Short story: The River with Two Branches

He lay there, peaceful, serene. His son, his only child. Dead. How did he die? Drowning.

A ninth-grade boy, after the summer break, went out with friends, swam in the river, and drowned. It's a common story heard on the news every summer. It's less serious in the city, but in rural areas, like the remote mountain village where the health station I'm the head of, it's very common.

Every year, there are at least a few drownings. The large river flows downstream, passing through the village, then suddenly splits into two branches. Both branches are deep blue, crystal clear, and refreshingly cool. The children and livestock seem to be mesmerized by the river on hot summer days. The animals also love the river, but unlike the livestock, which are naturally born to swim, the children are not.

Only a select few, fortunate enough to be "skilled swimmers," dare venture far out. Those who aren't skilled stay close to the shore. Yet, the riverbed always hides deadly secrets, deceptively masked by the cool, clear water. There are sand pits accidentally dug by buffaloes and cows; deep cavities left behind by people digging for clams and mussels; or a natural basin formed after a flood that can become a tragic end when a child, engrossed in the cool water, loses their vigilance and slips into it.

If detected promptly, pulled out of the water, and given proper resuscitation, the person will survive. If it's too late, then there's nothing we can do! Yet, in all his years as station chief, he has never had a single drowning death. Proper first aid is essential, but the most important thing is dedication: upon hearing of a drowning incident, he drops everything, puts aside any urgency, and rushes straight to the scene.

They seized every second, desperately fighting to reclaim their fragile lives from the cold hands of death. The pale victims, pulled ashore, looked nine out of ten like corpses; sometimes it took hours of resuscitation before they could find even a faint breath of life again...

People call him "Mr. Drowning"!

***

She screamed, "You cruel man! You're not a father, you don't deserve to be a father, don't touch her!" With one hand she pushed him, with the other she punched him in the thigh and back. "Go, go away, don't come near my child…" Everyone tried to intervene, trying to pry her off his shoulder. She struggled, clinging to him. It didn't matter; he longed for her to keep hitting him. He wanted to hear the thudding sounds, the thighs pounding, making his back and shoulders numb. She was furious, hitting him hard. Good. Keep hitting him. The harder, the more painful, the better. The pain would lessen the guilt.

A seasoned doctor with extensive experience in drowning cases told him: "It's all your fault. The drowning and respiratory arrest weren't long ago. Just 10 minutes earlier... no, 5 minutes earlier, and your child would have lived. But you, the newly graduated doctor, are still inexperienced and clumsy in your handling of the situation."

The fault lies with him for arriving late, far too late. The procedure to clamp the carotid artery took longer than he expected. At a drinking party, five minutes is simply the time it takes to finish a cigarette or a glass of beer; but in his harsh profession, sometimes it means a human life…

Cold-blooded bastard. A scoundrel. You're busy saving other people's lives, but who's going to save your own child? What's the point of receiving awards and honors if you can't even save your own child? My only child, whom I carried, nursed, and nurtured for fifteen years without daring to lay a hand on him or utter a harsh word. And rightly so, you didn't carry him, so how would you know the burden, the pain of childbirth?

Why didn't I just die, die in place of my child, oh God? Why am I in this situation, weeping over my child, oh God? Hey, you bastard, go live off your certificates and titles. Give me back my child. Give me back my poor, innocent, and obedient child. The child everyone said "looks like his father." You killed him. You killed yourself, are you satisfied now...?

The pain drove him mad. And rightly so, he was on the verge of going mad. His son. His only, precious child. She had a tumor and had to have her uterus removed. She couldn't have any more children. You killed yourself. Cruel, but true. His blood, his flesh and bones, had returned to the earth. He saved others, but he couldn't save himself…

The little girl's carotid artery was severed, blood gushing out in a stream. A piece of corrugated iron from a construction site had flown by. If the bleeding wasn't stopped immediately, she would surely die. The mother, a "fellow countrywoman," her face pale and her hair disheveled, bowed her head at the door, begging him repeatedly. "Master... please save my child. Please save her..." He pushed the woman aside and snatched the child up.

Blood spurted, staining the white blouse crimson. Even someone as experienced as him was terrified by that amount of blood. "Quick, quick!" he yelled at Tan, who was frantically fumbling. The girl's life was measured in seconds. Only the chief medical officer at the station was capable of performing the procedure of clamping the artery to stop blood loss. A splint. A twist. A bandage.

