The latest test results should be ready to view, but I hesitate to check because I already know what they will say. I’m tired after a 12-hour shift and hate that this is the last thing I will do today after such a long day. I always pray to whoever is listening that my bad hunches will be wrong and my patient will recover to live a long, healthy life.


    Logging into the computer, I try to force myself to breathe. I may be tough most of the time, but the things outside my control always humble me despite all my resources and knowledge. I did my best even though I’m not the best.


    Yet, the parents of this young man had already visited the best doctors and didn’t receive the answers they wanted, so they returned to their hometown and sought me out. I rub my eyebrow as the program retrieves the results. I know I’ll have a terrible headache by the time I leave.


    Then there they are, the answer that I’ve feared. It’s clear Tyler is terminal, and he only has a week or two to live. I push away from my desk, gripping the edge of the desk, and I let myself have a moment.


    I try to be tough, but when I find myself in a moment like this, I can’t help but feel sad. I wish I could be more like my colleagues, who accept that they can’t save every patient and then move on to the next. Sometimes, I feel like I’ll never reach that statue no matter how hard I try, but the family is waiting, and I must deliver the news.


    But before I do that, I will make one last visit to the patient. I get up and smoothly walk around my desk, picking up my lab coat in one sweep motion. I’m out the door and down the hall before the door to my office swings shut behind me.


    The walk to the patient’s room was uneventful, thankfully. When I find myself at the open door to Tyler’s room, I don’t hesitate before entering. I stand next to his bed, looking down at all the tubes that protrude from his body, keeping him alive.


    I look at his heart monitor; his beats are steady but weak. Tyler is in worse condition than the test results have led me to believe. He is so ghostly; the disease has aged him, and he no longer looks his young age of sixteen.


    I pull up a chair nearby. I told both of his parents to get something to eat and that the test results would be up in an hour or two. My eyes fall on his hand as I sit down, and I can’t help but take it in mine. It’s cold, and I give it a gentle squeeze. It’s the only way I can think of to tell him I’m sorry.


    My pager goes off, and I look down to see that it’s an urgent request. The time has come, the next patient is coming, and my time with this one has ended. I hope to do better with the next one.


    I straighten my shoulders and stand. My eyes can’t help but take in all the beautiful flowers his family and friends brought to his room. They tell me he loves flowers even though he’s a star athlete at his high school.


    I brush my fingers over a perfect daisy, then turn on my heels and leave without a backward glance. As I leave the room, the nurse on call walks past me.


    “When Mr. and Mrs. Asker return, will you page me?” I gently ask her.


    “Of course,” he replies.


    I tell myself to forget about the Asker family and to focus on the next patient who needs my help.


    ***


    An hour later, I receive the page that the Asker family is waiting for me. My new patient’s prognosis is much better, but this doesn’t lift my mood. It must be because it’s been a long time since I’ve lost a patient so young in the Asker boy. I shove my hands in my coat pockets and stroll back towards his room.


    Before I reach the room, I see the parents coming down the hallway to meet me. I pull at my lab coat to straighten it, hoping it will give me the strength to tell them what I need to say.


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    The fatigue on their faces shows the long months spent in hospitals trying to find a cure for their son. I give them the gentlest smile I can without appearing happy. They don’t smile back.


    I notice the wife take her husband’s hand as they slowly approach me. They must sense what I am about to tell them and want to delay the inevitable as long as possible.


    “Dr. Horattas,” the mother says to me without looking at her husband. She gets right to the point. “The test results. What did they say? Is our son going to live?” She has been very blunt since her son has been here, and I’ve admired that about her.


    “I’ve reviewed the test results, and they confirm my suspicions.” I take a slow breath, more for me than for them. “I’m so sorry to tell you your son is not improving.”


    The father raises his intertwined hand with his wife and places his other hand on it. I can see it on their face; they know what that means.


    “How long does he have?” Comes the quiet voice of the father.


    “A week at the most,” a loud cry comes from the mother, and she covers her mouth with her free hand, and her husband engulfs her in a tight hug. They both cry.


    We tried an experimental drug, and I could see the hope in their eyes that it might save him. I can’t take the failure personally even though I want to.


    I stand there patiently waiting because I know they will ask me at least one crucial question. The mother pulls away, wiping her eyes. She is strong, yet moms usually are.


    “Will he wake up?” She asks me as she tries to dry her tears.


    “His chances of waking up are slim, but it is possible.” I am proud that my voice is clear and concise. Both parents nod, not surprised by my answer. Again, they hoped I would say something different. A haunted look has come over their faces as they look at each other. Then, the father turns to me.


    “I want to see him. Is he back in his room?” I wonder how often he has returned to his son’s room only to find him gone and a nurse waiting to tell him he’s gone to surgery.


    “Yes, he’s in his room,” I gesture for them to enter. New tears fill their eyes. The mother steps past me and enters the room, but abruptly stops. Her eyes grow big, and she tries to open her mouth as if to scream, but rushes into the room.


    “Help! Help him!” She yells from inside the room. I call for the nurse and rush in behind her and her husband. But I stop dead in my tracks as I can’t believe what I see.


    All the beautiful flowers have died and lie shriveled up, lying on the floor or in their vases. I hear the mother crying. She’s leaning over her son. She straightens as she looks at her husband, and I see her son''s eyes open. I rush to him; the two nurses are stalled behind me, examining the dead flowers.


    “Move!” I snap at them, and in the next heartbeat, they are beside me, examining the boy. It quickly becomes apparent that he is struggling with all the tubes as fear shines in his eyes.


    “It’s okay, you’re okay.” I look at his blood pressure to see that it has reached a normal level and is, in fact, elevated. I listen to his heart. It’s a little frantic but strong. Next, I check his lungs; they no longer rattle. I look at his face as his parents stand beside him while we examine him. The color on his face has returned, and he looks as if he’s gained the twenty pounds he’s lost since he’s been here. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. An hour ago, he was at death’s door.


    “Okay, I’m going to take the tube out of your mouth.” Both of the nurses look at me, and they open their mouths. “Don’t argue with me; just do it.” After getting the tube out of his mouth, we take him off his oxygen. After a few deep breaths and a quiet moment, he speaks.


    “What happened?” Tyler asks. His eyes are bright and healthy. I step away from him to let his mother and father hug him. The nurse doesn’t question me. They are as taken aback as I am. I see his arm grip his mother in a hug and see powerful muscles flex, muscles that have not been there for months.


    “Do his blood work again,” I quietly tell the nurse beside me. I am grateful that she says nothing. She gets a needle and draws his blood. The other nurse leans close to whisper in my ear.


    “What happened here?” He asks. All I can do is shake my head.


    “I have no idea.” I look around the room. All the flowers are dead, shriveled on the floor or in their vases.


    As I look back at the patient and the two nurses, I question whether I am in my right mind. But they see what I see; I’m not crazy. The nurse gathers the blood samples.


    “Tell the technician this is an emergency and to rush these as fast as they can. Push them to the front of the queue,” I tell her, but she hesitates.


    “I don’t think they ever do that,” she says as she holds the blood samples.


    “Talk to Burt and tell him I’m calling in that favor that he owes me,” but she still hesitates.


    “Are you sure he’ll do it?”


    “He’ll do it; tell him what I just told you, now go.” But I don’t need to see the blood work to know this young man is completely disease-free.


    I step away from the family, and on my way out, I stop next to the vase of daisies I was admiring a short time ago. The daisies have wilted, browned, and blackened. I want to touch them to ensure they’re real, but I don’t out of fear.