I stare at the clock, resenting each minute wasted. I am now the centre of my own tiny universe in the midst of the pandemic. My attention span has withered. A year of digital lectures and the spectre of highstakes exams has sucked all the joy out of learning; now, each day is only about my comfort and my career. When I'm asked what fields I'm interested in, the true answer has become "none." No, I don't want to be here at this clinic. My increasingly reclusive soul was dragged here to fulfill a requirement. So, when the nurse leads my patient in, I'm disappointed. I could have gone home early if he had been a little later. I have exams to prepare for.
The dispenser purrs and proudly delivers precisely too much sanitizer, and I wipe, knock and enter. I ask how he's doing. Words gush forth between his rapid breaths. He isn't well. In fact, he's terrible. He'd received a text before I came in; his mother was found pulseless on the floor by his panicked brother, and first responders were now attempting to resuscitate her. Before I fully register that "not well" has nothing to do with his laboured breathing, he's sobbing. Suddenly, I forget myself and my petty mood. The clipboard disappears as I hold his shoulder and silently attempt to comfort a man twice my age. "They're doing that thing to her," he wheezes, "the one with those paddles, and the shocks."
My gut says she's already gone, and that he should not be here. He'll regret not seeing her in her last...