Page 34 of The Strawberry Field
For the first time, I see it clearly.
I’m not going back.
Not to medicine.
Not to the version of myself who believed she could keep death at bay.
And strangely, that realization doesn’t devastate me. It relieves me.
When I was in it, I didn’t realize how heavy the weight was. The pressure to keep people breathing. To stand in the space between life and death and pretend you’re strong enough to be okay with which way it goes.
I did my best.
I know I did.
But it wasn’t enough. Not in the end.
This wasn’t the kind of medicine we were trained for. This was war. No relief. No recovery.
Just a steady line of gurneys down the hallway, each one colder than the last.
It was the kind of nightmare I’d once imagined volunteering for, somewhere far away, in a war-torn village halfway around the world.
But I never signed up.
Because I knew I couldn’t handle it.
And the truth is, I was right.
Except this war came to me anyway. And there was no exit. No rotation. No clean escape.
I never went back after the night I collapsed in the ER hallway. Later, I made it official, sent in my resignation. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I just let it happen because I had nothing left to fight for.
And I was grateful. At least I didn’t have to choose.
There’s nothing left in me to give. No spark, no calling. I don’t have the energy to figure out what comes next.
And that’s why I made my choice.
It wasn’t impulsive.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was quiet. Logical. Final.
One simple act. That’s all it would take, peaceful, certain.
And for the first time in months, the thought doesn’t scare me.
I’m not going to wake up one day and feel better.
This isn’t something you come back from.
And Jake?
I can’t see him again.
Because it wouldn’t be fair.
