Dr. Grabovsky. The story of an Azovstal doctor in Russian captivity
Source: Ukrainska Pravda
Author: Viktoria Andreeva
At the age of 8, Serhiy Grabovskyi announced at the holiday table in front of all his relatives that he would become a doctor. When he turned 12, he decided he would be a military doctor. And at 15, he asked his mother for permission to enroll in a military academy.
He later graduated from Bogomolets National Medical University and then from the Military Academy. He was assigned to a maritime security unit in Mariupol in 2020.
The 27-year-old doctor, Grabovsky, also faced the full-scale invasion in the port city of the Donetsk region.
In late December 2021, Serhiy’s mother suffered a stroke. He went to visit her on leave, but was unable to stay until the end—the medic was urgently called back to duty on January 8.
On the eve of the full-scale invasion, his anxious voice betrayed his unease. After prolonged battles for Mariupol, he and his comrades withdrew to Azovstal, and from there—acting on orders—he surrendered and was taken prisoner.
Serhiy’s mother Natalia, his sister Lyudmyla, and the captive’s friends spoke about him to “Ukrainska Pravda. Life."
His mother, Natalia, says her son’s decision at age 8 was unwavering, and from then on, it was reinforced year after year by his determined actions.
“After finishing 9th grade, he applied to the Bohun Military Lyceum in Lutsk. He studied diligently, and there was an incentive: those who fell behind in their studies weren’t allowed to go home for the weekend. My brother never had any problems with that.
Serhiy is very persistent. I remember one semester at medical school when he was about to fail and lose his scholarship. But he went to file a request to retake the Latin exam before the committee,” says his sister Lyudmila.
Serhiy achieved his goal—to become a military doctor—at the age of 24.
Before enrolling at Bogomolets, Serhiy applied to several universities. Among them was Lviv State University of Life Safety. There, while waiting in line to submit his documents, he met a girl named Diana.
She recalls that Serhiy jokingly asked her what she was doing there.
“We only saw each other once: we just started talking, and then we corresponded and spoke for 10 years, but we never met face-to-face.
For me, he was always a moral compass,” shares the soldier’s friend.
Diana notes that Serhiy easily established communication with people: he could strike up a conversation even on public transportation.
“That’s how he met a doctor, with whom he later became friends and discussed medical issues. He also loved it when he was given difficult tasks with little time to prepare. He enjoyed working under conditions of uncertainty and tight deadlines," she recalls.
On June 26, 2020, he took up the position of chief medical officer of the 23rd Marine Battalion.
“He’s a serious guy, not lazy, and he studied a lot. And he was demanding of everyone, but most of all—of himself. He devoted a lot of time to his health and sports,” says Natalia.
Lyudmila recalls how Serhiy came home on his first leave, sharing his impressions of the city, the people, the team, and the work.
“He said the city was beautiful, they’d started rebuilding the roads, and the people were friendly. Many people spoke Russian, and the team was friendly.
At work, an experienced paramedic helped him, a young commander. He had to do a lot of work with paperwork, the pharmacy, and supplies. During this period of his professional development, COVID-19 also hit: vaccinations, hospitalizations,” his sister says.
She notes that people even called her brother while he was on vacation to consult him about treatment. Several of Serhiy’s friends also confirm his high qualifications: they all emphasize the therapist’s exceptional approach and broad knowledge.
“He had extensive knowledge in other specialized fields—surgery, gynecology, otolaryngology, and so on. He covered a very broad spectrum—a true general practitioner,” says his friend Oleksiy.
On December 23, 2021, his mother suffered a stroke. So Serhiy took unpaid leave and traveled to Kyiv to be with her. He was supposed to stay in the capital until January 15, but he was called back to duty a week earlier.
“He said, ‘Work is work. If they’re calling me, it means I’m needed.’ He treated me over the phone from Mariupol. He’s a very meticulous and attentive guy in general, and as a doctor—even more so.
