CHAPTER III - THE ART OF NEVER LETTING GO

"Trauma is about saving lives, but the saving of lives is not measured by the number of wounds plugged or the number of bullets extracted - it is measured by the number of dying wishes honoured, the number of dying soldiers treated with dignity, the number patients' names learned and remembered."

Dear Owen,

The most important thing you taught me about trauma surgery is its intimate and complex relationship with time. At the beginning, I thought it was just a race against the passage of time, which was the ultimate enemy of a trauma patient. You plug every bleed, trying to stop time from sucking a life dry - you tie off every exposed artery of a body full of holes, trying to stop time from pumping blood around because in trauma surgery, time is the purveyor of death. You told me this on our first date, so I knew, from the beginning, that it was important. You also told me that trauma surgery was quick and messy, that there was no time for mistakes - that when you made mistakes, people died. This was even before we knew each other, before my life had started. Mistakes are a journey, a learning process, and yet you were already warning me that in trauma surgery, this journey was deadly.

But over time, I think you've taught me that time was not merely the enemy - it was also a great ally. And until you treat it so and start going with time rather than opposing it, you have not truly mastered the art of trauma surgery. You focus all your attention on plugging the holes in a body, and you don't let time reveal all the other holes that you missed, until it is too late and the person behind that body is gone. I think we've been making the same mistake all this time. We keep trying to stop time, to work against it, to turn back the clock. At the beginning, when you first started working at Seattle Grace, we tried to live in a time when you hadn't met me, when you hadn't pulled an icicle out of my stomach, when you hadn't kissed me, and loved me. That drove us apart, because we treated time as the enemy. When pretending we didn't know each other didn't work, we tried to rewind time and live in a place where you hadn't choked me in your sleep, and when that created problems, we thought it was once again over between us. "Take care now", you'd told me, instead of what you wanted to say - what I needed you to say. And then we got married, fighting the passage of time that led to my close encounter with death, because we thought that union would erase the trauma of a mass murderer. When that didn't work out, we divorced, as if that was going to erase your memory of living in fear that I was dead.

Owen, we tried to patch up our wounds time and time again as if we were nothing more than a trauma case. But people are more than trauma cases - your body full of holes was also a person who could feel gratitude to you for saving his life and a depression so deep that it made him take his own life. I'm done patching up our wounds, Owen. I'm done being nothing but a trauma case. And I feel that you are too. Which is why I want us to stop fighting time, to stop trying to revert to a bygone time, no matter how great a time that was. I want us to work with time rather than against it. I want us to build on the space between us, the time between us, to create a better future together.

By the time you read this, you'll have already gotten to Iraq. I hope that your first week has been safe and fulfilling, and that Teddy is taking good care of you. I hope you'll think about what I've said when you treat your next trauma patient - though I don't know anything about combat, I have come to realize that surgery, like the will to live, is the same everywhere. You might not use the same tools or follow the same protocols, you may not have the same priorities, but in the end, it is always about saving lives. Not just from the physical injuries, but also from the patients themselves, and the patient's families. Sometimes, it means holding on and refusing to let go, like plugging a wound while waiting for help to arrive. But sometimes, it means resigning and letting nature - letting time - run its course, like the time your truck exploded and you lost a good friend, or like the time Teddy honoured a patient's wish to die. Because the beautiful thing about nature is that it can be deadly, but when the trauma is passed, it is the best source of regeneration. Time is the best tool for healing. And I truly believe that with us, the worst of the trauma is over, and we should let time heal us rather than resisting its passing and trying to take our lives back to a time that no longer exists. If you still love me, and I trust that you do because I know that I will still love you, then I know that we will find each other some time, and all the pain and hurt that have stood in our way will be worth it.

Take care of yourself, Owen. You and Teddy take care of each other. I'd be happy if you could pass on my regards to her, but will understand if you'd rather not.

I love you,

Cristina

Owen reads Cristina's second letter from start to finish in one sitting. He arrived in Baghdad yesterday, and though he was busy settling down and reminiscing with Teddy over their shared stories in these fields, as soon as night fell, he reached for the small cardboard box from Cristina and opened it for the first time. Inside, were fifty-two plain white envelopes, as Cristina had promised. The one on top said, "To Owen - for when you first arrive in Baghdad". The rest had dates, each a week apart. He couldn't bear to open the letter then, because the mixture of happiness at reconciling with Teddy and the pain of separation from Cristina was giving him a headache. Also, it was cold and damp and dark, and he didn't want to associate that environment with the love of his life.

So Owen waited until morning - he reads the letter as soon as he wakes up. He still hasn't spoken to her since they last said goodbye, not because he doesn't want to (he desperately wants to hear her voice, especially in this cold desert), but because he knows that he would want much more than that if he allows himself to break the silence. While reading the letter, he cannot help but think about his unexpected conversation with Preston Burke.

