Chapter 1 #2
When my pregnant patients have right upper quadrant pain, my first thought is that their increased estrogen has increased their risk for gallstones, and they need a general surgery consult to check their gallbladder immediately.
So, I shouldn’t have blanched like a little baby when I saw Dr. Demon checking in on my patients.
It’s been two weeks since I last saw him, and he looks… worse.
He’s no menace today. He looks tired. Depleted, really. His wrinkled scrubs hang loose, face contorted in a ghastly, frustrated glower as he paces.
With his long strides, his walk is nearly a sprint, and even in the hospital’s cheapest scrubs, I can tell how fit he is by how he’s never winded, never even sweaty. I have no idea how he stays so fit through residency. It’s unfair.
I’m not about to feel bad for how hollow his face looks.
Gorgeous, yes. But also, exhaustible. Ordinary.
Just another resident, when he’s trapped in the same hospital as me.
He glances up briefly, making eye contact.
His eyes are molten brown, widening slightly when he sees me, and for a brief second, it looks like he flinches.
Then, with a grunt and a rush of air, he flies past me.
I blink, and the moment ends as soon as it begins.
I shake it off. Dr. Demon manages 40-patient lists. He doesn’t just flinch. Especially not from seeing some random medical student in the hallway.
But the way he looks at me, like I’ve ground his whole world to a halt…
Loathing shares a preternatural likeness to longing.
ONE HOUR PRE-BARGAIN
“So he humiliated you on your home turf,” Hyacinth offers, taking another spoonful of confetti-sprinkled ice cream. “You’re the eldest daughter; you’ll survive.”
“I’m an only daughter,” I mutter, shoving down the painful, sudden memory prick of my sister. I could lie and say I’m one of 2, but that’s not a conversation I’m willing to have right now.
The harsh glare of the hospital hits differently post 14-hour-shift, with the fresh memory of my ‘fake’ romantic rejection burning its way back into my brain with each flicker of light.
This is a weird hospital to train in. If you gave a child with an active imagination a crayon and asked them to sketch what was important for a hospital to have, I imagine this would be the result.
Ice cream store? Sure.
Fast food? Absolutely.
Quixotic scheme to make a resident do my bidding? Sure, that’ll work, especially in this funhouse.
I keep replaying it, keep looping the feeling of my stomach catching over and over again as the tears welled—the shock, the hesitation, and worst of all, the downright pity in his eyes before I unintentionally offended him and ruined everything.
When I returned home in tears, Hyacinth offered to ‘catch COVID’ and then spread it to me so that I wouldn’t have to return.
Since I politely declined, Hyacinth used her precious $25 of weekly allowance to buy us entire pints of ice cream.
It was that, or the french fries on floor one.
Which is a strange place to put it, because when you enter the hospital, it’s floor 2.5.
And of course, I couldn’t let her bankrupt herself in vain, so I got her MoonMonies coffee, and now it’s us, our sugar bombs, and the looming presence of the final boss: our EONS residency applications.
We only have 30 minutes until Hyacinth’s shift starts; the residents graciously and adamantly insisting I head out early to work on my application, and I convinced her to hide with me in the call rooms next to the residents’ lounge.
The ice cream store is right by the entrance where students enter, and I can’t handle another sympathetic or worried look anymore.
The class president, for God’s sake, reached out with the mistreatment form last night “just in case.”
Love the solidarity, but I’m fine. This is my fault.
Although sometimes medical school feels like a four-year-long humiliation ritual. You’re smart, but not smart enough yet. Gifted, but surrounded by kids more gifted than you.
By his own admission, I’m pretty, but somehow not pretty enough.
My pride stings.
I stuff down my lingering embarrassment at how I literally left the hospital in tears the last time I was here, and try to focus instead.
“Don’t feel like an eldest daughter, either,” I say, pulling out my laptop to hop onto the adjacent desk, forsaking the twin beds on opposite sides of the room.
“I feel like I’m illiterate, actually,” I mumble, staring down my never-ending list of things to do.
Secure 3 recommendation letters
On that note, find out when my favorite three attendings will be available, and corner them at work (friendly like)
If I can’t, stalk the residents and ask if they know (extra friendly)
Bring desserts (for manipulation)
Finalize away rotations
Finish personal statement
Edit CV
Ask what to do to finish this rotation with honors
Honor til the end
“Hyacinth, I’ll never survive this,” I complain, inhaling another scoop of strawberry.
Eating ice cream in bed feels like a suitable metaphor for the state of my life. Tired, scrappy, and in desperate need of a dopamine hit.
