By midday, I forget my blunder, too busy dealing with the pile-up on the highway. Days like this make me wish people would just take the next exit instead of slamming on their brakes in the middle of traffic and causing a six-car domino effect. Thankfully, no casualties. Just a parade of concussions, fractures, and one guy insisting he was “totally fine” even though he clearly had a broken leg.
“Updated schedule,” a nurse says, pinning a paper to the board beside the desk.
She gives me a sideways glance as she walks past.
Great. Probably thinking I’m slacking off again. I ball the wrapper from my sandwich and toss it in the trash. Even taking a break makes me look suspicious now. Dr. Murphy has apparently succeeded in giving me a reputation I didnotearn.
Getting to my feet, I walk to the board.
Then freeze.
What the hell.
My new schedule is a bunch of bullshit: Twelve-hour shift tomorrow, same as today. Then three six-hour shifts. A twelve-hour Sunday shift. Then finally Monday off.
At the bottom, in tiny text:
“The above schedule is permanent until posted otherwise.”
Permanent.
A cold shock ripples through me.
Not only am I working every Sunday now, it’s a twelve-hour shift. Before this, Sundays were four six-hour shifts spread across attendings. Now I’m expected to spend the entire damn day here.
I scan the board, heart hammering.
Every other attending has at least two days off.
It's like he's targeting me.
My mouth goes dry, vision tunneling, that rushing-in feeling of panic where you feel helpless.
I blink hard, making sure I’m actually reading this right.
He really did it. Dr. Murphy actually stuck me with the worst schedule in the entire ER.
For what? Covering a shift? Having a husband and kid?
Speaking up? Or… God… for walking out of his office?
Behind me, Gail whistles low.
“Damn. Twelve-hour Saturday? Come on…” he mutters, scanning his own. He shrugs. “At least I’ve got Sunday and Thursday off.”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
I just keep staring at the paper like maybe if I look long enough, it’ll rearrange itself and Murphy’s smug little vendetta will vanish.
But it doesn’t feel like an oversight. This isn’t random. It’s punishment.
Sabotage.
A part of me wants to march straight into his office and demand answers, but I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what he’s counting on, me storming in, looking like a hormonal pregnant woman demanding “special treatment,” while everyone else just quietly accepts their schedules.
So, I don’t. Instead, I take a picture of the schedule, slip my phone back into my pocket, and force myself to finish the rest of my shift.
