Hawkeye is alone in the swamp after operating.
An established relationship story.
Rewritten: April 2007. Word count: 600.
Another day and a half of solid operating and my personal tariff was eight:one. That's eight alive and one dead. Pretty good odds you might say; in fact they're odds I'd take myself.
So why can't I stop thinking about the one, rather than the eight?
Why is his operation the one I keep reliving over and over in my mind?
I worked on that kid for three hours straight, and still he didn't pull through. I used every bit of my medical knowledge, and I even called Father Mulcahy in. But it wasn't enough.
Colonel Potter, BJ, even Margaret said that there was nothing else I could have done. That if I couldn't have saved him then no one could have. You know, even Frank didn't say anything; which for Frank is a compliment.
So why isn't it enough? Why does it still hurt so much? Why can't I stop thinking about him?
Four pints of blood.
Six units of plasma.
Two pairs of fresh gloves.
All for nothing.
BJ wants me to join them in the bar, but I can't. Not tonight. Not yet. I need to think. And yet, I want to stop thinking.
Do I care too much? Is that the problem? Maybe it is. I don't know.
All I know is, that the day I stop analyzing why I lost a patient, the day I stop caring, the day I just dismiss it as ‘one of those things', that'll be the day I'll go to Colonel Potter and demand a Section Eight. Because that'll the day I will be crazy.
Mind you, going by that logic, Frank should have gotten out ages ago. No, that's unfair, even for me. Frank may be an incompetent bastard, may well be an unfeeling, authority seeking fool, but even he's not that hard-hearted. Even he must be touched at some level when one of these kids dies under his knife. Or is he?
And does it matter? I know how I feel. That's all that matters.
I also know how BJ feels. I've provided a shoulder for him to cry on before now, just as he's done plenty of times for me. He's my only real sanity in this insane place.
And the Colonel; I know how he feels too, even if he hides it better. He's the best regular army man I've ever met. Damn good surgeon too.
Nurse Lisa, blonde, blue-eyed, lips so full that you wanted to suck them dry, a perfect figure, ripe for picking, wanted me to go back to her tent. She promised to take my mind off it. But I didn't want that. I ended up being more than a bit short with her. In fact I virtually told her to ‘get lost'. I won't be getting that offer again. But these days, it doesn't seem to matter that much.
No matter how many nurses I go to bed with, it doesn't stop the wounded from coming.
As I said to BJ, Trapper went home. The wounded kept coming.
Henry died. The wounded kept coming.
If I died tomorrow, the wounded would still keep coming.
Maybe I do need that drink after all.
Maybe I do need company.
Maybe . . .
The door of the tent has just creaked open.
"I told you, Lisa, I'm not interested. Just go away, will you. Leave me alone."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Hawk."
It isn't Lisa.
It's my sanity.
"Don't." I say, sensing what he's about to do. "I like the dark."
He says nothing. He just puts his arms around me.
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