Under the Sun

C’est la vie.

“Ah, such is life. La vie en rose.”

Dr Tanaka sighs and shakes his head. Dr Franklin continues to stare at the screen. We all do.

We stare at the screen, mainly the cardiac monitoring, desperately willing to see something, anything. Anything. The faint lull of beeping slowly dissipates. It’s not like in the movies where the cardiac rhythm drops straight away, the heart struggles, changing from rhythm – but a struggling heart is an alive heart and that is good enough. As soon as we can see the electrical activity, any activity we have a chance.

But after a long and gruelling span of heaving and huffing, taking turns doing chest compressions, carefully titrating drugs every two or so minutes, the ominous feeling starts to settle in the air. Somehow, I can feel it in my gut, as the bile slowly churns, I know. I know we’re losing the battle. We look at the screen. There was some activity, we still had a chance.

That was fifteen minutes ago.

Now, things have deteriorated. Dr Franklin sighs and retracts his hand away from the heart. He was directly massaging the heart while the other doctors were trying to relieve the bleeding. Dr Franklin steps down from the footstool. We all hear the gentle thud from his boots. My blood runs cold as I slowly clamber down. My shoulders violently shiver as I feel a cold wind rush through, penetrating me to the bone. Despite, the constant temperature of 18 degrees and the chill from the air vents, the room felt suffocatingly hot.

“It’s c’est la vie, Hiro.”

Dr Franklin looks back at the monitors. His seasoned grey eyes darting, watching the cardiac rhythm. After a minute of silence and perhaps prayer, he slowly turns away and sighs. I feel a heavy hand rest on my shoulder. Peeking through my mask, I glance at him. He slowly pulls off his sterile gowns and gloves, revealing the wizened and venerable man in a Hawaiian shirt with a mismatched pair of suit pants. He must’ve arrived home before being called in. I watch him as he quietly leaves the room.

Dr Ferguson curses at the table, throwing his forceps onto the operating trolley. He curses as he tears his gown off, ripping his gloves and masks off, marching off in a huff, leaving Dr Gupta and I to deal with the aftermath. She had to seal the wound. And I’d have to re-arrange the body, ensure everything remained intact. Dr Gupta gestures an empty hand and I hesitate.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s a fucking Coroner’s Case!” Dr Ferguson spits, slamming the door behind him. “Just seal it, Rai!”

Her shoulders tremble, only slightly. Hiro massages his nose bridge, then nods at Dr Gupta as she began to un-scrub slowly, pulling her once blue gown off. Her tired yet delicate features grimaces as she looks at herself. Heaving a sigh, she flicks her tarnished gloves off, yanking her face mask off before exiting the room.

The low whirring and humming of the machines slowly cease as the nurses began to turn off each machine and disconnect the lines. Yet, the ringing remained in my ears.

“C’est la vie.” Dr Tanaka surveyed the room one final time, carefully avoiding our quiet gazes, as if we were haphazard pieces of broken glass. And in a way, I suppose we were, now. Behind my scarlet speckled face mask, he catches my glance. I’m still scrubbed in my sterile, vermillion mottled gown. My stained gloved hands are now dry and sticky. My face mask, foggy from each breath. Closing his eyes, he looks away and trails behind Dr Gupta, probably to join Dr Ferguson to inform Dave’s family and sign some additional paperwork.

Dave. Or, by his real given name, ‘David’, but Dave he insists me to call him, as his mum would shout and call him David when he started trouble, like smoking in his bedroom or –

Slam!

A loud bang rattled my bones and I turn to the shuffling noise. I catch my breath and I catch my thoughts. I feel a cold bead of sweat slide down my brow. I need to seal his wound.

“Sorry.” Justus looks down at his shoes, almost spilling the bucket and tripping over the mop.

Farah sighs as she continues writing in the Emergency Resuscitation Form. Meredith helps Jus, retrieving the mop, and tries to rid of the remnants on the linoleum floor.

The bitter taste of copper lingers in my throat as I slowly plaster a dressing over Dave’s newly exposed chest. I look down examining the precise cut. An incision on his left chest, between his ribs. I feel like an intruder. I make sure everything’s intact as I stick each clear dressing. I start at the top, in a ceremonious manner. No matter the number of attempts I try, I can’t swallow it. I can’t fathom it. Not with the faint, but unmistakeable pungent scent of blood reeking, despite being veiled from the antiseptic. I feel my hands shake.

“Here.” Justus leans over and whispers. “I’ll finish this. You help Farah with the bed. The others have almost finished packing.”

Heaving a deep sigh, I pull myself away.

“Wait!” Justus frowns at me, beckoning me to come back. “Your gown.”

Slowly shrugging off my bloodied gown, I nod. I choke on the bitter taste lodged in my throat as I leave the room. Such is life.
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