On the 23rd, he called me five times. His voice sounded very agitated, but at the time I chalked it up to his health. The last call was at 10:15 p.m. I asked, ‘Are you home yet?’ To which he replied, ‘No, I’m still at work,’” recalls Natalia.
At 4:30 a.m., Serhiy’s mother was awakened by the bombing of Kyiv.
“I immediately realized it was war. At 6:05 a.m., the phone rang. To be honest, I’d been expecting his call even earlier. My son probably couldn’t call because of work. Or maybe he was waiting because he knew I take my pills at 6 a.m.
He asked how I was. I said I was fine. There was silence on the line. His silence was as if he’d lost his voice. Then he said it would only be for a couple of days—he started trying to reassure me like that. At the end, he added: “Mom, I love you, I kiss you, God be with you,” the mother recounts.
On the eighth day, Serhiy video-called his sister. He was at the port and showed Lyudmila the number of dead bodies.
“He calls and says, ‘Sweetie, do you see those little jackets? Those are corpses.’ You know, he was in such a state of shock and emotional exhaustion back then. Because he used to get a thrill out of his work, but in this case, it gnawed at him that these people could no longer be helped.
What hit him hardest was the first body of a fellow soldier. He can’t panic because he’s a doctor, but at that moment, he just shut himself off,” the woman recalls.
Lyuda says she spoke with her brother a few days after the Russians left the Kyiv region.
“I asked him about Bucha, like, ‘Did you see it?’ His answer really stuck with me: ‘But, little one, I showed you back on March 2 what would happen when Mariupol fell. Now everyone’s crying—Bucha has fallen. And what’s going on here?” his sister recounts.
His mother notes that she was actively messaging her son during the first few weeks. Then, communication was lost in Mariupol.
“He called me from other numbers. Then there was silence for three weeks. I was in tears, in shock. He called me from Azovstal after three weeks of silence. He said he was fine. People probably saved him under that name on their phones, because with Serhiy, everything was always fine. He even joked that there was so much food, there was even enough to feed the dogs,” adds Natalia.
His sister says that even on Easter, Serhiy joked about food: he sent a photo of a “paska.”
“It’s such a small piece, I don’t even know what it is. You can’t even call it a pancake. And he says, ‘This is our Easter cake, Christ is Risen,’" Lyudmila recounts.
She mentioned that Serhiy has a nephew named Artem. He was constantly asking about him. Once, Natalia said that the boy had fallen and twisted his leg, but he was holding up like a soldier. Sergei reacted instantly to that phrase.
“He says, ‘No, one soldier is enough. 'I won’t let Artem join the military, not him of all people,'" his sister notes.
Diana, Sergei’s friend, also received messages from the military doctor from time to time. When she asked if he was okay, he would reply with a "+" to the military.
"He rarely got in touch. He would reply with 'pluses.' I knew he was alive. But at one point, the 'pluses' stopped coming. I started to panic and look for contacts. I found his sister. From her, I learned that Serhiy was at Azovstal. Then I followed the news,” says a friend of Grabovsky.
From Mariupol, Serhiy mostly called his mom: he checked on her health and offered support. She says that the subsequent calls lasted 20–40 seconds every two weeks.
“He always asked how I was, what medications I was taking, and what my blood pressure was. I had a stock phrase ready: 120 over 80 three times. Although, to be honest: I hadn’t measured my blood pressure yet; I didn’t have the heart for it.
On the night of May 16, when Serhiy called me, I asked, ‘Son, are you at the factory or are you already a prisoner of war?’ He said, ‘Mom, I’m not going to answer that question,’ says the mother of the captured soldier.
At midnight on May 20, the brother called his sister and announced in a joyful voice: “I’ll be home soon; they’re taking us out.”
There was a lot of hope in his voice: they had been promised evacuation and that their lives would be spared.
“He was so happy, energetic, and so joyful! I’d never heard him like that in my life.
