Chapter 1: Saturday Night in the ER
A few years back, I was working a Saturday shift in the ER at Maple Heights General. Weekends meant most clinics were shuttered, so every cough, scrape, and panic attack funneled straight to us. The scent of antiseptic mixed with burnt popcorn from the staff lounge hung in the air. A mom in scrubs juggled a toddler and a phone call by the vending machine. Someone coughed hard enough to rattle the row of plastic chairs. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the waiting room looked like the whole town had decided this was the place to be. Even the vending machines were running low—no surprise by evening. I caught a little kid wailing in the distance, while the muted TV played college football highlights to an audience of tired faces scrolling their phones.
Two girls shuffled in—students from the university across town. One, the patient; the other, her roommate and built-in support system. They wore matching sweatshirts with the university logo, looking every bit the college kids who’d just crawled out of an all-nighter. The patient clutched her water bottle, twisting it so much the label started to peel, while her friend checked her phone every few seconds, eyes darting to the triage nurse.
The patient explained she had a canker sore and hoped for something to make it disappear—fast. She had a singing competition in two days and didn’t want her shot at the solo ruined. She spoke so quickly she almost tripped over her words, wide-eyed with that brand of college anxiety that makes everything feel like a crisis. I could see how much this meant to her—the kind of moment you pin your whole freshman year on.
At the time, I was swamped. Stomach pain, chest pain, a parade of mystery fevers—the Saturday crowd had it all. My only backup was Alex, a brand-new resident already looking like he might bolt for the door. If only every shift was this easy, I mused, but it never was. My coffee had gone cold hours ago, my pager wouldn’t quit, and I was fighting the urge to rub my temples into a migraine. Alex looked about as overwhelmed as I felt, a rookie thrown in the deep end.
I told the patient she could pick up some over-the-counter numbing spray at CVS or Walgreens, and that it really wasn’t an emergency—no reason to hit the ER for a canker sore. I tried to keep my tone gentle but firm. No need to make her feel dumb for showing up—everyone hits their limit eventually. I even joked about the drugstore aisle numbers: "Honestly, you could grab some Orajel or Anbesol—aisle six, right next to the toothpaste." She looked embarrassed, picking at the cuff of her hoodie. "I wouldn't have bothered you if the dental office was open, but everywhere's closed on weekends..." Her friend nudged her, offering silent backup. Seeing how anxious she was, I realized arguing wouldn’t help. If I kept pushing, she’d just get more upset—and burn more of my time. I remembered my own freshman year, how the smallest things could feel like the end of the world. Sometimes, being heard mattered more than being right.