The Presence of Dawn

He couldn’t ever remember her looking as beautiful as she did that morning. That morning. That morning in early April, when the flowers were beginning to bloom, and the lambs cavorted in the fields. When the scent of new life – new hope – hung sweetly in the air; promising, expectant. Her thick, dark hair lay around her soft face, striking against the startlingly white pillow, and as the new spring sunlight shone through the window, it cast the shadows of her eyelashes across her once rosy cheeks. Her eyes did not flicker open when he broke the silence and said her name.

Her chest moved up and down, slowly, carefully, as if with thought; up and down, up and down, as she breathed. He tenderly lowered his hand down as she lay in the bed, and with his ring finger, stroked the smooth skin across her collar bone. A single tear escaped his eye and dropped where he had touched; creating a rivulet as it disappeared down across her chest, it was soon swallowed up by her nightdress. A trail of glittering wetness was left behind.

Everything was silent, aside from her quiet breathing. Deafeningly silent. He longed for her lips to part, for her tongue to flick across them before she spoke, as it always did. He wanted to hear her voice. He needed to hear her say his name in return. Just once. Just once.

The silence grew louder. He could not hear her breathing anymore. This was the moment. The moment that had been inevitable for months now. The moment he had to decide. He had to say goodbye. But he didn’t know how to begin to say such a thing. The word had never been needed before, not with them. Not so soon. Not now.

A movement behind him startled him, and the silence erupted with a monstrous howl. He could hear himself moaning, crying, begging for another minute, just one more moment. He could hear the voices of people in the hospital corridor; nurses bustling from one room to the next, patients laughing with family members. Telephones were ringing cheerily. Outside, he heard an ice cream van and children’s happy voices. He could hear birds. He didn’t understand how these things were still happening, still existing, when the whole world was about to fall apart. Didn’t they understand?

The doctor moved forward slowly. He placed a placating hand on the man’s shoulder, which was shuddering with every sob. The doctor hated this part. But it had to be done. He asked the man if he was ready. The man shook his head and gave a heart wrenching cry. He was desperate, the doctor knew. But so were they all. It had to be done. He told the man how sorry he was. And he was sorry. He was always sorry. He told the man she was not in pain. That she wasn’t alive anymore. The machine was keeping her breathing. But she was asleep now, and she was at peace.

The man took a deep, uneven breath and gave a jerk of his head. His mouth tasted like copper. He felt sick. The doctor moved forward and stopped over the machine for a moment. A moment was all it took. He straightened up again, his back aching, and looked at the man. He saw him die along with her. He apologised once more and quietly left the room. The man convulsed as her chest stopped rising and falling; grabbed the back of a chair with cold hands as his knees buckled.

Too young, she was too young. He knelt next to the hospital bed, crying silently now, a constant and unending river of tears escaping his sore, pink eyes; eyes that needed to sleep but would never do so restfully again. He took her tiny hand in his large one. She was too young. His darling baby was too young.

*

The doctor stood for a moment outside the door and took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut tight to compose himself. The child just wasn’t strong enough, never had been, not to cope with the strength of her injuries. She’d been a robot, living through electricity, for months now. Wires going in, wires going out. He knew how hard it was to say goodbye, but it needed to be done. He didn’t have any children, he and his wife had never been blessed; he knew he couldn’t quite understand the man’s grief. God knew he wanted children. It killed him he couldn’t give his wife a baby. But some people are never meant to make life. And some people are not meant to live. It was sad. It was unfair. It was cruel, really. But these things happen. They happen every day.

He walked down the corridor, his footsteps making a smart clicking noise as he went. He straightened his tie and checked the time. Half past two. He was hungry. But lunch would wait. His mind was already on his next patient. Little boy, cancer. Cute kid, smart sense of humour for his age. Promising little rugby player, the father said, proudly, chest swelling. Promising little dancer, the mother smilingly corrected under her breath when he wasn’t listening. Good chance of survival, anyhow, with the right treatment. The doctor was sure of that. Bad things happen. But he would try to save one life today. That’s all he could ever do.