having a bit of an issue here.”
“Okay?” My voice is still husky with sleep.
“Our patient in 1128 is threatening to leave AMA.”
“What’s the patient’s name?”
“Tiffany. Tiffany Munroe.”
Tiffany Munroe leaving AMA. Why is this night different from any other night? “Okay, here’s the thing. I’m actually not on call. Maybe the service didn’t get the message, but I switched with Dr. Chang.”
Papers rustle over the phone. “No, we definitely have you down.”
“Yes, I can see how that might be, but it’s actually a holiday. A very important Jewish holiday, and I’m not on.” I’m trying to keep my voice even. “Jason is on call. Dr. Jason Chang.” With fucking whom I switched one month ago, of fucking which I reminded him yesterday.
“I don’t know anything about that,” the nurse says, annoyed. “And your name is down here as the on-call doc. So, unless you’d rather I call Dr. Berringer—”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” I grumble. Probation Girl surely does not need that. I flick off the charming fireplace and the room blacks out like a light switch was turned off. “I’m on my way.”
“Thank you very much,” the nurse says with a tone that sounds more like “Fuck you very much.” I slip on my new brown (seal brown, per the box) boots, and Arthur gives me a mournful “say it ain’t so” look. Time to go to the hospital, to work.
I’m trying hard not to sin, but it isn’t easy.
* * *
Room 1128 is empty, of course.
The bed has been stripped, leaving a stained, blue-striped mattress. The bathroom is empty, too, a mint-green toothpaste line running down the middle of the sink. Ms. Tiffany Munroe has left the building.
I march over to the nurses’ counter ready to blaspheme like a drunken sailor, Yom Kippur or not, when the nurse preempts me. “I’m sorry,” she says, sounding in fact sorry. “I tried to call you. Like five minutes after we spoke, Tiffany vanished.”
I pull out my phone, which was conveniently on vibrate, and notice a voice mail from the hospital. “Oh,” I answer, deflated. It’s hard to be mad at someone who’s actually contrite. And it is Yom Kippur, after all. “That’s fine.” From the chart rack, Jane Doe catches my eye. “How’s Jane doing, by the way?”
The nurse squints her eyes. “The catatonic?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing’s up with her as far as I know. Stable.”
“Oh well. While I’m here, might as well go and check.”
As I walk in, her shadow looms on the wall, a camel with two humps. A soft light buzzes over her head, giving her a pale cast. Jane is the nighttime version of herself. Staring, grimacing, doing the bunny-nose thing. No change whatsoever, despite our sizable bump in the Ativan yesterday. The vision is beyond depressing. I turn around to leave and nearly slam into Dr. Berringer in the doorway.
“Hey, you,” he says, like we happen to be running into each other at a shop. “What are you doing here?” He’s wearing old corduroys and a pilled tan sweater. Like me, he’s in “hang-out clothes.” He usually wears khakis with a blazer on rounds.
“They called me for Tiffany. She left AMA. But I figured I’d check on Jane while I’m here,” I say.
He nods, turning to her. “No change, huh?”
“No, unfortunately not.” There is a pause. The bed moans, the IV bag whirs, her stockings fill with air and deflate again. All the sounds in the room are inanimate.
“Tough case. I was talking about her with a colleague.”
“Yeah?”
“She said the next step may be ECT.”
I pause. Electroconvulsive therapy. The big guns, or more like the assault weapons. His colleague is right, though. It’s the last-resort treatment in the literature review on catatonia.
“But we have some time before we get that drastic,” he says. “Got some more meds we can try.”
“I hope so.” We stand another moment. “Well, I was just leaving, actually,” I say.
“Yeah, me too. Just
“Okay?” My voice is still husky with sleep.
“Our patient in 1128 is threatening to leave AMA.”
“What’s the patient’s name?”
“Tiffany. Tiffany Munroe.”
Tiffany Munroe leaving AMA. Why is this night different from any other night? “Okay, here’s the thing. I’m actually not on call. Maybe the service didn’t get the message, but I switched with Dr. Chang.”
Papers rustle over the phone. “No, we definitely have you down.”
“Yes, I can see how that might be, but it’s actually a holiday. A very important Jewish holiday, and I’m not on.” I’m trying to keep my voice even. “Jason is on call. Dr. Jason Chang.” With fucking whom I switched one month ago, of fucking which I reminded him yesterday.
“I don’t know anything about that,” the nurse says, annoyed. “And your name is down here as the on-call doc. So, unless you’d rather I call Dr. Berringer—”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” I grumble. Probation Girl surely does not need that. I flick off the charming fireplace and the room blacks out like a light switch was turned off. “I’m on my way.”
“Thank you very much,” the nurse says with a tone that sounds more like “Fuck you very much.” I slip on my new brown (seal brown, per the box) boots, and Arthur gives me a mournful “say it ain’t so” look. Time to go to the hospital, to work.
I’m trying hard not to sin, but it isn’t easy.
* * *
Room 1128 is empty, of course.
The bed has been stripped, leaving a stained, blue-striped mattress. The bathroom is empty, too, a mint-green toothpaste line running down the middle of the sink. Ms. Tiffany Munroe has left the building.
I march over to the nurses’ counter ready to blaspheme like a drunken sailor, Yom Kippur or not, when the nurse preempts me. “I’m sorry,” she says, sounding in fact sorry. “I tried to call you. Like five minutes after we spoke, Tiffany vanished.”
I pull out my phone, which was conveniently on vibrate, and notice a voice mail from the hospital. “Oh,” I answer, deflated. It’s hard to be mad at someone who’s actually contrite. And it is Yom Kippur, after all. “That’s fine.” From the chart rack, Jane Doe catches my eye. “How’s Jane doing, by the way?”
The nurse squints her eyes. “The catatonic?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing’s up with her as far as I know. Stable.”
“Oh well. While I’m here, might as well go and check.”
As I walk in, her shadow looms on the wall, a camel with two humps. A soft light buzzes over her head, giving her a pale cast. Jane is the nighttime version of herself. Staring, grimacing, doing the bunny-nose thing. No change whatsoever, despite our sizable bump in the Ativan yesterday. The vision is beyond depressing. I turn around to leave and nearly slam into Dr. Berringer in the doorway.
“Hey, you,” he says, like we happen to be running into each other at a shop. “What are you doing here?” He’s wearing old corduroys and a pilled tan sweater. Like me, he’s in “hang-out clothes.” He usually wears khakis with a blazer on rounds.
“They called me for Tiffany. She left AMA. But I figured I’d check on Jane while I’m here,” I say.
He nods, turning to her. “No change, huh?”
“No, unfortunately not.” There is a pause. The bed moans, the IV bag whirs, her stockings fill with air and deflate again. All the sounds in the room are inanimate.
“Tough case. I was talking about her with a colleague.”
“Yeah?”
“She said the next step may be ECT.”
I pause. Electroconvulsive therapy. The big guns, or more like the assault weapons. His colleague is right, though. It’s the last-resort treatment in the literature review on catatonia.
“But we have some time before we get that drastic,” he says. “Got some more meds we can try.”
“I hope so.” We stand another moment. “Well, I was just leaving, actually,” I say.
“Yeah, me too. Just
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