After the call, I couldn’t sleep, so I called my mom. She hadn’t slept either. I asked, ‘Mom, is this captivity?’ She said yes. And I started crying—it really is captivity,” Lyudmila recalls.
On the 20th, Serhiy Grabovskyi, along with other soldiers who had been defending Mariupol, left the Azovstal plant.
Natalia says that at first, the military registration office issued documents stating that he was missing in action. Two months later, they received confirmation from the aggressor country that he was being held captive in Russia.
“When you’re waiting, it seems like this: if a day goes by without bad news, then thank God, it was a good day. That’s how we live through the second day, the third, the tenth.
I want to remind you: they were led out of Azovstal; they didn’t surrender on their own. There was an order from the commander-in-chief. We were promised guarantees that their lives would be spared. We expected an exchange, honestly, within a month at most. But he’s been in captivity for six months now,” says the prisoner of war’s mother.
She adds that some of Serhiy’s comrades were also present during the first exchange. They were seriously wounded, and they managed to bring them back to Ukraine.
She and her daughter were allowed to visit the soldiers. They said this about Serhiy: “The doc is there; he’s treating people. He’s doing fine, walking around and smiling.”
But a mother’s heart breaks: she recently saw new footage from captivity.
“I have photos of him in captivity where his shoes are falling apart. Maybe he’s walking barefoot now; I don’t know. You don’t think about that only when you’re asleep. And there’s practically no sleep.
People sometimes ask me, ‘When was it easier for you? At Azovstal or in captivity?’ I’ll tell you honestly—it’s been hard since the first day of the war,” adds Natalia.
While Serhiy remains in captivity, President Zelenskyy awarded him a medal and promoted him to senior lieutenant.
His mother notes that the wives of all the soldiers in their unit have become very close-knit.
“We’re waiting for everyone, but each of us is waiting for our own,” the captive’s mother concludes, her voice trembling.
Author: Viktoria Andreeva
At the age of 8, Serhiy Grabovskyi announced at the holiday table in front of all his relatives that he would become a doctor. When he turned 12, he decided he would be a military doctor. And at 15, he asked his mother for permission to enroll in a military academy.
He later graduated from Bogomolets National Medical University and then from the Military Academy. He was assigned to a maritime security unit in Mariupol in 2020.
The 27-year-old doctor, Grabovsky, also faced the full-scale invasion in the port city of the Donetsk region.
In late December 2021, Serhiy’s mother suffered a stroke. He went to visit her on leave, but was unable to stay until the end—the medic was urgently called back to duty on January 8.
On the eve of the full-scale invasion, his anxious voice betrayed his unease. After prolonged battles for Mariupol, he and his comrades withdrew to Azovstal, and from there—acting on orders—he surrendered and was taken prisoner.
Serhiy’s mother Natalia, his sister Lyudmyla, and the captive’s friends spoke about him to “Ukrainska Pravda. Life."
The path from a dream to becoming a military doctor
His mother, Natalia, says her son’s decision at age 8 was unwavering, and from then on, it was reinforced year after year by his determined actions.
“After finishing 9th grade, he applied to the Bohun Military Lyceum in Lutsk. He studied diligently, and there was an incentive: those who fell behind in their studies weren’t allowed to go home for the weekend. My brother never had any problems with that.
Serhiy is very persistent. I remember one semester at medical school when he was about to fail and lose his scholarship. But he went to file a request to retake the Latin exam before the committee,” says his sister Lyudmila.
Serhiy achieved his goal—to become a military doctor—at the age of 24.
Before enrolling at Bogomolets, Serhiy applied to several universities. Among them was Lviv State University of Life Safety. There, while waiting in line to submit his documents, he met a girl named Diana.
She recalls that Serhiy jokingly asked her what she was doing there.
“We only saw each other once: we just started talking, and then we corresponded and spoke for 10 years, but we never met face-to-face.
