"Nope, I'm okay! Just in a good mood."
"Well, contain it," Kellen said, walking away. "It's disturbing."
Brenda was trying not to laugh. "Did you just make a joke to the man who considers smiling a sign of weakness?"
"It seemed funny at the time."
"It was funny. He's just dead inside." She patted my shoulder. "Don't let him kill your buzz. Whatever's making you this happy, hold onto it."
The first few hours of my shift passed in a haze of cheerful efficiency. Every patient seemed like an opportunity to spread alittle joy, every interaction a chance to make someone's night a little better.
My first patient was Harold, a frequent flyer who came in monthly with various complaints that usually turned out to be anxiety manifesting as physical symptoms. Tonight he was convinced he was having a heart attack because he'd felt his pulse skip while watching television.
"Jimmy!" Harold called out as I entered his room. "Thank God it's you. These other nurses don't understand my condition."
"What condition is that, Harold?" I asked, pulling up a chair. Harold was lonely more than sick, and sometimes what people needed most was someone to listen.
"I've got a very sensitive cardiovascular system. It responds to stress."
"Ah, the stress. What were you watching that got your heart racing? Let me guess — Netflix true crime?"
Harold looked sheepish. "The Bachelor."
I managed to keep a straight face. "Reality TV. That'll do it. Very high-stress situation. All that drama, people making bad decisions, rose ceremonies. It's basically psychological warfare."
"Exactly!" Harold said, looking vindicated. "You get it."
Twenty minutes later, after a normal EKG and some gentle reassurance, Harold was ready to go home with instructions to maybe stick to cooking shows for a while.
My next patient was Marjorie Dicesare, an elderly woman who'd come in with her husband for what appeared to be a minor cut on her hand from a kitchen knife.
"I'm so sorry to bother you," she said as I examined the small bandage. "It's really nothing, but Frank insisted we come in."
"Mrs. Dicesare, you never need to apologize for seeking medical care," I said, carefully unwrapping the bandage. "And Frank's a smart man. Kitchen accidents can be tricky." I lookedover at Frank, gave him a knowing wink, and said, "Sir, I have to say, your daughter here is charming."
Mrs. Dicesare giggled like a teenager. "Oh, you flatterer!" Frank smiled, despite being in on the joke.
"You're just looking for a tip, aren't you?" he asked, chuckling.
The cut was indeed minor — clean, shallow, already mostly stopped bleeding. As I cleaned it and prepared a proper dressing, I asked Mrs. Dicesare "How long have you two been married?"
"Forty-three years next month," Frank said proudly.
"Forty-three years? That's incredible! You'll have to tell me your secrets.”
"Never go to bed angry," Mrs. Dicesare said immediately.
Frank nodded. "And always say 'I love you' before you leave the house. You never know what might happen."
"Also," Mrs. Dicesare added with a mischievous smile, "learn to cook. Nothing says 'I love you' like a good meal."
Mrs. Dicesare was beaming, and when I finished her bandage, she patted my hand. "You're a good boy. Your mother raised you right."
As they left, I heard Mrs. Dicesare telling her husband, "Such a nice young man. Very handsome, too. I wonder if he's single?"
I was grinning as I updated her chart, my phone buzzing with another text from Izzy.
Izzy
