Where Doctors Hide

摘要

When a patient dies and my pager goes off, and a nurse brings in a family member who needs to talk, and my pager cries again, my heart rate jumping to 120, my skin twitching like a racehorse, I hide in a fifth floor bathroom no larger than a closet with an old toilet, rust stained sink, and a mirror the size of my face. I look myself in the eye, to be sure my pupils are equal and react to light, measure my pulse until the beats begin to slow, run cold water on my wrists, stuff paper towels under my arms to absorb the sweat, and make cool compresses to hold on my forehead like a wounded soldier. And I turn off the pager and think about my colleagues, who stand here as alone as me believing no one else knows where they hide.