My mother nodded. “He’s grieving, Eli. He doesn’t know who else to blame. I looked at the chart. I spoke to almost every neurosurgeon in this hospital. You did everything right.”
“Then why?” I snapped. “If you do everything right, everything by the book, why does this still have to be the ending? That man has no one else left.”
“It’s not your fault!” She stood up, placing her hand on my face. “Sweetheart, I’ve told you this before: you can’t save everyone. You aren’t God. They come in broken, and we do the best we can as humans, with everything we have to fix them, and sometimes it still isn’t enough. You didn’t kill her. You aren’t the reason his family is gone. That is not your doing.”
Sighing, I nodded. I knew she was right, but it still didn’t help.
Taking a step away from me, she grabbed her coat. “You are going to take a week off.”
“Mom—”
“You are being sued, Eli. No matter how unjustified, the lawyers will handle it. But you can’t be here like this. Look at yourself. I’m saying this as the chairwoman: you need to go and get your head on straight, Eli. Don’t stay here. Don’t see patients, because if you slip up in this state in any way, everything will be ten times worse.”
“What am I going to do for a week, Mom?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Shave, eat, sleep, talk to your girlfriend.”
“You know—”
“Of course I know. Just because I’m your mother doesn’t mean I’m blind. I could tell the moment it changed and you two weren’t pretending to fight anymore. Have you spoken to her since?”
I said nothing.
“So for all you know, she might not even be your girlfriend any more.”
I sighed, not really wanting to have this conversation.
“Did you know she was done with her mural? I’m heading to see it now. Or did you forget that the world keeps spinning, even when you stop?” She opened the door. “You coming or not?”
“I’m coming,” I muttered, holding the door for her to walk out. In all honesty, I hadn’t realized Guinevere was done. She had kept trying to meet up with me, talk with me, but I’d pushed her away. I wasn’t ready to feel better yet.
“Well, isn’t this a production,” my mother said, glancing around at the doctors, nurses, a few well-enough patients, and even some press.
Guinevere stood in front of them, gripping her hands together tightly, her nervous habit. She had changed into a simple pink skirt and black v-neck shirt, her hair pulled into a braid on one side.
She looked cute. She had put in a lot of effort, even wearing makeup. When she saw my mom she nodded to herself, and then her eyes shifted to me and she smiled before facing the rest of the crowd.
“Thank you all for coming. For many of you, I know the chairwoman didn’t really give you a choice,” she said, getting a few laughs.
My mother only crossed her arms, eying those who laughed.
“When she first asked me to paint this mural, I honestly had no idea where to begin. So, I wandered the halls of the hospital, sometimes noticed, but for the most part not so much, because everyone had eyes only for the patients. And being doctors, isn’t that what you want? In the weeks I’ve been here, many have gone, sometimes happily and sometimes on sad terms. The people who remained no matter what were the doctors. I hope this serves as a reminder of the promise you all have made, and how thankful we are for it.” She spun around, nodding to the people above the curtain.
It came down in one swift motion and left us all speechless. She had drawn patients at different points on the wall with the background of a park, the older ones in wheel chairs and another with a cane resting on a park bench, teenagers listening to music, parents holding their children, all of them coming from the far distance. At the corner of it all, from top to bottom, was the Hippocratic Oath, which explained why she had needed my textbook. My mother, myself, and the rest of us could not help but read again:
“I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant: I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures which are required, avoiding those twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism. I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug. I will not be ashamed to say "I know not," nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient's recovery. I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know. Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God. I will remember that I do not treat a fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being, whose illness may affect the person's family and economic stability. My responsibility includes these related problems, if I am to care adequately for the sick. I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure. I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm. If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.”