Yes. Thankfully. Just about to leave.
Me:
Great, you’ll be relieved. How are the feet?
Erika:
Sore.
When she called me earlier, sharing how she’d had a terrible shift in the ER, she urged me to tell her about my schedule to distract her and take her mind off her wretched, heartbreaking day. I could tell she’d be crying, too; her voice sounded nasally, as if her nose were stuffy, sniffling down the phone.
Erika has been an ER doctor for years and knows how to handle herself and deal with people in difficult situations, but her heart is still soft and beautiful. She cares about every one of her patients.
Me:
I hate that you lost a patient today. I’m so sorry. How are your head and heart now?
Erika:
Not in a good place. And I look like shit.
I bet she doesn’t; she always looks incredible.
Me:
Where are you?
Erika:
I’m just walking out of the hospital now. I need food.
Me:
And chocolate?
Erika:
Yes, lots of it.
Me:
How many bars?
Erika:
At least three.
Me:
That is a bad day.
Erika:
The worst.
Me:
It might just be about to get a little better.
