Page 54 of True Blue

My body goes numb. I turn in his arms and open mine. He falls into them, and I press his head to my chest, squeezing my eyes closed as he sobs against me.

My heart is breaking for Teddy, my big bear of a boyfriend, as he grieves and breaks and falls apart in my arms.

“Teddy,” Dawn chokes out.

He turns his head toward her, and she’s standing there with her arms open now, Judd gone from behind her.

“Mom…” he sobs, and I release him.

He looks at me for one moment, torn clean down the middle, but I nod. He stands shakily and goes to her, and mother and son fold into each other, grieving their mother and grandmother.

Dawn whispers soft words into Teddy’s hair as he cries, and I frown at the numbness still sitting in my chest. I’m in shock. I know that. It will hit me later, and hard. I know that too.

But for now, I watch as the EMTs speak softly to one another about next steps, their voices low and respectful as they gather equipment and give the family a moment. I crawl to Ellie and kneel beside her.

She looks peaceful, with an almost serene expression on her face. Eyes closed, mouth slightly parted, the corners of her lips tilted upward like she had just begun to smile before she went.

I don’t know what happens after we die, but I do think that Ted called his Ellie home, and she went willingly, happily, ready.

I choose to believe that.

If she had gone to the doctor, they might have been able to treat her. But I understand why she didn’t, even if I don’t like it. Ellie had spent so much time in hospitals already that she would have been on oxygen for the rest of her life, in and out of endless appointments and scans and follow-ups.

And it would have only been more time, not more life.

The most important thing I’ve learned as an oncologist is that people want to die with dignity.

Eleanor Ambrose died with dignity, in her sleep, in her bed.

My eyes drift to Dawn and Teddy. He’s crying into her shoulder, but Dawn is staring at me in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.

Grief is strange.

Some people move through grief in a compressed period of time, while others spend years circling the same hurt.

Grief is a beast that can make you cry or laugh.

But the most common symptom of grief that I’ve seen is how quickly it can make people lash out.

And ever since Ellie died a week and a half ago, Dawn has been using me as her outlet. Small things said here and there, but sharp enough to cut.

Death by a thousand papercuts.

“I just wonder if things would be different if someone had pushed harder.”

“I’m not blaming anyone, of course, but grief makes us all ask questions.”

“I thought having a doctor in the family would mean something.”

I try to let every single one roll off my back. She’s grieving. She just lost her mother. They weren’t close, but that’s still her mother.

I have thick skin. I can take it. Patients have said worse to me. Their family has said worse than that.

Teddy is my focus because he’s been a complete wreck, understandably. Crying off and on, waking from nightmares, unable to smile fully, forgetting to eat, and forgetting to drink water.

It’s easier when others are grieving, because while I have deep empathy for them, they’re not my family and I don’t fully understand what they’re feeling.

Teddy is my family.