Page 22 of The Flames Between Us

"Understanding intellectually is different from accepting emotionally," Everly points out. "Especially when these losses accumulate over time." She leans forward slightly. "When you were carrying Eva through that hallway, what were you thinking?"

The question catches me off guard. I have to search my memory, pushing past the clinical details to find the actual thoughts that ran through my mind in those moments.

"I was thinking that she was going to be okay," I admit. "That I'd found her in time. That she was going to wake up in the hospital and be grateful, and maybe the department would do one of those human interest stories about the rescue." I laugh bitterly. "Arrogant, right? Already planning the happy ending."

"Not arrogant," Everly corrects gently. "Hopeful. You had faith in your abilities, in the system designed to save lives. That's not arrogance—it's the necessary belief that makes your job possible."

Put that way, it does sound different. Less like ego, more like the essential confidence required to run into burning buildings while others run out.

"Now," Everly continues, "tell me about the moment when you realized she wasn't going to make it."

The memory rises unbidden—standing in the parking lot, watching the paramedics work on Eva, the gradual shift in their urgency from frantic life-saving to knowing they were fighting a lost battle.

"One of the paramedics looked at me," I say slowly. "Just a glance, but I knew. And I remember thinking, 'I was too slow. I should have checked the closet first instead of the bathroom. I should have moved faster through the hallway.'"

"You blamed yourself," Everly observes.

"Wouldn't you?" I counter. "If you lost a patient because you checked for internal bleeding in the wrong place first?"

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Everly's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes—a brief shadow of the pain she alluded to in our previous session.

"I'm sorry," I say immediately. "That was out of line. I shouldn't have brought up your experience that way."

She shakes her head slightly. "No need to apologize. It's a valid parallel, and one I've considered myself." She pauses, then adds, "And yes, I did blame myself. For years. Part of my own therapy was recognizing that self-blame was easier in some ways than accepting the randomness of tragedy."

Her candor surprises me, though she maintains her professional demeanor. This brief glimpse into her own healing process feels like a gift—a reminder that she understands not just from clinical knowledge but from lived experience.

"What changed?" I ask. "How did you stop blaming yourself?"

Everly considers the question. "I realized that claiming total responsibility was actually a form of control. If I was entirely to blame, then theoretically I could have prevented it—which meant I could prevent all future tragedies by being perfect."

This hits uncomfortably close to home. Isn't that exactly what I've been doing? Believing that if I had just been faster, smarter, better, Henderson would still be alive?

"The harder truth," she continues, "is accepting that we have influence but not control. That perfect performance doesn't guarantee perfect outcomes. That sometimes, despite our best efforts, tragedy occurs."

"That's a hell of a thing to accept in our line of work," I say.

"It is," she agrees. "But the alternative is carrying an impossible burden of responsibility that eventually breaks us."

We sit with this for a moment, the weight of her words settling between us.

"Let's connect this back to Henderson," she suggests finally. "When the ceiling collapsed, what went through your mind?"

"Eva," I admit. "I saw Henderson's face, but I thought of Eva. That I was about to lose someone else. That I'd failed again."

"And in that moment, your body responded with the freeze response—trying to protect you from another devastating loss," Everly says. "But at the Maple Street fire, you were able to recognize this pattern and interrupt it."

"Because I understood what was happening," I realize. "The grounding techniques gave me a way to separate past from present."

She nods. "Exactly. Now we're working on the narrative understanding that will support those techniques—recognizing how these experiences connected in your mind, and gradually untangling them."

The session continues as we dig deeper into the parallels between Eva and Henderson, identifying the specific triggers that connect these traumas in my mind. By the time our hour approaches its end, I feel mentally exhausted but somehow lighter, as if naming these connections has already begun to weaken their hold on me.

"You've done excellent work today," Everly says as our time draws to a close. "This kind of processing is challenging but vital to recovery."

"It helps to have the right guide," I reply.

Everly eyes meet mine, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.

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