The night is a mistress of life. It is the hardest time to be alive for, those silent hours bring forth Melancholic air and scandalous actions. In its prime it feeds off of the secrets, schemes and lies made within it, knowing it was only a matter o...
"I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell." - Donna Tartt
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
OCTOBER
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"Time of Death," I pause, sucking in a deep breath to prevent any emotion from spilling out of me, then look toward the clock on the wall. "11:42 am."
The room is silent in the most uncomfortable way. My colleagues and I stand still and stare into space, thinking about the patient who laid on the table, the person whose life just ended.
Jonas Miller, a twelve year old boy, is dead. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
Born with a congenital heart defect, Jonas was no stranger to hospital visits. On constant medication, Jonas had tried different heart devices and received catheter procedures. But despite it all, he was a happy boy who loved Spider-Man and astronomy. He had a curious mind, who devoted himself to learning all he could in history since he couldn't play sports. More importantly, he was loved. By his parents, his siblings—entire family. Spending years on the transplant list, it didn't kill his spirit. And after finally getting a new heart, he should not be dead on my table because his body betrayed him once more and rejected the transplant heart.
"You did all you could," Yolanda, the scrub nurse, says to me from behind. It's a small attempt to give me some comfort as lead surgeon but her words leave no lasting effect to make me feel better.
I know that I did everything I could. We all did. I knew that everyday I come in, with every patient I see, I play a twisted game with death, fighting for more time. And I love when I win.
But as I stare at Jonas' long eyelashes forever shut against his brown skin, I can almost feel death standing next to me, taunting me as another soul is claimed.
Death always wins the war no matter how many battles lost.
Time didn't exist for me.
One moment, I'm still in the OR, bloodied gown and all, the next, I'm scrubbed out and walking into the waiting room.
More than twelve people stand as soon as I push through those double doors. It's his family.
His parents rush towards me, and I as stare at their worried yet hopeful gazes, I swear it
knocks the wind out of me as we meet in the middle.
How glib condolences can feel. It feels wrong for the world to keep spinning, unchanged, when I'm about to shatter theirs.
The ringing in my ears hasn't died out yet, but I coach myself to breathe in and out. To maintain my cool, because this isn't my loss, he's theirs. And nothing I feel will compare to theirs.
Somehow, those dreadful words leave my mouth and the ringing only stops because my ears take in the soul-crushing scream, Diane, Jonas' mother releases.
