Code Lavender
When Stephen was in medical school and residency, there had been classmates and colleagues who had killed themselves: a female student with eating issues who literally worked herself to death, forgoing food and personal care to keep her spot in medical school only to be found dead in front of her closet by a concerned roommate (1); another student who couldn't handle the stress of the schoolwork and constant testing in a system that constantly pushed and never forgave jumped off the roof of the hospital to die on impact; an anesthesia resident who OD'd on the very drugs he had been giving his patients. The latter one was determined to be a mistake – not a suicide but an accidental overdose - but what doctor was stupid enough to accidently OD? Dosages - therapeutic and lethal - were all well learned and ingrained in each physician's mind, so while the newspapers claimed accident, those in the medical field knew better.
Stephen never thought about suicide before, or at least, never considered it seriously. In medical school and residency, it had been a race against the clock – would he become a full-fledged surgeon and cure his sister or would she die first? He had won, but ultimately failed. She passed on his table, her life slipping away right before his eyes. At that time, he had considered suicide, if only for a moment, but there were too many other people – patients - who needed his help and needed his skill in the OR. He couldn't save his sister, but maybe he could save them.
The ones he saved were the only reason he could keep going. If he could help one more, then it was worth it to continue even if he lost a little bit more of himself every day to a broken, unfeeling system that didn't care about the physicians who had already sacrificed so much.
But now, everything was different. His accident had rendered his hands useless and the dexterity he once possessed a distant memory. If he couldn't hold a pen and sign his own name, how could he even dream to hold a scalpel once more? If he could not be a neurosurgeon, then there was no point to his life. Losing his hands had destroyed his self-identity; he was worthless without them. The people he had saved had kept him afloat, but now he was drowning, being dragged down by those he could not help.
Stephen had lost his one reason to keep living.
He had sought help, seeking the latest research and technology, but he was denied each time, and each time someone said that they could no longer help, it felt like another nail in his coffin, until finally, the coffin was complete and all he had to do was lay in it. He had tried to deny this reality, going through the stages of grief like he had lost a best friend, but ultimately Stephen landed solidly in depression with no support.
With nothing left, he began to plot his end.
…
What he hadn't expected was the rekindling of hope in the most unlikely place.
(1) a classmate.. I'm sorry we failed you.