Dr. Robby and Jake are standing in a makeshift morgue, because Jake wants to see the body of his now-deceased girlfriend. As he stands there staring at her, he asks Robby why he wasnât able to save her. The circumstances of the situationâRobby not being able to save a person he was personally connected toâtrigger in his brain the memory of not being able to save his mentor during the early days of the Covid-19 pandemic.
He begins to spiral.
âWeâve had dozens of shooting victims,â says Robby, grasping desperately at the last strand of ribbon tethering him to sanity. âYouâve seen it. The fact that weâve saved as many people as we have is⦠a fucking miracle.â
âBut you didnât save Leah,â responds Jake, his voice soaked with pain.
And the strand snaps.
âNo⦠no I didnât, â says Robby, his eyes now suddenly wet, his words beginning to tumble out of his mouth like cars piling up in a freeway crash as he delivers the rest of his lines through tears. âAnd I donât know how many people Iâve helped today but I can tell you every other person who has died. There was a man named Mr. Spencer who died in front of his children⦠and an 18-year-old who⦠who was brain dead from a fentanyl overdose. And a guy with a heart condition, and a little girl who drowned trying to save her sisterâ¦â
And that’s when he gets to Leah.
âAnd Iâm gonna remember Leah long after youâve forgotten her.â
And as soon as he says that out loudâas soon as he finally allows himself the tiniest possible space to process what heâs experiencingâhe immediately regrets it. Because despite the fact that in the course of this day heâs been stretched and pulled and torture-racked more than anyone should ever have to endure, he still believes that all of the available grace in that moment is owed to Jake, not to himself.
âOh fuck,â he says, fully past the abyss, realizing heâs moments away from cratering and not wanting Jake to be there when he does. âOh fuck! Iâm sorry! Iâm sorry! You gotta go, man! You gotta go, you gotta go, you gotta go, you gotta goâ¦â
He ushers Jake out of the room, hands Jake off to a passing nurse for her to take him away, then closes the door, and then sits on the floor and cries uncontrollably.
What a scene it is.
What a devastating, dazzling, incredible scene it is.
And tucked away inside of it, that’s where that small moment is that I mentioned at the start of this essay.
Itâs after heâs absorbed the blow from Jake (which is so piercing that it causes Robby literally to wince), and after heâs given his unbelievable monologue where he recalls the patients of his who died earlier in the day.
Itâs when he gets Jake into his wheelchair (Jake got hit in the leg by some shrapnel during the mass shooting), rolls him out into the open area, and then hands him off to the passing nurse.
Itâs hard to catch, but if you turn the volume up you can hear pretty clearly him say to the nurse, âCan you put him back in his bed please?â
He is dangling off the edge of Earth, nothing but empty desolation in front of him, and still: âCan you put him back in his bed please?â
Not a demand.
Not a yell.
Not even a curtness.
A request with a helpless and hopeless âpleaseâ tacked onto the end of it.
Again: Itâs a small thing.
But itâs only a small thing in practice.
Itâs a gigantic thing in theory.
We have, for the past however long, been inundated with TV characters who have taken the hurt that theyâve felt, or the fear that theyâve felt, or the shame that theyâve felt, and used it as an excuse to hurt others. In The Pitt, Dr. Robbyâand, by extension and through example, those under himâDr. Robby uses it as the inspiration for empathy.
Even when that empathy precedes his own ruination.
Itâs heartbreaking to watch.
But beautiful to see.