One Beating Heart

A few days before Valentine's Day, Deb returned to work. Busy as we were, she was a sight for sore eyes and I was very happy to see her back. The first patient we worked together was a young boy who suffered a seizure at day care. He arrived by ambulance accompanied by his teacher as his parents were unreachable. His symptoms were puzzling. Without parents to provide his history, diagnosis was slow. After ruling out common causes for his symptoms and noting the appearance of a rash thought to be eradicated, we determined he had measles.

It was frustrating for all of us involved with his care. This was completely preventable with a simple vaccine his well educated parents electively did not provide. By choice he was not vaccinated and therefore by choice, he was lying in a hospital bed precariously clinging to life. His condition was serious enough that we had to move him to the PICU. When I went to check on him later, he was in full cardiac arrest with the whole pediatric team working diligently to restore his heart rhythm. They were not successful. It was a senseless loss of life.

I spent a few quiet moments grieving the tragic death of this boy I didn't even know and never would. I couldn't talk to the parents. Their proud stupidity over not vaccinating any of their children was too much for me to deal with. Back down in the ER, life went on. Traumas came in, we patched and repaired, treated and streeted. I did my job. I saw patients. In the trauma room, I found a toy airplane that belonged to the little boy. I put it in my pocket with the intention of giving it back to his parents later.

It was a busy shift and I focused my mind on each new patient I handled. When my shift was over, I reached in my pocket and found the toy. Thoughts of the little boy once again took center stage in my mind. I went outside to the relative peace and quiet where I could process those thoughts. I wasn't ready to go home or to a meeting. I needed to deal with my thoughts and emotions over the little boy's death. I took the little plane out of my pocket and studied it as I pondered his all too brief life. Deb came out to check on me and noticed the plane. "Measles boy died?" she asked. I nodded and asked her about her first shift back. She didn't exactly have a banner day either. She asked me out to dinner. It'd been over two months since we last shared a meal and had the type of conversation that usually happens when we do. I knew I'd be able to talk to her about the little boy so I accepted her invitation.

Our dinner conversation centered on two little boys. We talked about her learning to live without the son she gave birth to. Emotionally, she still wasn't dealing well with her decision to give him up for adoption. She hadn't made her peace with it yet. It was still a private hell for her. Treating a small child, particularly a boy, brought to mind many of the things she would miss about her own son. She had a rough time keeping her emotions in check that day. I tried to be supportive as she talked. I knew from experience that the worst thing is to keep it all bottled up inside. That's how I got into trouble and I really didn't want to see something similar happening to her.

The conversation turned to me and she asked me about how I'd been over the last couple of months. I told her I was making a big effort to face the little tragedies and deal with them before they pile up and become a mountain of trouble. I told her about the Vicodin incident, how Abby pushed me into telling Weaver, how I got reset and the fallout with Benton wasn't pretty. I told her I had gone to see Chase and that I was finally able to admit to him and now to her, that I was a drug addict. It was something I had to deal with daily and days like today made it quite challenging.

She remarked that I had made an enormous amount of progress while she was out on maternity leave and then asked me the big question: "Are you ready for Wednesday?" I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Wednesday was Valentine's Day and exactly one year since I was stabbed and Lucy died. I honestly didn't know if I was ready for it or not. I only knew that I had to face it and somehow deal with it. She studied the look on my face and then softly asked "have you gone to see her?" I slowly shook my head. With great concern in her voice, she said "I'll go with you. Wednesday seems like an appropriate time."

"You're not working on Wednesday?" I asked. She shook her head. "Did you make sure I wasn't scheduled to work on Wednesday?"

"I thought about it. I even called Kerry, but she'd already made out the schedule. She felt it was best to not put you on for that day. I'm glad you told her about your PTSD."

I smiled. Women and their sensitivities, how could a guy get a long without them as friends? "Okay" I told her. We'd go together to visit Lucy's grave.

That Wednesday morning, I picked Deb up. We stopped at Starbucks for coffee and then went next door to the flower shop before getting underway. Lucy was from Kokomo Indiana, so it was about a three hour drive. Along the way, I talked endlessly about Lucy, how she frustrated the hell out of me, what a great trooper she was in spite of my attitude, how she always saw the bright side of everything, was always committed to doing her best, how much she loved medicine and what a great doctor she would have been. Deb added "not to mention she would have been a great girl for you."

"She was a student. I'm a resident" I insisted.

"She was just a few months shy of being a resident herself. If it hadn't happened, you could be deliriously happy right now."

"Or deliriously annoyed" I countered.

Deb laughed. "John, I know you. She was a cute little blonde, perky, smart and that little annoyed routine of yours, I never bought it. You may not have been able to admit it to yourself, but you liked her, a lot." She was right of course. Part of my problem was caused by the fact that I couldn't admit how I felt about Lucy.

We arrived at the cemetery and stopped at the office to find out where her grave was and how to get there. I was apprehensive about getting back into the car. I began to get nervous about facing her and facing my feelings about her. Deb asked if I wanted her to drive the rest of the way. I nodded my head and walked around the car to get in on the passenger side, silently handing her the keys as we passed each other.

We pulled up near her grave. Deb put the car in park, turned to me and asked "you ready?" I couldn't answer. I sat there in silence for a moment, trying to get it together. When I looked up, I saw Deb standing in front of the car with the flowers we bought for Lucy. I got out and walked up to her. She held out her hand and I grabbed it. Together we tromped hand in hand through the fresh snow up to Lucy's grave. We laid the flowers down at her headstone and paid our respect with a moment of silence. Deb put her hand on my shoulder and quietly said, "I'll leave you two alone." She stepped away, the crunch of her footsteps in the snow growing ever fainter and then all I heard was the wind as it blew through the bare trees.

I fell to my knees and apologized to Lucy for my attitude, my behavior, and my failure to more closely monitor what was going on that day. I told her how sorry I was that she never got the chance to become a doctor and that we never got the chance to be what we could have been together. The cold winter wind turned my tears to bitter ice which stung my face, but I wasn't going anywhere. Deb came back and knelt beside me. She put her arms around me and let me cry.

It was extremely therapeutic for me to let go of all the emotion that was tied up in the events of the previous Valentine's Day. I felt free and my spirit was lifted to a brighter place. The trip back to Chicago was filled with conversation about the happy memories I have of Lucy, the times she made me laugh, the times she inspired me. They now rise above the tragedy of Valentine's Day 2000. I am thankful that Deb encouraged me to make that trip and that she came along for support. Because of my own injuries, I wasn't able to attend Lucy's funeral. Until Valentine's Day 2001, I didn't have closure. I didn't have a way to say goodbye. Now that I had, I was ready to put that whole horrible year behind me and really move on with my life.