pieces | ethma

how to save a life

Ethan

I lean against the bar while sipping on my old fashioned and looking out the window at the city outside.

Today was one of the hardest days I've ever had to go through as a surgeon.

Let's just say that America needs to regulate guns way more than we realize.

They were children. Some of them barely in high school, and their lives were stolen from them.

There were so many injured that the whole hospital pretty much became a trauma unit. There were parents everywhere crying and asking where their children were.

Teachers injured because they fought so hard to save the kids. Not as many would've survived without them, and a few teachers died too.

In my years of being a general surgeon, I've never seen a school shooting this terrible. And it happened right here in Portland.

27 students aged 14-18 died today. 7 more are in critical condition, and 53 more have suffered injuries.

4 teachers died, 1 is in critical care, and 7 more are injured.

"Rough day?" I hear next to me.

I look at the woman to find a petite brunette woman who looks to be about my age. She's beautiful, with the most striking blue eyes I've ever seen.

I down there rest of my drink and gesture to the bartender for another.

"Tell me about it. What a terrible shooting today."

"My heart just breaks for their families and teachers. I'm a teacher at a different school near here, and I can't imagine losing any of the kids I teach."

"The worst thing I ever see as a surgeon is something I can't fix. I hate falling short of saving them, and we lost a lot of lives at the hospital today," I say. "But we also saved a lot of them too. It's hard to celebrate the victories when all you can think about are the ones you couldn't save."

"You work at Bates Melton Memorial?" she asks.

I nod. "Head of surgery."

"Thank you for saving lives."

"Thank you for educating children. Someone's gotta do it, right?"

"Just like someone's gotta help them survive when their health suffers a downfall."

The bartender hands me my drink, and I take another sip. "Do you mind if I buy you a drink?"

"Not at all," she says. "But I should probably tell you my name. I'm Emma."

"Can we agree to no last names?"

"No last names," she says.

"Ethan," I say, reaching my hand out to shake hers. "It's good to meet you, Emma."

"Good to meet you, Ethan."

The two of us decide to sit at a table for the time being, while we finish our current drinks.

After one more round of the alcohol, I tell her my place is two blocks from here—because it is.

We go back to my place and spend the next two hours in my bed. As soon as we were there it was a race to see who could get the other's clothes off faster.

I was moving to England because I was going to take part in a surgical trial that could prolong the lives of cancer patients of all ages. Including children.

So, Emma and I didn't trade contact information.

It wasn't until three years later when I was back in Portland when I ran into her again—when she brought her two year old daughter in for a wrist surgery.

And she was very clearly my daughter too.