The Strong One

From the Soul on Call series
Note: These reflections are fictional and intended for educational and reflective purposes only. They are not medical advice, and do not represent the views of any employer or institution.

The code had ended twenty minutes ago.
The pediatric ward was quiet again—uncannily so. A loose oxygen mask dangled from its hook. A curtain stirred in the HVAC breeze. There was still blood on the floor, faint and stubborn.

Dr. Frankie Whirl stood at the sink, hands under the water but no longer washing. Her gloves were off. Her breath shallow. Her back straight. Her knees wanted to fold, but she held herself upright.

Dr. Solan Call wasn’t supposed to be there.
He’d just finished a consult on the adjacent ward. Wrong service, wrong specialty. But he’d heard the call. Watched the team run down the hall. Found himself drifting toward the code room without thinking, like gravity had its own emotional rules.

He hadn’t entered. Just waited outside. Now, with the doors open and the staff dispersing, he stood a few feet from Frankie.

She hadn’t moved.
The monitor still blinked a dull blue.

Time of death: 14:37.

Frankie reached for a paper towel. Missed. Reached again. Dropped it into the sink.

Solan: You need anything?

She didn’t look at him. Just nodded faintly.

Frankie: No. I’m okay.

Her voice was level. Trained. Like a pediatrician explaining a procedure to a terrified parent.

Frankie: She arrested too fast. Stable one minute, and then—gone.

Solan nodded. There was nothing helpful to say. Not across specialties. Not across the quiet.

Frankie: She was six.

Silence stretched between them.

Frankie: She’d been drawing when I rounded this morning. The picture’s still on her bedside table. The med student was with me.

Solan: I’m sorry.

Frankie gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of the head.

Frankie: They tell me I’m good in codes. Calm. Steady. Efficient.

He didn’t doubt it. She was legendary for that.

Frankie: Afterward one of the nurses said, “you’re a machine, Dr. Whirl.”
(She gave a short, humorless laugh.)
Machine. Like that’s supposed to be a compliment.

Her hands had started shaking. She tucked them under her elbows.

Solan crossed his arms, not out of judgment, but to stop the part of him that wanted to step in. Fix. Buffer.

Frankie: I know the script already—the “normalize, validate, reframe” loop. It’s running in my head like a bad podcast.
But underneath it? I just keep hearing her mother screaming. And I don’t have anywhere for that to go.

Just then, Dr. Lian Hart appeared in the doorway—a pediatrics senior resident with her hair pulled back, still flushed from the code. She held up a travel mug and raised her eyebrows.

Lian: I think you left this in the resident room.

Frankie blinked. Took it. Nodded thanks, no words. The tea inside was cold by now.

Lian took one look at her face, then at Solan. Her posture softened.

Lian: You want company or space?

Frankie hesitated.

Frankie: Space. But… thank you.

Lian nodded once.

Lian: I’ll be on the unit if you need.

She disappeared. Solan thought she lingered half a second longer than she needed to.

Solan: You don’t have to talk.

Frankie: I know.

They stood there. Just long enough for the hum of the ward to reassert itself—monitors beeping, a cart rolling by, someone paging respiratory.

Then Frankie spoke again. Quietly. Like a confession:

Frankie: Today—God—today I wanted to just… cry. Right there. In front of the med student. Let someone else hold the room for once.

She didn’t.
Of course she didn’t.

Frankie: Instead I smiled. Said we did everything we could. Walked out like someone who hadn’t just watched a child code for twelve minutes.

Solan’s throat caught.

Solan: And they’ll remember that. The strength. The calm.

She looked at him. Not unkindly. Just tired.

Frankie: Yeah. But I’ll remember the scream.

There was nothing to fix.
No closure to script.

As Frankie turned back to the sink, her posture softened just slightly.
Not relief.
Not collapse.
Just the faintest acknowledgment of weight.

Later, walking back to his own ward, Solan realized the sound of that scream was still in his ears too.

What does carrying strength cost you?

🌱 Holding it all too well?

This week’s Soul Kit might help: The Self Beneath the Mask
Not about letting go of strength. Just noticing who else is in there, waiting.

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