3 AM

3 AM. As you walk in, you are all too familiar with the crisp white walls, the smell of sterile gloves and hand sanitizer, the stillness of the room around you. Exhaustion should leave you muddled and groggy, but you have trained yourself to stay alert - after all, not doing so could cost the world a life. Your shift has begun, and you know it's time to get to work.

On the small table next to the hospital bed is a few sheets of paper. You pick them up and read them through, but your mind whirls when you see what was written on them. 

Surname: Cowell

Given name: Arleen

Gender: Female

Date of Birth: 05/18/2008

Diagnosis: Leukemia

You can’t help but look over. Lying on the bed unconscious is a girl barely twelve, but much too small for her age. Her skin is a papery white you’ve never seen from anyone her age. She has lost all of her hair, and you wonder what color it might have been. Her breaths are shallow and raspy. 

Nowadays, you try not to think about your father too much - after all, you’ve been inspired to take on this job because of him. You try to focus on the screen mounted onto the wall next to the bed, on the jagged green lines appearing and reappearing with each of the patient’s heartbeats, but your mind inevitably trails back to the memory of your father. You remember the day at the hospital, the last day you had with him. Your mind conjures up images of him without your consent - his pale skin, almost as white as the bedsheets crumpled around him, his own raspy and shallow breaths, his own sheet of paper, yelling Diagnosis: Leukemia. Your emotions seem to be on the brink of no control as you remember your last moments with him, his last words before the doctors told you that he had to be alone. And how, as a twelve year old yourself, you did not understand why your father had to leave, why you couldn’t be with him forever, why, why, why…

A knock on the door jerks you out of your senses. After being in silence so long, with the exception of the occasional brisk footsteps echoing throughout the halls outside of the door, any noise is a surprise. You turn around and your coworker steps into the room, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. She offers you a tired smile, and you attempt to give one back. You’re both up on your feet and working again, checking the pulse of the girl one more time, monitoring her breaths, injecting more medicine. Your coworker takes one look at you and the recognition of grief on your face locks in to her. “I know it’s hard for you,” she tells you before she leaves the room, but you shake your head. It isn’t just you that is being constantly thrown back to when you were so close to this situation. You both knew that the girl and her family would go through just as much pain. 

After seeing little changes in the girl’s breathing patterns, you know it’s time. You leave the room and arrive in the waiting room. Before you even push the door open, the smell of the room hits you. It is stale and still, with the smell of unwell children, anxious teens, parents worried sick. The room is virtually empty, except for a few people. A woman is asleep, or tries hard to be - you can’t seem to tell. In her arms is a not yet sleeping toddler, a small boy. He stirs, restless, agitated from a day and night of waiting. On the chair next to her sits a man. He has his arms around his wife’s chair, but his expression is sullen. Eyebags sit under his eyes, and it is easy to tell that he has been shrouded with worry and exhaustion. You open your mouth, and not like before, the words barely sound. “Are you the Cowells? Would you like to see your daughter?”

You walk back down the hall towards the patient room, now hyper aware of the broken family trailing behind you. You slip on a new pair of surgical gloves, and push open the hospital room door, glancing back at the family as if you were worried they would not be following you. The expressions on the parents’ faces are hard to watch as their gaze falls on the figure of their daughter lying motionless on the hospital bed, so you turn your head away. Once again, you turn your head up towards the screen, staring at the green lines. Minutes pass, and in the  corner of your eye, you can see tears streaming down the woman’s face. You move to stand next to her. “I’m sorry.” You look over at the man’s broken expression and muster a look of sympathy, and you mean it. He looks back, his expression grave, and his lips barely press together in a tight smile embedded in pain. You say, “My father, too.” In his eyes is realization and understanding, and each knows what the other is going through. “It’s so hard, I know. But I am here for you.”

It was in the calm of the moment when the girl stirred. There was barely movement, but the whole room went still as everyone watched her. Her pair of beautiful brown eyes fluttered open and went to her parents, but her gaze was distant, unrecognizable. Her expression was motionless, and she fell still. You watch as she opens her mouth the slightest millimetre, as if wanting to speak, but no words come out. “Arleen,” the mother says, more in a broken whisper. “Honey, we love you.” the father says, his words soft as a feather. The girl shows no sign of having heard what her parents said. 

From the corner of your eye, you see something out of place. The green lines on the monitor were fainter, lower, unsteady. You jolt out of your emotional daze and tell the family that you were to perform some checkups on the girl. You watch as they hesitantly leave the room, pain and burden in their eyes. 

Coworkers, doctors all rush in. No matter what you do, you know she isn’t strong enough. 

6:47 AM. The family is still in the waiting room when you find them. Your heart is breaking for the girl who didn’t make it. "Just say it," you silently reminded yourself. You knew you'd regret it if you didn't.