"Musings on Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness" by VjeraNadaLjubav
Rating: PG-13 (to be safe)Spoilers: "May Day", minor spoilers for "Be Still My Heart"/"All in the Family"
Summary: After the events of "May Day", Luka reminisces about his life before County.
Disclaimer: I don't own "ER". NBC, Amblin, WB and Constant C do. I wish I would, but I can wish all I want.
Dedication: To the people of Vukovar, Srebrenica, Grozny and to all innocent victims of genocide and ethnic cleansing everywhere.
Acknowledgements: A big bow to Caran, who argued with me over the plot during late evening AIM chats, and who has been suffering from "Musings" for almost the entire two years it was being been written, and for beta reading. Huge thanks to Cathy Roberts who had to read this story in the various stages and endure endless e-mails and stupid questions I couldn't ask anyone else. And of course, thanks to Goran Visnjic, the great guy without whom we wouldn't have Luka. Kathryn deserves a virtual Carter for her prodding me to post this fic. WitchWoman andGemma, thank you very much for your contributions. No thanks at all to the ER script writers...
Random stuff: Sorry if there are weird language twists. Although I am a killer speller (S), and good at grammar, I sometimes make bizarre mistakes that cannot be explained. Also, this story has been in the works since December 1999, and this what seems like the twentieth version of the original. (Caran says that this is an understatement.)
May is a cruel month. It is not just a modification of a popular saying; it is the truth. As I sit on a bench at the L platform, trying to forget the sound of the unborn baby's heart going into asystole, I think. I think of Marko, my little boy who would have celebrated his tenth birthday today, my little boy who had not lived to see his second birthday. I think of Danijela, whose laughter was like music. I think of Jasna, who was the most beautiful little girl. I think of myself, alone and lost in the world without them.
It is cold, too cold for a May night. A gust of cold wind hits me every time a train rushes by. People exit and enter, the train leaves, and I feel like a stone sculpture, a cold and ancient figure on the bench, unsaid prayers stuck behind the lips, heart shattered into tiny pieces and covered with dust. Tears are locked in behind my eyelids, too tired to escape. I can't forget that woman's face when she said she did not want a C-section. She did not want to have more scars on her abdomen, she told Chuni later. How could someone kill their own baby? I will never be able to understand her. How could she willingly let something so precious die? I frown, and it comes to my mind I am like her too in some way. I let my wife die because I could not make a decision. I could have saved her, but Jasna was still breathing - I really should try to stop thinking about this so often if I want to remain somewhat sane…
Nearly a year has gone by since I started to work in the ER at County General. A lot of things have happened in my life since last year, and many have changed. I still am the old Luka Kovac on the outside, with a few gray hairs and an inconspicuous limp, but inside I'm breaking into pieces. The new people anywhere are always expected to adjust in record times and jump through hoops just like anyone else, but I cannot do that. I am too set in my ways; too European, too Yugoslav, too Croatian, you take your pick.
I am still shocked by the death of Lucy Knight. I think I am partially to blame. After all, I was the attending, and I should have checked on them. After I finally got off, I went home, and for two days straight, I drank. Usually I never drink more then a glass, but in this case, I could not stand sitting on the couch and staring at a wall. I drank three bottles of rakija a day. On the third day, my supply of alcohol was depleted and I came to work with a hangover that only could be measured on the Richter scale. Serves me right. I believe Lucy is now in the same place where my wife and children are - where the innocent go after they die. I have seen too many innocent people die, and it hurts to watch all of those lives wasted by people who should not even have a right to think that they are people. Heaven must be very big, since it needs a lot of space to fit in all these innocents.
I admit that I was wrong to ignore the shooter this morning, who was more critical that the boy, but I thought about my son and I suddenly wanted to jump out of that helicopter and finish him off with my own hands. I have seen enough death for ten lifetimes, and I really do not want anyone else suffer. I try to do the best for everyone, but it does not always turn out all right. I cannot help feeling the strong impulse to help people. It is my penance. I need to help others so I will feel satisfied, but I just end up watching their pain, unable to help them.
After trying to run away from my past, I discovered that is still following me. After bad days in ER, I have nightmares, and everything that I am afraid of comes back. Today is one of such days. I wonder what I will dream about tonight. Will I dream about a soldier shooting a young woman while she pleads for her life? Will I dream about an old man watching a house burn, the house where he was born and where his family lived all those years? Or will it be about me, sitting in the back of the speeding truck, clutching my gun and medical bag, trying to put a five-year old girl back together after she wandered away from her mother while going home from the store and stepped on a mine? All is possible.
