"Children Lost and Children Found" by Krissy Mae Anderson
Summary: After a child's death, Jing-mei and Luka have a conversation.
Rating: K
Spoilers: very slight ones for "The Greatest Of Gifts", "The Crossing"
Disclaimer: If I would own the rights to ER, I certainly wouldn't be stuck in the middle of nowhere writing research papers.
Note: Not beta read. Mistakes are all my own. As usual, thanks to Caran for reading my fics despite being severely sleep-deprived.
I hate it when children die. They are supposed to live longer than their parents, but recently it seems that more and more of them die every day. They die from chronic illnesses, from abuse, from accidents, from anything. Children are so vulnerable. They die, and get hurt, and disappear. Yet they always remain innocent. The adults realize too late how much that innocence matters, but they can never get it back.
The case today - Corey Phelps, three years old, way too young to experience pain, but nevertheless dying from AIDS. He didn't want to die, but he did. He cried a lot, and asked Dr. Kovac and me to make him better. He said that he didn't want to go to heaven. Children shouldn't go to heaven at the age of three when they want to be alive. But the world isn't fair. Children leave it earlier than they are supposed to. They die from illnesses that are too much for their small bodies and fragile organisms, and they die as the result of the adult world gone very wrong. Child soldiers; child victims of violent crime, of domestic abuse, of war, of man-made famine, of anything imaginable.
Corey's mother died several months after he was born. His father disappeared, leaving his elderly mother to take care of the baby. She took care of him until she died from a stroke several weeks ago, and now he was dying by himself, with no family or friends. Dr. Kovac bought some toys at the gift shop and I got some children's books from peds, and since it was a slow day, we stayed with him for several hours, trying to make him feel better. Just when Corey laughed and said he wanted the ice cream that we promised him, he went into heart failure, and only several minutes later he was dead. We knew that we wouldn't get him back, but we tried anyway. Ten minutes later, Luka declared the time of death, covered Corey's body with a sheet and left the room.
When I came out of the room several minutes later, I must have looked very upset, because Susan and Gregory were instantly upon me, not sure of what to say but still trying to say something. Lately, I have had a feeling that almost everyone I know thinks that I am unable to fend for myself or see a patient without having deep emotional trauma, especially Gregory, who as my boyfriend seems to have made it his mission to protect me from everything. Feeling overwhelmed, I excused myself and got on the elevator, needing to get away for at least a moment, to be truly on my own.
I look at the Chicago skyline. The view from the roof is breathtaking. The lights, the lake, the noise, it all forms a picture that sticks with you for a long time. Ever since I first came to this hospital, I was always drawn to the roof. It is a good place when you need to vent your fury or to cry in silence. You feel like you are alone, even though there are millions of people around you. Right now I need to be alone, away from Susan's well-meant but irritating advice and Gregory's awkward reassurance. They want to make me feel better, but I don't want to feel better, or to feel happy, because a child has just died and I could not stop that from happening.
I hear the elevator doors creak as they open. The elevator is the only reminder of the outside world here on the roof. I want to pretend I am part of the sky for a moment. I want to close my eyes and think of myself as a part of the city.
I know without turning around who gets out of the elevator. I know why he is here. It also hit him hard. It hit everyone who worked on Corey hard but it hit the two of us the hardest. We have lost our own children, and although we lost them in different ways, we understand the pain that comes with the death of any child. Michael is not dead, but for me he is forever gone, because now it is too late for me to get him back. He was my child, and I could have had him. I chose my career over him. I chose my family over him. I can forgive myself for those things, but I can't forgive myself for choosing myself over him.
He stops next to me and extends a hand with a Styrofoam cup in it. I look at him questioningly.
"Coffee," he says. "I thought you could use some."
"I certainly can. Thank you," I say, accepting the cup and taking a sip.
"How are you feeling?" he asks. I can hear concern in his voice, and I want to lie and tell him that I feel fine, but I can't. I decide to not say anything at all, and just sigh heavily.
"Dr. Kovac, may I ask you something?" I have no idea what I will ask him, but I need to speak about something with somebody. The silence is eating at me and I need to relieve some of the grief I am feeling.
"Call me Luka. I am only three years older then you." He smiles, takes a sip from his own cup. I smile, take a sip. Symmetry. Skewered symmetry.
"I miss my son," I blurt out unexpectedly for myself.
"What is his name?" he asks, looking at the city lights reflected in Lake Michigan.
"Michael," I say quietly, overwhelmed with an urge to hold him.
"Michael is a good name," he says. "A version of it is my Confirmation name."
"Michael is a beautiful name," I say and sigh.
"Children always have beautiful names," he says softly. "Every child is beautiful."
"I agree," I reply, lost in my memory of the short minutes I had with Michael.
"I had children once." He speaks softly, his voice unusually subdued. "It is hard to watch them grow up. It's even harder to see them taken away from you."
I remember the story about his family's death and listen more attentively. Dr. Kovac doesn't reveal much about himself, and because of that, any fact about him is news.
"What were their names?" I ask quietly, hoping that I am not too pushy.
"Jasna and Marko." He looks away, sighs, and continues: "It is always very hard for me to think of the way they died, and I often blame myself for what happened to them, although I know that I could not have saved them. Life gives us choices we can't make, and then makes those choices blow up in our faces."
"Children aren't supposed to die."
"They aren't." We sigh at the same time and look at the city, where people die and are born every moment, and life goes on despite death and suffering.
"I hope there's going to be less senseless deaths in generations to come."
"Me too," he says quietly. He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it gently. I look up at him and see the first genuine smile I have seen on his face in a long time.
"Someday everything will be all right," he says. "But until then, the memory of what we had will always be with us, and it will always make us do our best."
Our pagers go off simultaneously. With a dual groan, we both check the messages only to see that the ER is summoning all available personnel for an MVA, ETA 4 minutes. I quickly finish my coffee and hurry towards the elevator. He stays near the edge of the roof, looking down at the city.
"See you in four minutes."
He turns around for a moment, smiles and turns back to look at the city again. As the elevator doors close, I think about children again. So many die, but so many are born. So many children bring joy to their parents. So many children bring joy to those who can't have them. And even the memory of children brings joy, like it does for him and me. Their memory keeps us strong, because we know we have to do our best so they can be proud of us, wherever they are.
The End