𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐗 ━━ 𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐤 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐝

fifty seven | mourning

Week Zero

The news of George being John Doe spreads through the hospital like a wildwire, tears streaming down cheeks and cries echoing through the halls.

"Hi."

Derek enters the room behind a nurses' station, where I've secluded myself since the news came up.

"Hey."

I vigorously drag the pen across a piece of paper, noting any and every word I see on the computer screen in front of me.

"Do you need to go home?"

"I don't."

"Have you eaten yet?"

"I haven't."

"Do you want me to bring you something?"

"I don't think I can eat."

"Have you cried at all?"

"It feels like the only thing I can do at the moment."

Derek props himself up on the desk, and I slump my cheek in his lap. The pinching prick of tears burns my puffy eyes, and the thought of sobbing again hurts my throat.

"But you being here. . .it helps."

His fingers thread themselves through my hair.

"What about you? How are you doing with. . .well, all of this?"

"I'm. . .doing."

And in this moment of mourning — in this period of mourning — all we can do is go about doing our jobs.

Week One

"There is an appointed time for everything. And a time for every affair under the heavens. . .and a time to be born. . .and a time to die. A time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant. A time to kill, and a time to heal. A time to tear down, and a time to build. A time to weep, and a time to laugh. A time to mourn, and a time to dance. A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together. A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing."

The minister goes on, sounds of Amanda violently sobbing and Mrs. O'Malley whimpering fill the pauses of silence.

Izzie's the first to run off, and Alex follows. Cristina and I share a look, briefly turning to look at Meredith.

The three of us nod once and leave to join the others.

I squeeze Derek's hand comfortingly before releasing it.

"I'm so. . .I'm so sorry."

The cancer-free woman removes the hands from her face to reveal that this entire time, she's been laughing.

"You're laughing?"

"She's laughing."

"George is dead. He's dead. They're about to put him in the ground, and the priest is doing classic rock lyrics. And that girl — that redhead — is crying harder than his mother, and she never even met him."

"You are far more twisted than I ever realized." Cristina states in mock concern.

Her gaze lifts up to meet mine. "And your dad officiated your own wedding."

"You're not wrong, you know." I join in on the laughter along with the others.

"And I got cancer."

The laughter grows.

"Dude, O'Malley got hit by a bus."

To any bystander, we would look absolutely insane. But with the obscure events we've all faced in our years at the hospital. . .who could stay sane?