The spurt of blood weakened and then stopped; but it still flowed slowly, soaking the bandage wrapped tightly around it. The phone rang. Damn it, why call now? Hello? "Toan is drowning, come down to the K riverbank right away," her voice trembled. Dropping the combination charger onto the table, he rushed out the door, forgetting to take off his gloves.

"No, Doctor, my child..." the mother, a fellow countrywoman, knelt down again, clinging to his legs. Tan's face also turned pale. "No, you can't do that, sir..." "That's right, the artery clamping procedure is only halfway done; if we don't finish it, the blood will gush out again!"

The little girl, slumped on the table, suddenly opened her eyes. Her large, dark eyes on her round face and pale lips still couldn't hide her cuteness. All children are adorable. He remembered longing for another child. A daughter. Just like her. But Toan was drowning.

A human body can't be torn in two. Just finish this shift, I'll go down to see the child first. No, Tan just graduated, his skills are too weak. The mother at his feet was still sobbing uncontrollably. The little girl's eyes were closed, her face ashen. Oh no, a vein has ruptured, blood is gushing out again…

***

Is my son really dead? No, no, it's not. He's just sleeping. Peaceful, tranquil in his sleep. My flesh and blood son. My son, who bears my likeness and personality. He's just sleeping. Soon he'll open his eyes, stretch, sit up, and smile gently as usual, saying: "Dad, don't cry; I'm alright..."

That's right, I'm fine. I'm just sleeping. Or maybe Dad is sleeping. Lately, Dad's been having nightmares. It's due to work stress. The village is in the middle of a malaria epidemic. Every day the health station is full of malaria patients from the villages. They come and go. Go home. Transfer to higher-level facilities. It's not out of the question that they might even end up in the cemetery.

Fighting for the lives of patients with acute fevers is always a life-or-death battle for the "healers" in the mountainous regions. Victory comes at the cost of forgetting to eat and sleep. Sometimes they exhaust themselves to the point that, without their lab coats, it's impossible to distinguish between the doctor and the patient. But it's okay, Dad's used to it.

From the day my father left medical school to take up his job in this desolate mountain village, where everything was still in its "semi-primitive" stage, he had already made up his mind. He loved this wild land with its two-branched river. A fated love. Just as fate connected him and my mother – a teacher in the highlands – when my mother was struggling with a malignant fever in the middle of the night and her colleagues carried her through the forest to the clinic. My father stayed up all night fighting to save her life. Fate transformed the act of saving her life into love, binding my mother to this land with my father, and the sweet fruit of that love is me…

Wake Dad up, my child. Shake him awake and tell him he's just dreaming. No, you don't need to tell him. Just seeing your cheerful face, Mom's smile, will make his nightmare disappear instantly.

This will erase the negative impression I had of the carotid artery clamping procedure I performed on the Ede girl this morning. Strangely, for the first time, a seasoned medical professional like me was trembling and clumsy like a newly qualified intern…

***

I have returned to the river, the river with two branches; where the tree of my parents' love was sweetly watered for so many years to bear fruit and produce me. Mother, don't curse the river, don't blame Father. The river is not at fault, and neither is Father. In this matter, if there is anyone at fault, it is me, and only me…

Dad did everything he could, I know. And I also know that the immense grief has thrown Mom off balance, making it impossible for her to remain objective and acknowledge that Dad did the right thing, that if she were in Dad's situation, she would most likely act the same way. No, it wasn't a choice; I believe this is a natural, purely conscientious reaction from a doctor with a conscience—it couldn't be otherwise!

Mom, if I remember correctly, ever since I started school, your teacher has repeatedly taught me about the importance of equality. Every life is precious. Every loss is regrettable. It's all the same. Love others as you love yourself. I believe, deep down, that you and Dad are definitely on the same boat of that moral principle.

Your choice, Father, is a painful one (if you have the chance to make it). But I believe it would be a thousand times more painful if you chose the opposite. My life might prevent the pain from erupting immediately; but it would be like a parasite silently gnawing away, destroying the rest of your life, destroying the doctor's character you've built and cherished your whole life. It was this very character that saved Mother's life, and that is why she loved you…

Dad, don't blame yourselves. Mom, don't blame Dad. In life, every choice comes with a price. Sometimes it's a truly painful price. But once you've made a choice, don't regret it. Just like Dad chose the land where the river branches into two. Just like Mom chose Dad…

And now, it's my turn, Mom and Dad, I also have a choice to make!

Source: https://giaoducthoidai.vn/truyen-ngan-song-hai-nhanh-re-post778608.html