Page 19 of The Strawberry Field
And the people trying to save you, they’re barely hanging on, too.
Logically, I know my breakdown isn’t surprising. I saw it happening around me, even in the strongest colleagues. At first, we coped. ER doctors are no strangers to death. We process. We move on.
But this wasn’t death as we knew it. This was wave after wave of helplessness.
Patients kept coming. And coming. And we kept failing.
Eventually, you stop believing the next one can be saved. And that’s when something inside you dies too.
I used to believe I went into emergency medicine to make a difference. To be the one standing in the storm, keeping the worst from happening. But deep down, it was always about Tommy. Trying to save people the way no one could save him.
And maybe, for a while, I did make a difference. Maybe enough to count for something.
But not anymore.
I won’t go back.
Not to medicine. Not to that version of myself.
I know this now with a clarity that startles me.
I’m spent.
Hollowed out.
And if I’m honest, I’m not sure what comes next.
Maybe this—fixing up the house, a checklist of repairs—isn’t about selling the place.
Maybe it’s just the one thing I can still do for my parents—the last thing.
I can restore what they loved.
Make it beautiful again.
Make it ready for someone else to love.
So I stand. Walk back to the house. And I begin to make the calls.
Chapter Eight
Jake
THE STRAWBERRY FIELD stretches in front of me, five acres of low green plants and pink-tinted berries beginning to swell under spring sunlight.
In one hand, I hold a five-gallon sprayer. In the other, a hoe. Hattie sits beside me, her ears up, tail wagging, eyes full of her usual question: What are we doing next?
“Come on, girl,” I say.“Let’s get to it.”
Today I’m spraying the berry vines. The mix is organic and non-toxic—citronella-based, pleasant-smelling, and designed to deter the insects eager to burrow into the fruit just as it ripens. It’s been my goal from the start: create a safe, chemical-free farming environment.
It’s never made sense to me to spray food with chemicals that not only kill bugs who might be trying to find a meal on the plants but also do undeniable harm to the people who end up eating the berries. I walk between the vines, spraying left, then right. The process will take most of the morning, but I consider it well worth the effort.
Hattie trots ahead, occasionally shaking her head at the fly that keeps landing between her ears. I move slowly down the rows. When I spot a weed, I stop and take the hoe to its roots.
It’s quiet work. Steadying. The berries should fully ripen in another few weeks. If we’re lucky and the weather holds.
It’s been a mild spring. It’s been a gift to have something to do outdoors. To keep moving. To breathe.
