Every now and then, television can heal itself

“This has become a primary relationship now. You’re the last witnesses to each other’s lives. You hold the memories.”

—“The Pitt” (Episode 4)

By now you’ve probably heard or read enough about the acclaimed HBO series to know that when Dr. Robby speaks, it’s a good idea to listen. His character — equal parts compassion and competence — is the moral and emotional center of a drama series that goes where many others have gone before but does it better.

I go back to the days of “Ben Casey” and “Dr. Kildare,” “General Hospital” and “ER,” and dozens of medical shows in between and beyond. It’s proven to be a fertile field for a long time as audiences tend to gravitate toward life-and-death situations, hoping for happy endings. Some have been good, others laughably ridiculous, while most avoid anything remotely controversial, settling for the banal.

“The Pitt,” if its first season is any reliable indication, dares to be different, immersing the viewer — an hour at a time — in the chaos and stress of what goes on in an emergency room on what turns out to be the single most difficult day and night imaginable. Nothing prepares you for the nonstop challenges that confront those who make their lives all about saving those of strangers, doing their best to maintain professionalism and poise when the worst happens.

Two things ought to be stressed before you decide to enter “The Pitt,” the first being it’s not for the squeamish. If the sight of the human body and all its frailties — scalpels cutting flesh, blood spurting everywhere, limbs mangled and organs failing — is problematic, it might be a good idea for you to look elsewhere.

This is one show that never shies away from the graphic stuff.

The other warning I’d offer as a public service is that over the course of 15 episodes, you’re more than likely to see yourself.

And that brings us back to the quote I used at the start of this essay.

It’s from an end-of-life scene in which two grown children, a brother and his younger sister, must decide whether or not to honor their elderly father’s stated wish that no machines be used to keep him alive; in short, he wants a peaceful death, free from intrusion.

As I watched, riveted, I couldn’t help being reminded of a remarkably similar situation my family found itself in about this time of year in 1999. I had seen Dad after Mass on New Year’s Day, both of us there to commemorate Mom’s passing some 18 years before. He seemed as he’d always been, nothing suggesting how quickly fate might intervene, and I’ll always treasure those few minutes we spoke in the church parking lot.

That was the last time I saw my father outside the hospital.

Three days later he went to the emergency room with flu-like symptoms that settled in his lungs, creating fear of pneumonia. A day after that, doctors decided to hook him up to a ventilator. Then came a catheter, then a feeding tube, followed by a failed central line, a collapsed lung and, for good measure, a staph infection.

In short, life threw so much at him that by the end it was too much.

That January was an endless vigil of waiting and preparing, punctuated by brief periods of visits from friends and family. There was a glimmer of hope in the days after the vent was discontinued and Dad could speak again, even though his vocal cords had been affected by the ghastly tube shoved down his throat.

I vividly recall a fateful meeting during which my stepmother and I had to make a choice concerning the continuation of care; in other words, it was left up to us to decide whether he would live or die.

All that pain and sorrow came rushing back to me as I watched the fourth episode of “The Pitt,” the crushing weight of being responsible for a decision no one wants to have to make. I could remember talking it over with my sister and brother, trying my best to convey the hopelessness of the situation without taking away the last remnants of hope to which they had clung all month.

Our father passed away in the early hours of Saturday, Jan. 30, 1999. To the best of my knowledge, he was all alone at the end.

That makes sense.

For as outgoing and convivial as he could sometimes be, Dad was an intensely private man, listening far more often than he spoke, studiously avoiding topics like his World War II service, during which, as a member of the 101st Airborne, he earned a Bronze Star.

I never knew that about my father, not until I read it in his obituary, which he — in his typically solitary fashion — had prepared himself.

Since coming back home two years ago, after living on the North Carolina coast since 2000, I’ve spent a lot of time driving around town, and I try to visit the cemetery at least once a week, especially during January. I like the peace I feel in that quiet space, the snow falling silently, a distant bell tolling the hour, just my thoughts keeping me company as I stand in front of the gray granite tombstone bearing Mom and Dad’s names.

And what Dr. Robby said is true. With them gone, my siblings and I are the keepers of our family history, the last witnesses to it all.

It’s been far too long since we were in the same place at the same time, and that’s something I hope we can remedy in the coming year so that together, we can deepen our primary relationship.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where lives, loss and love are often shared.