Night Float and the Verse I Recite Between Pages

night float means the hospital owns your sleep and your thoughts. i keep a folded index card in my scrub pocket with a verse my grandmother taught me. not for patients. for me. between the pager and the next admission i whisper it like a password that gets me back into my body. coworkers think i'm reviewing labs. maybe i am. maybe i'm reviewing why i chose this. on the walk to the parking garage i replayed the conversation line by line the way you do when you are not sure you said enough. a janitor nodded hello and that ordinary moment helped more than the pep talk in the conference room last week. my phone had seventeen unread messages and i answered three. the rest could wait until i had a face that looked less like the shift.

Night float means the hospital owns your sleep and your thoughts.

I keep a folded index card in my scrub pocket with a verse my grandmother taught me. Not for patients. For me. Between the pager and the next admission I whisper it like a password that gets me back into my body.

Coworkers think I am reviewing labs. Maybe I am. Maybe I am reviewing why I chose this profession when the hallway lights never turn off and the coffee tastes like punishment.

Medical training teaches competence. It does not always teach sustenance. The card is sustenance: a line of scripture, a breath, a reminder that I was someone before I became a role.

I will finish residency. I do not know yet what kind of doctor the nights are making me. I know I do not want to be the kind who confuses detachment with strength.

Documentation came later, under fluorescent light that makes everyone look more tired than they are. I signed the note and wondered, not for the first time, how much of medicine is learning which silences to fill and which to respect.

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