When Owen first realized that it was the ex-fiancée of the love of his life on the line, he went though a dozen responses in his head, none of them particularly nice. He wanted to accuse Burke of stealing Cristina - twice - the second time more definitive than the first. He wanted to shriek at him for making Owen race all the way back to the hospital, when he had already said goodbye. He just wanted an enemy he was justified in hating, to bear some of his pain.

But he had said instead, "Hello, Dr. Burke. What a surprise to hear from you. I trust that you are doing well?"

It was Burke who shouted at him. "How dare you do this to Cristina?"

"Do what?" Owen replied. He knew what Burke meant - him not talking to Cristina, him joining the army. So she had told him the story. Of course she had. But he wasn't going to let up so easily - as far as he was concerned, he was the victim. It was Cristina who abandoned him first.

A hesitation on the other line. "Um… I'm not sure," Burke stammered, no longer shouting. "It's just that Cristina was extremely upset, so I knew it must have been something to do with you. She wouldn't tell me what was wrong, though if you really know her, then you shouldn't be surprised."

So Cristina had not told Burke. Owen immediately regretted his earlier thoughts - Cristina wasn't like that. She didn't want to be pitied.

"I'm sure she won't be upset for long," Owen replied, still slightly acidic - he hadn't forgiven Burke for stealing her away. "What with the irresistible job you gave her, I'm sure she'll get real busy soon enough. you know what she's like when she gets working - everything else stops mattering to her."

"Yes," Burke replied. "She was like that before, when I last knew her. But she's changed - there's more to her than work now. I think work has stopped being the centre of her world, and I think this change has something to do with you."

Owen's heart had warmed at Burke's admission. It was nice, despite his jealousy, to talk to someone who had known Cristina in the before, who noticed how much of a difference he had made in her life.

"Anyway," Burke continued. "I'm married with two kids, so it's not like I can just abandon them to help Cristina. Given our history, Cristina's and mine, I don't think my family would be too understanding. But I still care about her. The way I loved her was all-consuming, and it's left its mark on me ever since. It hurts me when she's upset, and I know, what with her personality, that it's not your fault, I can't just stand by and watch her suffer. You know what's going on, I'm sure. You need to fix this. You need to make her happy. She's chosen you, obviously. I'd like to believe that you're worth it."

Owen was torn. "I don't think I can anymore. The way I love Cristina has destroyed me, and it continues to destroy me everyday. It's as if I build myself back up only so that she can destroy me again. I don't think I have the strength to keep going with her. I'm sorry, I just - "

"Owen Hunt," Burke interrupted. "You don't need to tell me what it's like to love her - I know. I know. But I also know that Cristina saved me, from a meaningless life, from day after day of tedium. I'm sure she's had a similar effect on you. If she isn't worth all that to you, if you won't fix this, then I will. It won't come lightly - I do have a family, after all. But if you don't take good care of Cristina, then I will."

As Owen reads Cristina's letter, he knows that he now has a competitor. Cristina had told him that she loved him more than Burke - she had clearly chosen him. Hell, she had married him. But it had been Burke who had made her an offer that she could not resist. So Owen knows that he has limited time. He goes into the main army quarters and picks up a phone, ready to dial Cristina's number. But he cannot do it. He simply stares at the phone and loses track of time, until, in the distance, a voice calls out his name.

"Hunt!" Teddy shouted. "Dr Hunt, where are you?"

Owen shakes his head and stands up but does not move. The voice, and footsteps, get closer. "Owen! There you are. Hurry! We have injuries coming in!"

Trauma surgery. It's quick and dirty. Owen struggles to stop the blood from gashing out of the soldier's wound. Rationally, he knows that the man is not going to make it - if there had been other wounded soldiers, Owen would have left this man and tried to save the rest. Army protocol dictates: save the one with the highest chance of survival, first.

But there are no other patients in need of attention. Two wounded soldiers had been brought in, and Teddy is working on the other as it is a cardiac trauma. So Owen decides that he is not going to let this man - the first soldier he treated in in to many years - slip away from him. He continues to fumble around for any tools that might be of help, hardly noticing that the man is awake and has just slightly opened his eyes.

"Doctor," the man croaks. Owen does not hear him, because he is busy improvising a tourniquet out of the fabric of his uniform. The man knows that he is not going to make it, and he is at peace with his fate, except for one more thing that he needs to do.

"Doctor," he repeats, louder than before. "Will you - " but the doctor has just run out of the tent, to get more medical supplies, he assumes. He opens his eyes as wide as they would go, and pictures his wife and children so that he would not fall asleep. Because he knows that falling asleep would be fatal.

When the doctor finally returns, armed with an array of unrecognizable solutions and metal and plastic tools, he tries again. "Doctor, there's something I - "

"Sir, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were awake! My name is Major Hunt, and you're going to be okay." Owen does not look at the man even as he speaks to him, as he is busy unpacking his new supplies.

"Major Hunt," the man repeats. "Can you tell - "

But he is cut off again. "I need you to open your mouth wide for me," Owen instructs.

