You remember that whole Umbara Arc, when Kix lost his cool and so desperately tried to pull his brothers to safety and render aid, even though it was hopeless and at risk of his own life? Everybody was present with him that day, given a little insight into his perspective. Or, who remembers the medic from Saving Private Ryan, who did the same in more graphic fashion, risking his life and losing it because it was better than watching others suffer?
I know how they felt. Not in the sense of my brothers and sisters are dying in a war, though we fight a different type or war. But in the perspective of watching the inevitable clutches of death take your patient, no matter how you fight, no matter the highly trained skills, no matter the expensive equipment and priceless experience brought to bear. Or when you realize that perhaps you’ve gone past the point of humane, trapping a soul in a broken body that can no longer support them. When no one listens to you, when you want to help but have your hands tied. When that ONE THING eludes you that could have helped. When you’ve moved so past the point of desperate that your team’s humor takes on a dark shape and you can only laugh to stave off the feelings of insanity at what you’re doing, how hopeless you feel, how much you’d like to leave and scream in a quiet place. When you feel invisible because everyone else has such tunnel vision they can no longer hear a voice of concern or reason.
It’s not because people don’t care. Rather, everyone cares so much that they really no longer know what to do. And so every team member walks away wondering if they did enough. Did they fail the patient? Did they miss the piece that could have fixed it all? Were they too afraid to speak up when that would have helped? Could they have saved that patient if only they’d done a little more, had some other idea, pushed that blood faster… anything. At the end of it all you’re left in silence, trying to recover and make sense of the storm. You’re left with ghosts, which will never leave you. Haunted by those you couldn’t save, who whisper to you in the quiet.
It’s not really even their voices you hear - it’s your self condemnation for not beating Death, for not being enough. Or at least, that’s what a good medic hears. The ones who care enough to let it drive you to save the next one. The ones who fight on in your memory, learn from the mistakes and the pain and the loss, who willingly carry your ghost with them for the rest of their lives and to the end of their usefulness.
I once had an experienced coworker from another specialty tell me, “You’re not normal. This unit is not normal. You should not walk among the dead like you’re in a war zone, and just go on to the next patient. How do you do this job?”
Because there’s always the next person you COULD save. Because life is worth fighting for. Because even after all the grief and failure and loss and heartbreak, somehow we stand up to try again. Because we have hope. Or at least, that’s what we tell ourselves when the call comes out for the next run. When we pull ourselves back together, shut our eyes to the devastation, and try again. This time we will win.
In the silence, I know what Kix felt, when Rex wrenched him from the line of fire. We can’t save them all, but by god will we try.
