Many differences exist between the United States and Iraq, but the longer I'm here, working as the chief of medical staff in the Air Force Theater Hospital, the more I see similarities.

The most obvious is the common human experience we share as parents. This was amplified the day we admitted a 5-year-old Iraqi boy, Taha, who had fallen off a roof while flying his kite.

He arrived in the emergency room listless and unresponsive with the bluish hue concerning for a sustained lack of oxygen. The trauma call went out and the hospital sprang to life. Orders reverberated off the walls as the trauma czar, Dr. Gunst, directed his initial resuscitation, stabilizing him for his eventual surgical care.

Within an hour of his injury, he was taken to surgery and eventually placed in ICU on a ventilator.

Twenty-four hours later, his physical examination showed signs of herniation, a condition incompatible with life, for which no surgical cure exists. The ominous signs on the initial CT scan suggested that Taha had suffered severe damage akin to having major strokes on both sides of the brain.

The neurosurgeon, Dr. Pichelman, leaned against the door of the "doc box," the room where the doctors stay overnight to care for the ICU patients.

"There's nothing more we can do," he said.

All gazes were cast downward, and the room remained quiet; we had all arrived at the same conclu- sion. This precious little boy had sustained head injuries so devastating, there was no hope of recovery even with the best medical equipment and care.

The pediatrician, ICU director, neurosurgeon, and I walked into the room of the silent, unconscious patient. His head was wrapped in white bandages. His long, dark eyelashes curled up hinting of his former handsome features, but his swollen face now cast a shadow over his angelic appearance.

The ICU staff worked all around me as I watched them perform as professionals: removing tubes, shutting down machines, gradually causing the room to grow still.

Dr. Wilhelm, the pediatrician, asked the nurse to bring in the nicest blanket we had. She returned with a handquilted blanket sent from a family in Wisconsin. The beautiful design contrasted against the hideousness of the moment. Then, we waited.

The little boy's father approached the door, his face somber and eyes heavy. The mother was close behind. She was dressed in a black robed dress, shawl, and shoes. She held a handkerchief to her face as the tears began to flow. Her voice filled the room with an Arabic phrase uttered repetitiously and mournfully.

I imagined what I would say, how I would react, and my mind began to whirl as I pictured my own 7-year-old daughter in the bed. The father pulled the blanket off and leaned over the bed to kiss his boy's feet.

His tears washed the boy's toes as he leaned over them and rocked back and forth in grief.

His mother kissed his lips, brooded over him as she continued to chant the doleful phrase trying to bring her boy back to her. Then as if she suddenly realized we were in the room, she looked up at Dr. Wilhelm and with begging eyes asked him the question in Arabic.

The translator in the room knew that he need not explain. Dr. Wilhelm had been asked the question all doctors despise, the question that raises the issue of the limitations of medicine and the injustice of harm that befalls innocent children. He shook his head and said, "I'm sorry. There's nothing we can do."

In that moment, we all stood with tear-brimmed eyes, feeling the sorrow and grief that losing a child will bring. It is this expression of grief that demonstrates the common ground we as two different countries have: the common desire we share to love our children, keep them safe from all potential harm, and watch them one day teach their own children how to fly a kite.

Major David Carnahan of the U.S. Air Force is chief of medical staff with the 332nd Expeditionary Medical Group. He graduated from Brownsboro High School in 1986.