I have been considering seeing a psychiatrist, but I do not know if it will be right. I managed to suppress my memories, and I am not sure if I will be able to hold myself together if it all comes out. It takes a lot to forget someone being shot in front of you, choking on your own blood or a gun pressed to the back of your head with someone's finger on the trigger. There are many memories I would like to erase from my mind. But it is hard to do, and the harder I try to erase them, the deeper they become etched into my memory. I know very well most of what happened to me, as I had to recite it to countless people back in Europe. Yes, I am a torture victim; yes, I am that; yes, I am this; so and so was done to me. Yes, I do remember the names of the people who did this. Yes, I know the names of other victims. After a while, all horrible things that happened to me started to seem mundane. Some times while waiting for my refugee status to be approved, I thought I would have my phony smile stuck on my face forever.
Nothing in my life in the United States has gone as I expected. Actually, nothing in my life has gone as I expected. Ten years ago, I thought that by now I would have a secure job in some small Croatian hospital and be still very much in love with Danijela, watching our children grow up. Jasna would be a teenager, obsessing about her boyfriend problems and small silly things teenage girls are always preoccupied with. Marko would be a normal clumsy ten-year old boy, running around with kids his age, inquiring about still mystifying things like shaving and girls. But Danijela, Jasna and Marko are dead and buried, and I'm a severely depressed widower in his early thirties working a strenuous job in a busy American hospital. It is definitely not what I expected and nothing I wanted, but that's my situation, and I have to deal with it by all means known to me.
I have lived in Chicago for less then a year. Chicago is an interesting city; it has its own peculiar feeling. Every city I have been to felt different. Chicago feels euphoric. Even if I know that death is ever present, I still feel somehow safe. Safer than in Vukovar. Everywhere is safer than Vukovar. Don't get me wrong; Vukovar is a strong city, a city with pride and ability to rebuild. I have lost too much there: my family, my home, my old life, and my soul. I have not been there since 1991. I do not think I will ever be able to return there, even if my family is buried there. I feel proud for those who could return and could rebuild their lives and their homes, because they are strong. They were able to overcome their losses, but I cannot.
The only substantial problem here is loneliness. You sit alone in your apartment, realizing that there are millions of people like you sitting in their apartments, who are lonely too, but you are afraid to approach them. You think you will be rejected. That is one of the main problems of American society. In Europe, people are closer, maybe because of the space, maybe because we are less diverse. Our hatred is stronger, but we do not hesitate to show it. We usually know who will stab us in the back; yet there was one time we did not and that time was the one that was our undoing.
This year was the year of adjustment. I loved and lost, again. I faced anguish and horror. All makings of a great drama. Human drama is always the aspect that draws people to fiction. I think I can write a decent thriller out of my own experiences. I could certainly use the money. I remember the journalists' morbid fascination with our suffering back in the Balkans. Human drama sells, especially if it involves innocent people. It sells at a high price and brings fame and fortune, while the innocent die by thousands.
These days I often feel like I ran headfirst into a brick wall. At first, everything at County seemed very promising. I was still new to the place, but at least some people were friendly to me. Carol became one of my closest friends, and I got in over my head, feeling insanely happy just to talk to a woman again. I liked her. I am human, you know. I want to love someone. I want to be loved. But it seems that God does not think I deserve love. Carol left me with a nervous smile, a benevolent kiss and an excuse. I can understand her. She had an instant husband in Seattle. She had two little girls. Who needs a broken man who didn't save his wife and kids anyway? No one, no one at all.
Carol opted to choose someone she knew she could rely on. I cannot sometimes trust myself. Although my wife's personality was completely different from Carol's, they had the same kindness in them. They both had an enchanting smile and a special twinkle in their eyes. I liked Carol, and hoped she could love me. My heart is not made of ice. It needs warmth, and it needs care like any other heart. Maybe it is just my perverse attraction to Slavic women with curly dark hair that screws everything up. Who knows? I certainly do not.
Why do I feel that I am different? Why cannot I get along with anyone? I ask myself a lot of questions and get no answers. I have lived for thirty-three years, but I still cannot find any meaning in my life. Sure, once I was someone and there was meaning, but it usually goes in life, the meaning is gone and I have no idea who I am anymore. I had some unpleasant experiences in my life, and they did affect me, but what stops me from having a meaningful existence, to live for something else other than a paycheck and a cold hotel room? This is the question I have to ponder every waking moment. . .