The soldier knows that there is no point, that no matter how skilled a doctor this Major Hunt is, he is not going to be able to save his life. "Wait," he tries to say, but Major Hunt's hand is pressed firmly against his chin, pulling his jaw down so he cannot speak.

Damn it, Owen thinks. The soldier has internal bleeding. He would have to check for the source. He scrambles away from the man and furiously starts cutting away at his uniform.

"Major Hunt," the man tries again. "I need you to - "

"You have internal bleeding," Major Hunt replies urgently. "Don't try to talk."

"I'm n-not going t-to m-make it," the soldier tries to say, his breath labouring under the effort. "Can you t-tell - "

"Don't you dare say that," Owen shouted back, interrupting the man yet again. "You are going to make it. Don't you dare give up hope." The all too familiar desert scene from that night so long ago flashes once again in front of Owen's eyes, that night when he had let his friend die. He is angry at this man for wanting to give up, for putting him, once again, in the position not to save lives, but to waste them. All the while, Cristina's words tug at his train of thought, but he dismisses them. This is no time to think about his personal life - he is working, and every second counts. He grabs another bandage and presses it to another wound. The man screams in pain.

"Please, Major Hunt," the soldier pleads. "Stop, and let me die. Just can you please tell my - " but Owen is not listening. He is struggling with the bandage because it would not hold. Blood continues to gush from the wound, soaking the fabric. He places his knee against it, applying pressure with his own body. With his other leg, he reaches for his bag. He remembers that he had a few alligator clips in there, to hold together some photos that he had brought. He turns the bag upside down so the contents would fall out - he has no time to search for the clips - and the item that lands on top of the pile is Cristina's opened letter.

…I think you've taught me that time was not merely the enemy - it was also a great ally. And until you treat it so and start going with time rather than opposing it, you have not truly mastered the art of trauma surgery. You focus all your attention on plugging the holes in a body, and you don't let time reveal all the other holes that you missed, until it is too late and the person behind that body is gone…

Owen turns back to the patient, who is now spitting blood through his lips. Though he is no longer bleeding from the wound that Owen is covering with his knee, blood is gushing through the other wounds on his body that Owen had dressed earlier. The man looks indescribably weary, but Owen can see him fighting to keep his eyes open. There is a light blazing there, and he knows that it is because the man has something to say. Broken from his frantic streak of patching up wound after wound, he also now knows, with absolute certainty, that the man is going to die. He knew it all along, but has just been too slow to accept the inevitable.

"Sir," Owen whispers in the man's ear. "What is it that you would like me to do for you?" He has now turned to wiping the blood and sweat off the man's face, so that he can at least experience a little more comfort in the last seconds of his life."

"T-tell my w-wife," he croaks back, choking on blood. "Tell m-my w-wife t-t-that… that…" and the man stops moving. His eyes, still open, glaze over. His lips are frozen mid-sentence. Owen knows that it is too late.

I hope you'll think about what I've said when you treat your next trauma patient - though I don't know anything about combat, I have come to realize that surgery, like the will to live, is the same everywhere. You might not use the same tools or follow the same protocols, you may not have the same priorities, but in the end, it is always about saving lives. Not just from the physical injuries, but also from the patients themselves, and the patient's family.

Only now does Owen fully appreciate the force and piercing clarity of Cristina's words. Trauma is about saving lives, but the saving of lives is not measured by the number of wounds you plug or the number of bullets you extract - it is also measured by the number of dying wishes honoured, the number of dying soldiers treated with dignity, the number patients' names learned and remembered. As this man lay before him, Owen realizes that not once has he asked for his name. The body full of holes. And now, another nameless soldier who has fought for his country and sacrificed his life but whose name Owen would never know. A soldier who spent his last moments in great pain, with a doctor who didn't even ask for his name. A doctor who wouldn't pay attention to his dying wish, until it is too late.

Unwittingly, Cristina has, by is example, become much smarter than him. Throughout all those years, Owen had been the one holding onto their relationship, and he wished, so very much, that the love of his life would make an effort too. Now that his wish is answered, he does not know how to feel. He would try to let time decide, like Cristina wants him to. Tomorrow, when he has recovered from today's loss, he would call her. He would tell her that yes, he, too, wants to keep trying.

But as he looks to Teddy working on her patient opposite him, eyeing him worryingly as tears stream down his face, Owen realizes that Cristina is no longer the sole tenant of his heart. Numbly, he wipes away his tears and goes to help Teddy with her patient.

A/N - Thank you so much to everyone who left reviews; it really makes my day when I read each one! Please do continue leaving reviews - it makes me so happy! Please also leave any suggestions in reviews - as I'm having a better idea of where I want to go with the story, I would really appreciate any guidance.

Also, as the first few chapters are now done, I plan on posting two new chapters every week, to match the chronology of the story. The odd chapters will be from Owen's perspective, each one featuring a letter from Cristina. The even chapters are from Cristina's perspective. Perhaps as the story progresses a little more I'll start adding in more chapters from the perspective of other characters.

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As always, thank you so much for reading!