Tom:Have you eaten?
I stare at the three words for a long time. I think the last thing I ate was half a biscuit at 11 a.m. But today is beginning to blur into yesterday so I could be wrong.
Me:Yep, sort of. All good. Busy though. You OK?
Lie sent. Blue ticks on the screen. My chest aches, and I don’t know whether it’s hunger or something else. I miss spending time with my friends. I miss Sam. When I’m as tired as this it’s hard to remember that I can’t just call him. This is exactly the moment when I’d need my best friend.
Tom:I’m fine. Try to leave on time. I’ll drop you round some food.
I smile, I don’t know what I’d do without my brother.
The door creaks; one of the nurses pokes her head in. “Sorry, Kath—Jack in bed nine’s mum wanted you. He’s settled, but she has questions about tonight.”
“Right.” I stand. My knees click. “I’m coming.”
***
By the time I get home, it’s two hours later than my shift was meant to end. Of course it is. January eats time and spits out bones.
The stairwell smells like damp that’s been mixed with someone’s dinner from three floors down. My key sticks in the lock and my shoulders ache in that deep, stringy way that means I’ve been tensing them all day. The flat is dark except for the fairy lights I never take down because overhead bulbs feel like the hospital. There’s a Tupperware on the table with a Post-it stuck to the lid:Pasta. Eat it please—T.Bless Tom. I kick off my shoes, shrug the scrubs off into a heap by the washing machine and stand under the shower until the water runs lukewarm.
After microwaving the pasta I eat it standing up, fork clicking against plastic. My phone buzzes; for a second I think it’s the bleep and my heart rate spikes. Nope. Phantom bleep. Just a text.
Theo:Long day? Call if you get in.
Theo:If you can’t make Saturday, tell me now so I can swap a shift.
I wipe sauce off my thumb and stare at the calendar magneted to the fridge. My housemate Flo moved in with her boyfriend two weeks ago, so I'm living alone now, just about managing to scrape the rent together. It’s odd looking at a calendar with only one person’s shifts.
Me:I don’t think I can. I’m so sorry.
Theo:Don’t worry, I understand. I had to swap a shift so I can’t come visit the weekend after.
Me:That’s OK.
I put the Tupperware in the sink, fill it with water and a squirt of detergent, and then open the cupboard where the textbooks live.Membership Exam—Core Revision. The spine of the book is cracked, highlighter stripes like war paint across the respiratory disease pages. I carry it to the table and stack my notes on top: flashcards with bent corners, a dog-eared printout.
I set a timer on my phone for thirty minutes and open a past paper. I read the first question three times before my brain kicks into gear and I start writing. My handwriting slants downhill. I blink hard and the words swim for a second before snapping back into rows.
Timer: 17:42.
OK. ABG interpretation next. I sketch the alveolar gas equation like I didn’t already do it five times this week. My hand cramps. I flex my fingers and shake them out.
Timer: 11:03.
I turn to another question set and stare at the page. I can’t have forgotten this already; I swear I revised it last week.
Timer: 05:41.
I pause it and stand to make tea, forget the kettle is empty, fill it, put it back on the base wrong, fix it, watch steam thread up and vanish in the cold strip of window. Hospital tea tastes like paper; home tea tastes like… not hospital. I bring the mug back to the table and realise I never added the bag. Idiot.
Timer: 02:12.
I try to read a section on colloid versus crystalloid fluid bolus in sepsis. No. Not going in.
Timer: 00:27.
The alarm trills, and I jerk like I’ve been defibrillated. Thirty minutes. It felt like five and also a year. I set another alarm and grab my flashcards. The first card asks about paediatric resus drug doses; my stomach flips. I flag it to come back later. Coward.