Recording a time of death is the worst part of my job.

I was supposed to be off at six, but ten minutes before I left, I got paged. Patient was male, mid-fifties. After a four-car pile-up on I-5, he was brought in unresponsive with numerous contusions, lacerations, possible broken bones, and suspected internal bleeding.

He was indeed bleeding. Profusely. One of the first things I have to do is determine the priority order of a person’s injuries. Broken limbs can wait. Bleeding takes precedence, as do spinal and head injuries. This guy seemed to have a little bit of everything, but the thing that was killing him was the shit-show in his abdominal cavity.

I did everything in my power to save him. But in the end, it wasn’t enough. His injuries were too severe. He went into cardiac arrest and we weren’t able to revive him.

The exhaustion I didn’t feel when I was in the OR hits me on the drive home. My limbs get heavy and my back aches. But more than that, I feel defeated. I go up against death all the time. I win some, I lose some.

The weight of tonight’s loss is heavy.

Most surgeons have the ability to detach themselves from the emotional side of their job. We have to. If we felt something for every patient we operated on, we’d go crazy. Some of us turn out like Weston. He can be cold and unemotional, and granted, it isn’t just because of his job. But he doesn’t have an on-off switch like I do. He is the way he is, at work and in the rest of his life. Being somewhat detached makes him a good surgeon.

As for me, in the OR I’m almost robotic. I check my emotions at the door and keep a wall between myself and my patients. I see them as problems to be solved. It sounds bad to say I don’t see them as people, but in a way, I don’t. I can’t. If I think about the guy on the operating table and wonder if he has a wife and kids who will miss him if I screw up, I’d buckle under the pressure.

When I leave the OR, I go back to being human again. Sometimes that transition is hard.

Tonight, it’s hitting me like a truck. He’s not the first patient I’ve lost, and I’m not sure why his death is leaving me so hollowed out.

I get home and feel a pang of guilt. I was supposed to be home for dinner, and now it’s past Charlotte’s bedtime. I’ve missed seeing her so often in the last few weeks. We’re down a surgeon and until we get someone in to replace her, I’m working a lot more than usual. I know it’s taking a toll on Charlotte. It’s taking a toll on all of us.

Inside, I find Linnea on the couch and I’m surprised to see Charlotte curled up, asleep with her head in Linnea’s lap.

“She wanted to wait for you,” Linnea whispers, running her fingers through Charlotte’s hair.

I’m feeling open and raw after my night in the OR, and seeing this beautiful woman lovingly stroke my sleeping daughter’s hair undoes me. I sink down onto my knees in front of Linnea and gently cup her cheeks. She smiles as I lean in and kiss her mouth. The feel of her lips is like cool water on a burn.

“Are you okay?” Linnea asks when I pull away.

I tuck her hair behind her ear. “I am now.”

“Do you want me to take her upstairs?” she asks.

“No, I’ll do it.”

I scoop Charlotte into my arms and cradle her like a baby. I can’t believe how big she’s getting. There was a time when I could hold her like this with one arm. Now her head rests in the crook of my elbow and her legs dangle over my other arm.

She wakes up a little when I set her in bed. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, Bug. Sorry I missed dinner again.”

“That’s okay.” She yawns and I pull the covers up to her chin. “Will you be home tomorrow?”

“For a little while, yeah.”

“Okay. Night-night, Daddy.”

“Night-night, precious girl.” I kiss her forehead and make sure she’s all tucked in, then turn off her bedside lamp and close the door behind me.

Downstairs, I find Linnea in the kitchen making tea.

“Are you hungry?” she asks. “There’s leftovers from dinner.”

I don’t answer. I grab her, slipping my arms around her waist, and bury my face in her neck.

She hesitates for half a second, then wraps her arms around my shoulders. Her fingers slide through my hair as she gently massages the back of my head.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she whispers into my ear.

I nod, but I don’t let go. I breathe her in while I hold her close. She smells faintly of vanilla. Her body feels so good against me and the tension in my back loosens at her touch.

Eventually, I pull away. She insists on feeding me, and considering I can’t remember the last time I ate anything, that’s probably a good plan. She has me sit at the table while she heats up leftover chicken and rice, then sits next to me with a mug of tea while I eat.

Food helps, as does the constant pressure of her hand on my leg. After I finish eating, I push the plate aside and pick up her hand, bringing it to my lips.

“Thank you.” I kiss the backs of her fingers.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

I kiss her hand again. “I lost a patient tonight.”

“Oh, Caleb,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not the first, and it won’t be the last,” I say. “It’s part of my job. I can’t save everyone. But sometimes it gets to me.”

“Of course it does.”

“Would you do something for me?” I ask.

“Yeah, what?”

“Will you play for me?” I ask. “Maybe something quiet, so Bug doesn’t wake up.”

“Why?”

“I love your music,” I say. “And I don’t get to hear you play often enough.”

Her lips part in a smile. “Okay.”

I take her hand and we go into the front living room, where the only furniture is her piano. I sit on the bench and pull her into my lap. My arms thread around her waist and I lean my chin against her shoulder.

She turns the volume down, then places her fingers lightly on the keys. I feel her take a deep breath, and she starts to play.

The music begins soft and slow. Her long fingers stretch across the keys, her touch gentle. At first, the melody is simple. But soon it gains complexity and her body moves with the rhythm of her song.

It’s mournful and haunting, and the longer she plays, the more I feel her lose herself in the music. I hold her gently, giving her space to move. The song is achingly beautiful, and her expert fingers caress the keys. I let my eyes close and the music surrounds me like a cloud.

She sways, her graceful movements subtle. The song’s intensity builds and even with the volume turned low, I feel its power. It stirs my emotions, making me feel a swirl of sadness and longing. And peace. Like the high note that carries above the darker melody, a sense of peace and tranquility steals over me.

The song ends and she pauses with her hands still resting on the keys.

“That was beautiful,” I say softly into her ear.

“Thank you.” She reaches up and rests her palm against my cheek. “Do you feel a little better?”

I breathe in the warm vanilla scent of her hair again. I’m calm and relaxed, the painful knots of tension in my back easing. But I’m so fucking exhausted. I can’t remember the last time I had a good stretch of sleep. “Yeah, I do. Now I’m just tired.”

“You should get some rest,” she says.

“Will you sleep with me tonight?” I ask, still speaking quietly into her ear. “Just… sleep. I’m so tired.”

She nods. “Of course I will.”

We go upstairs and she ducks into her bedroom to change into a tank top. She crawls into my bed and I pull her against me, resting my hand on her belly. My exhausted body has reached its limit; I’m already falling asleep. The warmth of her body and the feel of her soft breathing unravels the last of the strain I was carrying.

Somehow, Linnea’s softness—her gentle care—soothes me in a way nothing else can. With her in my arms, I drift into a deep sleep, my mind free of the stress of failure. Free of the weight of all the responsibility I carry.