am," she said.

"No, it's OK," I wiped my eyes trying to compose myself, "what is that?"

"The President's clothes and personal items."

When Leo came in a while later, he found me wrapped in Jed's suitcoat, my knees drawn under my chin. I was rocking back and forth as if to comfort myself and twisting Jed's wedding band, which I had put on my thumb. I couldn't stop shaking.

"Abbey, Jesus," Leo said, startled.

"He's going to die, Leo," I said in a flat voice. "I'm going to lose him."

"No, Abbey. Don't do this to yourself."

"He promised me, Leo. When I agreed to him running for President, he promised he wouldn't let anything happen. He PROMISED, Leo."

"He couldn't foresee this, Abbey. You know Jed. He has never believed anything could take him down. Um, I was just out with the staff. Zoey wants to come in."

"Not now, Leo. I don't want her to see Jed like this."

"It's probably preferable to the last time she saw him."

"Well, I don't want her to see ME like this."

Leo nodded in understanding, and there was a soft knock at the door. Leo moved to answer it. "Abbey, this is Father Shaunessy. He's here to give Jed last rites."

"No," I shook my head, coming out of my trance.

"Abbey," Leo said gently, "you know Jed would want this."

"LEO, NO. He can't die. PLEASE..." Leo placed his arm around my shoulders. I could see he was uncomfortable with how to deal with me in this state. I NEVER break down in front of other people, even Leo. Only Jed and our family have ever seen me like this.

"Abigail, you know how important this is to Jed. Please let the priest do his job."

I finally consented. As the priest began to anoint Jed and pray, I thought about how they did this when my son died and the bile began to rise in my throat.

"Leo, I'm going to be sick," I cried and cupped a hand over my mouth as I ran to the bathroom. After violently retching, I rested my head against the cold porcelain. Oh God, I prayed, please don't take him from me. I know I am supposed to accept your will but I'm begging you, don't take my Jed. I re-entered the room a bit shaky and, with Leo's hands on my shoulders, watched the priest finish giving my husband the last rights of the Catholic Church.

"You know Leo, everyone says I am the strong one standing by Jed. But as I've sat here and thought back over our life I realize that's only because they only know Jed the candidate and Jed the President. Jed the man has always been there strong for me whenever I needed him. It's been like that from the moment that he told me he loved me. He's the strongest man I know."

"That strength is going to get him through this, Abbey. That and his love for you. From the moment he saw you, Jed knew you were the one for him. There has never been a waver in that in all these years. I've always envied him that, that sureness that he is with the person God planned him to be with."

"Thank you, Leo," I smiled sadly at him.

"Oh come on, Abbey. You have to know how much that man adores you."

"I do. But it's nice to know it's not all in my head, that others see it."

"We all see it, Abbey. Believe me, we ALL see it."

"Mrs. Bartlet," the nurse said, coming in, "we have a room you can lay down in."

"No," I said firmly.

"It's going to be a long night. Why don't you just lie down? We'll come and get you if the President's status changes."

"I'm not leaving him."

"Abbey," Leo said, "why don't..."

"Leo," I interrupted him, "if he is going to die, it will not be ALONE. He has always been there for me. If it's the last thing I do for my husband, it will be to be with him when he lets go." With that statement, I was left alone with Jed. I took my position back in my chair. I took his hand back in mine and laid my forehead on it, closing my weary eyes. "I'm here, Jed," I murmured softly, "I'm not going anywhere."

The next morning I awoke stiff and sore while the doctor examined Jed. His vital signs were strong and things were looking better. "He really is a fighter," the doctor stated, "I'm going to see about taking him off the ventilator."

"So soon?" I said, scared. At least on the ventilator I knew he would keep breathing.

"The sooner he is breathing on his own again, the better."

Leo came in and stood with me while they removed the tube from Jed's throat. I would forever be grateful for his support during this. I frowned as Jed began to cough and gag. I knew it was normal but my heart began to pound as I watched him gasping for breath.

"I'm here, baby," I said, taking his hand again.

"A...Abbey," Jed choked.

I smiled. "Sssh," I said, smoothing the hair back from his face. "I'm here. Don't talk."

"Love...you..." He drifted back off and I stood there biting my bottom lip, tears filling my eyes.

"I love you too, pumpkin."

He was going to be OK. In my heart I now knew that. Josiah Daniel Bartlet had again beaten the odds. Leo had left the room grinning ear to ear to tell everyone the President woke up and spoke. CJ was telling the press his first word was 'Abbey' and I walked out of Jed's room for the first time in 15 hours. My clothes and hair were rumpled; my face pale, dark smudges of exhaustion were under my eyes. Yet, I saw the respect in Jed's staffs' eyes. They saw me as the strong, calm, composed First Lady. Only Leo had seen the real me, the Abbey who had cried, pleaded, yelled at a priest, and thrown up. The me who had been terrified and lost. Leo had not seen the First Lady at all. He had seen the tears of a wife.

TBC...