Winning Isn't Everything
© Robert Howell

The darkness had a comfort all of it's own as he entered the world outside of the antiseptic claustrophobia of the Emergency Room. One learns to tune out the sirens, leaving a quiet numbness populated by the awkward silence of the smoking family members lighting up, policy and law be damned. He fishes a pack from the pocket of his calming green hospital issue scrubs, and wonders how calming the color can be with the stains that mar the front.

She came in talking, laughed with the staff, then died spitting up blood. It was unfortunate, but nevertheless, that's how it happened sometimes. No since letting it get to you...right? Even if she was the same age as your daughter.
He taps the pack in his palm twice, and fishes a smoke out. The others in this unofficial break area relaxed as he placed the cigarette in his mouth, and lit it with an aging Zippo. He placed the pack back in his pocket and took a long harsh pull.

He had done everything he could. During the M&M they would go over all of it with a fine tooth comb, but he had acted as smoothly and quickly as was expected. It's too bad it doesn't matter. He can hear the girlish giggle repeating in his mind. He could hear her flirting with Mark, the young RN that brought her back from triage. He heard the laughter become a harsh choking cough, and saw the blood. “Too young...” he whispered around his Camel.

He told the parents in the most caring way he could. They were understanding, which made it all the worse. Doctors were used to the screams, and sometimes they helped. A little fight soothes the dark thoughts that come with magnificently managed failures.

“You did all you could...” the father said as the mother shrieked in horror. He couldn't remember if he'd been crying. You're not supposed to, but humanity sometimes does win. If anyone thinks less of him for it, they could go to hell.

Before things went bad, she had seen the battered pack of smokes in his shirt pocket, and smiled. “Those things will kill you, you know.”

“Yeah...” he whispered to the memory, as the smoke wafted from his mouth. He looked out into the night and saw the stars. He wondered about heaven, an afterlife, and thought that if there was such thing, he hoped that she'd made the price of admission.

“Sorry I've ruined your night.”

The thought was completely foreign to him. Instead of the self-abusive criticism he was used to, this was lighter, friendlier. A voice of youthful compassion.

“I'm sorry I lost.” he whispered to the thought. It was comforting.

“So, was it a game? If so, at least you played well.”

“I would believe that, if you could tell me that yourself.” He thought he might be slipping a little bit, but it didn't feel that way. It was therapeutic talking to the ghost, or memory, or whatever was keeping him from going down darker paths.

“You know better than anyone, no one wins them all.”

“It's not much comfort when you lose a child. Especially when she was just...”

“Just what?”

“Did you know that you're the same age as my daughter?”

“Still am.”

His head tilted at that. He could imagine her, not as the cold flesh that he had pounded on in vain to induce a heartbeat, but a strong and healthy young woman, perhaps starting college in the fall. She was still full of life, still vibrant. He could almost actually hear her words, not just in his head, but around him, ringing in his ears. He took another long puff on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly.

“You should really stop that, “ she said, much as she had earlier, “your daughter will lose something great.”

He watched the smoke float over his head, closed his eyes, and whispered what felt like a prayer. “Maybe you're right...”

He stubbed his cigarette out on the brick wall behind him, then handed the rest of his pack to one of the suffering, as they waited for news of their loved ones. He felt different, lighter. He had done all he could, and it was okay.

“Maybe you can win them all...” he heard as he entered the ward, an ambulance siren screaming behind him.