“Time of death, 17:49.”

“Let’s pause for a moment of silence.”

Stillness settles over the room. What had been a flurry of activity becomes something different. Something reverent. Sixty seconds pass.

“Thank you.”

There is a collective exhale, followed by a harsh realization. We must now move into cruel acceptance, into a place where hope no longer lives. With two words, I have ushered in a new reality.

A reality in which a mother lost her son.

A reality in which a life was cut too short.

A reality accompanied by keening and moaning.

For the past twenty minutes, I’ve led the room from a place slightly outside of myself. The algorithm was followed. The team was directed. Movements were coordinated. They moved as one, while I moved as two.

I spoke with authority. I directed my colleagues with surety. I addressed the room with a calm I did not have. I did this as my mind raced two steps ahead. I calculated the minutes until the mother would arrive while I kept track of the epinephrine administered. I monitored CPR quality and ensured respirations were consistent. Everyone oriented toward my voice. My pitch. My tone.

I created the container. Now, it was time to hold the container for the parents, the grandparents, the great-grandparents. The hardest part was yet to come. Of course, a whole support team would be present, a chaplain, a social worker. But I imagine there is something unique about making the call.

I must stand by the decision I made. Questions must be answered. Pain must be witnessed. It is not a time to look away, but a time to lean in. My words do not bring comfort, nor understanding. They only provide a modicum of closure. I have declared that it is finished, and must now bear witness to the aftermath.

But one question remains throughout it all: Is there a right way to witness?

I’m not sure. But I will do it all the same.

Jasmine Umana is a pediatric emergency physician.