I still remember how it felt walking through the hospital halls late at night with my white coat over scrubs, pretending not to feel like an imposter.
It was one of my first solo nights on call, and I’d only just started to relax when my pager screamed to life.
Trauma team. Five-year-old. Car crash. Possible cardiac injury.
That was enough to make my stomach drop. I sprinted to the trauma bay, my heart pounding faster than my footsteps. When I pushed through the swinging doors, I was hit with the surreal chaos of the scene.
A tiny body lay crumpled on the gurney, surrounded by a flurry of movement. Emergency medical technicians shouted vitals, nurses maneuvered with frantic precision, and machines cried out numbers I didn’t like one bit.
He looked so small under all those tubes and wires, like a child pretending to be a patient.
That was enough to make my stomach drop.
The poor child had a deep gash carved across his face, from the left eyebrow down to his cheek. Blood clotted in his hair. His chest rose rapidly, shallow breaths rattling with each monitor beep.
