I jolted awake as my alarm shrieked, a third snooze already logged. Twenty minutes. That’s all I had left before the hospital swallowed me whole. A cruel joke, rushing through a morning routine after burning the midnight oil trying to catch up on sleep. Honestly, who *is* a morning person? After three minutes of staring at the ceiling, I finally swung my legs over the side of the bed, determined to rouse Scarlett. She’d kill me if I’d let her trust me and then left her to sleep in. Peeking into her room, I found her already applying mascara, a beacon of efficiency.
“You’re awake!” I blurted, half-annoyed, half-relieved.
“I figured you’d sleep through it, so I set my own,” she chuckled. “Consider me one step ahead of you, Victoria.”
“And you didn’t even bother to wonder if I might have overslept?”
“It crossed my mind, but honestly, you snooze constantly. It’s a pattern.” She didn’t even glance my way, her focus entirely on perfecting her eyeliner.
“Well, thanks for nothing, Scar!” I snapped, pivoting back towards my room. Ten minutes left. I yanked on my scrubs, yelling for Scarlett to be ready in five while I slapped on foundation and mascara – no need for a full glam session at the hospital. Teeth brushed, hair pulled into a high ponytail, I headed for the door to find Scarlett already waiting in the passenger seat. We raced to the hospital, arriving with five minutes to spare before my 7:15 clock-in. I dragged Scarlett along behind me to grab a blueberry muffin and black coffee before heading to the ward. 7:14. The day had begun.
“Victoria! Rooms 628, 645, 387, 398, and 316 need checking,” Grace chirped, handing me a clipboard. Her relentless cheerfulness was baffling. I could barely keep my eyes open. I’d specialized in rheumatology at Oklahoma College of Medicine – musculoskeletal and autoimmune diseases. I tended to the more complex cases at Tulsa Crest Hospital, a reputation earned during my residency.
I found room 628 and knocked on the open door.
“Oh hello!” The young woman inside greeted me. She had a pixie cut of black hair and piercing blue eyes. Petite, she barely filled the bed.
“You’re my first patient today,” I said, “Fresh out of residency yesterday, eager to meet everyone. I’m Dr. Caster, and you’re Daisy Kneer, correct?”
“That’s me!” Daisy replied with a kind smile. I glanced at her chart. Thirty-three years old, referred for a stiff left wrist.
“A nurse will be in to draw blood for tests,” I said. “Mind if I take a quick look at your wrist?”
“Of course.” As she removed her hand from under the blanket, I saw the swelling wasn’t severe. I took her forearm, careful not to cause pain. Pressing a hand on her wrist, I felt warmth radiating from the joint. Rheumatoid arthritis, likely in the early stages. Lucky if it was, treatment shouldn’t be difficult, but we still needed the blood tests to confirm.
“The nurse should be here soon,” I smiled. “I’ll be back as soon as the results are in.” I headed to room 645, leaving Daisy to her TV. The door opened to a wheelchair outside the room. An old man sat in the corner, holding his wife’s hand as she woke.
“I apologize for waking you!” I said softly.
“Oh no, please come in! The sooner, the better!”
“Right. I’m Dr. Caster, and you are Lora Smith?”
“That’s me,” she smiled. She had gray hair, pale skin, and a substantial frame.
“I’m George Smith,” the man said, extending his hand. I shook it. “I figured I should introduce myself.”
“Nice to meet you.” I checked Lora’s chart. Seventy-eight years old, diagnosed with osteoarthritis a few weeks ago in her right knee, finally seeking treatment. The knee was swollen, crackling with movement.
“We’ll do an X-ray to assess the damage,” I said gently. “Is that alright?” She looked to George for support, and he nodded. I sent for a nurse to bring them down for imaging, then moved on to room 387. It was starting to feel like a reality check from residency: seeing patients, checking results, researching, all on my own. Five patients felt like a breeze, but it was already 9:45, and the day felt longer than I’d anticipated.
I found a middle-aged Black woman already smiling at me as I entered.
“Good afternoon, doctor! It’s nice to finally have somebody besides nurses asking what I need!” she laughed.
“I’m glad to see you’re excited!” I smiled back. “I’m Dr. Caster. I understand you have osteoarthritis and haven’t followed through with physical therapy, is that correct?”
“Unfortunately it is. I didn't see a point until the pain started increasing.” she whispered.
“Cathy Wethers, right?” She nodded. “Cathy, we’re going to need to keep you here until you improve, seeing as your treatment isn't working. I’m sorry to be the one telling you this. We’ll sign you up with a physical therapist here at the hospital, and we may need to discuss surgery considering your pain levels and the extent of the damage.”
“Is surgery the only answer?” she asked, concern etched on her face.
“It’s the most effective way to get you back to functioning better,” I sighed. She nodded, and I explained I’d be back later to check on the X-ray results.
Leaving Cathy’s room, I grabbed a granola bar and bottled water before heading to the restroom for a quick break. It was 11:00, and I was already thinking about lunch at 2. The days might drag on more than I thought. As I approached room 398, I discovered the bed was empty. A nurse informed me the patient was at the cafe with his family. I decided to check on him later.
I began searching for room 316, hoping to streamline the process and reach lunch sooner. After five minutes, I asked a nurse who pointed me towards the opposite end of the ward. I found it after a few more minutes and tapped on the door, grabbing the chart and studying it without introducing myself. The patient was a twenty-eight-year-old man, and I looked up to see none other than Harry Styles.