“Pick one task,” she says, all business. “Or I’ll pick one for you.” She puts down her drink on the desk, flopping down on the bed, dark curls pooling out around her like a halo.
“Maybe I’ll post on social media instead,” I tease, holding up the phone camera. Her pale skin looks especially wan under the flaring light, and I worry I’m projecting too much of my stress onto her.
“I will dissect you in the cadaver lab,” Hyacinth threatens, unbothered, “and then preserve your body parts in formalin.”
“That would be easier than this,” I grumble, relief trickling back in, updating my spreadsheet of away rotations.
At least Hyacinth is fine in chaos, unlike me.
I sift through my dozens of emails.
Community Hero: Accepted!
Home Hospital: Accepted!
I write a quick thank-you email to our local small-town hospital, the hospital affiliated with my school, then check the others.
Woman’s Best Hospital: Ghosted?
Ivory Tower 2: Rejected
The Hospital: Rejected
Siberia, but the Hospital: Rejected
As the list narrows down, I lose hope the way the air loses its warmth in winter: in bites of slow, unforgiving fog, and then in one frigid blast when the blizzard hits.
The work never ends, and neither does the pressure. As soon as one milestone passes, the next begins, and the labor never ceases until match day arrives.
My email dings, and a new notification pops up:
Woman’s Best Hospital would like to thank you for…
“Hyacinth!” I screech. “I got accepted for an away at Woman’s Best Hospital!”
“Yay!” she cheers, running over to crush me in a hug.
My windpipe might be crushed, but I hug her back, trying to subtly hide my gulps for air when she releases me.
God, that girl is strong.
“Okay, go fetch celebratory snacks,” she says, gesturing to the door. “I’ll be here for a few more minutes until my night shift begins.”
I rush away to the residents’ room, excitedly telling myself that no matter what, I’m not wasting my shot. Getting my education at the best hospital for women’s health will change my life. And it will change my small town’s life.
And nothing like what happened to my mother and sister will ever happen again.
If my 20 years of education fell apart now, I’d never forgive myself.
THE BARGAIN IS brOKERED
I buzz into the residents’ lounge across the hall, hoping to steal enough snacks to help Hyacinth survive the rest of the night, ignoring the roaring quiet that greets me.
Hands still on keyboards, Voice-Heras stop recording, and the continuous chatter of residents halts when I step through, broken only by Luke yelling, “Heard Dr. Demon made you cry!” as he stacks up piles of Crusties into his backpack.
Well, fuck. If they didn’t know before, they will now.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to act nonchalant as I brush past him, even with dozens of eyes on me. I should have remembered that sign-out is still going on, with residents surging in and out in waves.
I lunge for the protein bars, hoping to steal as many of them as possible while Luke pesters me with questions.
“What did you do?” he asks. He’s moved onto the subs now, taking enough to feed a family of four for a week.
I pray the residents are watching us with silent judgment for Luke’s shameless pilfering of their food stash, not listening in on my ongoing interrogation.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say under my breath.
Despite being in the same class as him, our interactions have been scarce; we only speak when assigned to the same cluster of hospital sites.
I think I like him better from afar.
“Were you late again? Heard you have a problem with that,” he continues, sliding uncomfortably close to grab entire rows of muffins at once.
My nails bite into my palms. If I thought he was just socially inept before, now I know for sure he’s just like the worst of them—a gunner.1
I push down my growing irritation, snatching a muffin from his hands for Hyacinth.
“I haven’t been late in weeks,” I answer. “And it was a personal matter.”
I sidestep his astonished face with my snack, ready to leave this hellhole and escape back to my hideaway, when—
The door slams open, the rattle startling me so badly that the muffin slips from my grasp.
David storms in, donning his sycophantic smile, blocking my exit.
Blond hair bounces as he enters, gleaming like spun gold. Sparkling blue eyes meet mine, ones I once thought held volumes, not artificially generated scraps.
I once saw him as the golden orator. The stunning hometown hero. The scion of surgical greatness.
But today he’s wearing the drab, ill-fitted hospital scrubs instead of his usual designer Pears, so he must be in a truly heinous mood.
Even Luke takes a reflective step back. He positions his backpack of food around his front like he’s trying to protect himself with it.
“Darling,” David says to me, like he’s attempting to be romantic, but I don’t miss how tense he is, the word escaping from gritted teeth.
He extends a hand, and like the timid miscreant I am, I hide behind Luke, who looks as mortified as I feel.