I attempt a steadying breath as I turn the corner. Instead, it falters, and I am left not only gasping for air, but grasping for words. I feel as if I am expected to say more, as though I am obliged to do more. But how? Why? What more could I have done?! I fought for you with everything that I had! Why couldn't you have just done the same? Had you given up? Had your want for life gone, only to be replaced by the agony you endured? For a small window of time, I held your life in my dry, weathered palms. Now what do I have to show for it?
As I begin down the hallway to that place of waiting, my steady footfalls and the distant blips of life call me to recognize my own heartbeat. A silent prayer passes my lips, "Thank you Lord, for this day. For the life that I am blessed to have…" and I continue down the hallway.
God, was this all a part of your good and faithful plan? That I might be placed into a position where it would seem the failures far outweigh the fairy tale endings, and fear forever remains a fixed constant? Where I am driven by terror, dread, and a sickening anxiety of a thing so small, yet so charged with grave significance.
Funny isn't it? I deal daily with blood, guts, and anguished screams yet the thing that scares me most is merely a prolonged tone. A sarcastic smile plays across my lips. What bitter irony.
Pausing at the door, I take a moment to collect myself. I don't want to do this. Lord, you know that I don't want to do this. But I must; I know I must, and that I must do it again many more times.
Reaching up, I pull the elastic bands from behind my ears and the cap from my head. Luckily, I'd disposed of the bloody gloves back there, in the emergency room. As I push open the door, one more prayer escapes my lips; this time, only a request, "Lord, give me strength."
Normally, this room is crowded and I would have to call out the name in order to find the family, but it is two in the morning. No one should have to be here at these forsaken hours, yet here she is: a solitary figure among the sea of empty, desolate spaces. She is beautiful and young…too young to have to endure such a loss. Already, I can see the lines etched onto her face; her eyes, full of hope and foolish trust, sear through my being. The glint of her ring blinds me for a moment, and I almost can't do it.
Almost.
Professionally I utter the cursed words, but even as the bitter terms slither past my tongue, I hate them. I hate them for all that they stand for; for the effect I know that they will have, that I already see they are having. I hate them now and I will hate them forever because there is no real compassion in speaking death. As the poor figure crumples before me, I stand. Looking down at her, I do all that I can to keep my facial features frozen.
Emotion is not in my job description.
I call a nurse and ask her to stay with the young woman. It is a routine she knows all too well…that every one of us in this building knows all too well. But I realize that I envy the nurse. It is her career that allows compassion, emotion, and a soft spoken word.
Not mine.
"I'm sorry" is what I say and what I must live with and as I plod back down that long hallway, clutching my mask and cap, I struggle to suppress the guilt that is still boiling just below the surface, the tears that threaten to throw themselves over the threshold of my eyelids.
Stop!
Go ahead and cry yourself to sleep at night, but focus on the task immediately at hand! This isn't, after all, a hobby…
It's my profession.