Every year, Children’s Hospital Boston holds a service to honor the children who died. “A Time to Remember,” they call it.
Every year, my husband is there.
Mark is a respiratory therapist at Children’s. He works in the ICU’s, the place where the sickest children are. He knows many of the children who died, and their families.
It’s a hard service to go to, he says. The names of children who died are spoken, and the families or a staff member walk up and lay a rose in a basket. There are a lot of names. It’s one thing to hear the names, Mark says. But when the families go up, he gets a rush of memory—of each child, of how we fought to save them, of the family’s anguish, of the moment they died. It’s really painful. Mark doesn’t like crying in public, but he usually does.
We don’t like to face the fact that children die. We don’t like to think of any of our patients dying; we want to think of ourselves as people who save. Maybe this is why some doctors and nurses don’t want to go: not only is it terribly sad, but it makes them feel as if they have failed.
This misses the point.
We can’t save everybody. We are not God. Some illnesses and injuries and birth defects are beyond our power and knowledge to fix. But that doesn’t mean we are powerless; sometimes caring for someone is acknowledging we can’t fix it, and then being at their side as they die. …