For me, he was always a moral compass,” shares the soldier’s friend.
Diana notes that Serhiy easily established communication with people: he could strike up a conversation even on public transportation.
“That’s how he met a doctor, with whom he later became friends and discussed medical issues. He also loved it when he was given difficult tasks with little time to prepare. He enjoyed working under conditions of uncertainty and tight deadlines," she recalls.
The Start of a Military Medical Career
On June 26, 2020, he took up the position of chief medical officer of the 23rd Marine Battalion.
“He’s a serious guy, not lazy, and he studied a lot. And he was demanding of everyone, but most of all—of himself. He devoted a lot of time to his health and sports,” says Natalia.
Lyudmila recalls how Serhiy came home on his first leave, sharing his impressions of the city, the people, the team, and the work.
“He said the city was beautiful, they’d started rebuilding the roads, and the people were friendly. Many people spoke Russian, and the team was friendly.
At work, an experienced paramedic helped him, a young commander. He had to do a lot of work with paperwork, the pharmacy, and supplies. During this period of his professional development, COVID-19 also hit: vaccinations, hospitalizations,” his sister says.
She notes that people even called her brother while he was on vacation to consult him about treatment. Several of Serhiy’s friends also confirm his high qualifications: they all emphasize the therapist’s exceptional approach and broad knowledge.
“He had extensive knowledge in other specialized fields—surgery, gynecology, otolaryngology, and so on. He covered a very broad spectrum—a true general practitioner,” says his friend Oleksiy.
The War in Mariupol
On December 23, 2021, his mother suffered a stroke. So Serhiy took unpaid leave and traveled to Kyiv to be with her. He was supposed to stay in the capital until January 15, but he was called back to duty a week earlier.
“He said, ‘Work is work. If they’re calling me, it means I’m needed.’ He treated me over the phone from Mariupol. He’s a very meticulous and attentive guy in general, and as a doctor—even more so.
On the 23rd, he called me five times. His voice sounded very agitated, but at the time I chalked it up to his health. The last call was at 10:15 p.m. I asked, ‘Are you home yet?’ To which he replied, ‘No, I’m still at work,’” recalls Natalia.
At 4:30 a.m., Serhiy’s mother was awakened by the bombing of Kyiv.
“I immediately realized it was war. At 6:05 a.m., the phone rang. To be honest, I’d been expecting his call even earlier. My son probably couldn’t call because of work. Or maybe he was waiting because he knew I take my pills at 6 a.m.
He asked how I was. I said I was fine. There was silence on the line. His silence was as if he’d lost his voice. Then he said it would only be for a couple of days—he started trying to reassure me like that. At the end, he added: “Mom, I love you, I kiss you, God be with you,” the mother recounts.
On the eighth day, Serhiy video-called his sister. He was at the port and showed Lyudmila the number of dead bodies.
“He calls and says, ‘Sweetie, do you see those little jackets? Those are corpses.’ You know, he was in such a state of shock and emotional exhaustion back then. Because he used to get a thrill out of his work, but in this case, it gnawed at him that these people could no longer be helped.
What hit him hardest was the first body of a fellow soldier. He can’t panic because he’s a doctor, but at that moment, he just shut himself off,” the woman recalls.
Lyuda says she spoke with her brother a few days after the Russians left the Kyiv region.
“I asked him about Bucha, like, ‘Did you see it?’ His answer really stuck with me: ‘But, little one, I showed you back on March 2 what would happen when Mariupol fell. Now everyone’s crying—Bucha has fallen. And what’s going on here?” his sister recounts.
"Azovstal"
His mother notes that she was actively messaging her son during the first few weeks. Then, communication was lost in Mariupol.
“He called me from other numbers. Then there was silence for three weeks. I was in tears, in shock. He called me from Azovstal after three weeks of silence. He said he was fine. People probably saved him under that name on their phones, because with Serhiy, everything was always fine. He even joked that there was so much food, there was even enough to feed the dogs,” adds Natalia.
