Hi guys. Just wrote this at work today (don't worry I was earning my keep, I 'wrote' it in my head until I had a chance to jot it down). I kinda like it. I hope you do too. Please R + R. It makes my day :)
I hate it most when they cry. Everybody here does. It's unmistakeable. The tension of their shoulders, the bow of their head. The pain in their eyes. They have just told a young painter he'll never see another work of art, an aspiring pianist he'll never again feel the ivories hum to Beethoven's ninth, a talented footballer that he'll be hopping to the end zone. They remain coiled, anxious, waiting. And when the boy doesn't cry, you can see relief relax all the lines of their body.
We all hate it. The difference is why.
Colonel Potter feels old. And selfish. It's not his fault but you can see that he imagines he has no right to be so fit and healthy after three decades and two world wars in this nasty business. He's been through a lot and seen even more. I'm sure he's had his share of wounds, both emotional and physical, but when you can't see the scars it must be easier to dismiss them as trivial. Or maybe the problem is that these kids remind him of what he has lost, and who, over the years. He rides Sophie whenever one of them cries. I don't know whether she helps him to forget or forces him remember. Either way, it seems to help.
Hawkeye, the clown. He has no equine companion to console him. Jokes are his only defence against the engulfing horror of war. And most of the time they seem perform this function adequately, keeping fear and despair at a respectable distance. If you can make a joke about something it can't be so bad. Right? Unfortunately, while they may hold his own tears at bay, jokes can't shield him from the tears of others. He can be abrasive but even he is not so callous as to laugh in the face of another's despair. He sees those tears and can think only of what he could have done, should have done. The perfectionist in him can't accept that he is not in some way responsible for the young life ruined. It's a pity he can't pay more attention to the young life saved.
Charles, on the other hand, is too pompous, too self-assured to blame himself. If a patient doesn't make a full recovery after visiting his table then there was never any chance it could have been done. Charles doesn't blame himself for their situation but he does recognise his inability to offer comfort to others. He is awkward, clumsy when it comes to displays of emotions, particularly by others. He pats their shoulders and spouts clichés. At least you're alive. It could have been worse. Even as he says it, his face reddens with shame at the futility of his words. In all other things he strives for excellence. In this he is a bumbling oaf, left unprepared for such moments by an upbringing starved of emotion. He hates having to face that. Not being in control scares him.
Our esteemed priest feels helpless too; though for a different reason. Comforting, listening, reassuring. That is his role, what he does best. I know he doesn't doubt his calling but when the words and prayers he lives by offer little comfort he feels superfluous. Like a surplus box of tongue depressors. Useful in its own right but redundant and vaguely ridiculous in excess. Nobody else sees him this way but I know he wishes there was more he could do. We all feel helpless sometimes.
BJ, poor BJ. He feels the pain of others so much. Too much. He hates it when the boys cry because it means he will too. Not in post-op. Not in front of anyone. I see his eyes mist up but nothing comes of it and I know that he is saving that grief. Locking it away in a secret corner of his heart for a more private moment. Later in his cot when he thinks nobody will know, he cries to himself and falls asleep with the young boy's tears in his mind and on his pillow.
I know this and I understand. I used to do it too. I used to be like all of them. I'd blame myself, feeling clumsy and foolish as I attempted to console people I knew nothing about. My words meaningless coming from one so cruelly healthy. I hadn't yet learned that there are no words to fill that void. But we'd try, as much for ourselves as the tearful child. We'd see our own failings, our inadequacies, in their misery. Inevitably, I would go back to my tent, replace my army greens with a frivolous pink nightgown and cry for everything and nothing all at once. Not anymore.
Now in their tears all I see is the absence of my own.
It's selfish, but I hate it most when they cry.