I used to cry, back when I felt entitled to save,
but the more still irises I saw and quiet chests I felt,
the more I realized the uselessness of me raining
salt water and whimpers. I found other ways to
purge myself of “I didn’t know enough, didn’t
do enough.” Now, I whisper, “I’m sorry.” to God and
pick up another stack of papers filled with names,
D.O.Bs, systolic over diastolic numbers, and chief
complaints. Instead of draining tears, I surge forward.
I say, “I couldn’t help you, but I will help them.”
And that ridiculous faith (that healing hands can
counteract the infinite forms a death threat assumes)
is enough to slow the lub-dub of this physician’s heart.