His sister says that even on Easter, Serhiy joked about food: he sent a photo of a “paska.”
“It’s such a small piece, I don’t even know what it is. You can’t even call it a pancake. And he says, ‘This is our Easter cake, Christ is Risen,’" Lyudmila recounts.
She mentioned that Serhiy has a nephew named Artem. He was constantly asking about him. Once, Natalia said that the boy had fallen and twisted his leg, but he was holding up like a soldier. Sergei reacted instantly to that phrase.
“He says, ‘No, one soldier is enough. 'I won’t let Artem join the military, not him of all people,'" his sister notes.
Diana, Sergei’s friend, also received messages from the military doctor from time to time. When she asked if he was okay, he would reply with a "+" to the military.
"He rarely got in touch. He would reply with 'pluses.' I knew he was alive. But at one point, the 'pluses' stopped coming. I started to panic and look for contacts. I found his sister. From her, I learned that Serhiy was at Azovstal. Then I followed the news,” says a friend of Grabovsky.
From Mariupol, Serhiy mostly called his mom: he checked on her health and offered support. She says that the subsequent calls lasted 20–40 seconds every two weeks.
“He always asked how I was, what medications I was taking, and what my blood pressure was. I had a stock phrase ready: 120 over 80 three times. Although, to be honest: I hadn’t measured my blood pressure yet; I didn’t have the heart for it.
On the night of May 16, when Serhiy called me, I asked, ‘Son, are you at the factory or are you already a prisoner of war?’ He said, ‘Mom, I’m not going to answer that question,’ says the mother of the captured soldier.
Surrender
At midnight on May 20, the brother called his sister and announced in a joyful voice: “I’ll be home soon; they’re taking us out.”
There was a lot of hope in his voice: they had been promised evacuation and that their lives would be spared.
“He was so happy, energetic, and so joyful! I’d never heard him like that in my life.
After the call, I couldn’t sleep, so I called my mom. She hadn’t slept either. I asked, ‘Mom, is this captivity?’ She said yes. And I started crying—it really is captivity,” Lyudmila recalls.
On the 20th, Serhiy Grabovskyi, along with other soldiers who had been defending Mariupol, left the Azovstal plant.
Natalia says that at first, the military registration office issued documents stating that he was missing in action. Two months later, they received confirmation from the aggressor country that he was being held captive in Russia.
“When you’re waiting, it seems like this: if a day goes by without bad news, then thank God, it was a good day. That’s how we live through the second day, the third, the tenth.
I want to remind you: they were led out of Azovstal; they didn’t surrender on their own. There was an order from the commander-in-chief. We were promised guarantees that their lives would be spared. We expected an exchange, honestly, within a month at most. But he’s been in captivity for six months now,” says the prisoner of war’s mother.
She adds that some of Serhiy’s comrades were also present during the first exchange. They were seriously wounded, and they managed to bring them back to Ukraine.
She and her daughter were allowed to visit the soldiers. They said this about Serhiy: “The doc is there; he’s treating people. He’s doing fine, walking around and smiling.”
But a mother’s heart breaks: she recently saw new footage from captivity.
“I have photos of him in captivity where his shoes are falling apart. Maybe he’s walking barefoot now; I don’t know. You don’t think about that only when you’re asleep. And there’s practically no sleep.
People sometimes ask me, ‘When was it easier for you? At Azovstal or in captivity?’ I’ll tell you honestly—it’s been hard since the first day of the war,” adds Natalia.
While Serhiy remains in captivity, President Zelenskyy awarded him a medal and promoted him to senior lieutenant.
His mother notes that the wives of all the soldiers in their unit have become very close-knit.
“We’re waiting for everyone, but each of us is waiting for our own,” the captive’s mother concludes, her voice trembling.
This is an automatic translation generated by DeepL.