I was just about to go to bed tonight after a nail-biting 14 hours of call. I had started to imagone a long walk tomorrow morning for a decadent coffee after a sleep-in without alarm, and time to shop for needed extra scrubs so that if I forget them at home, I have an extra pair in my car.
It all came to a screeching halt thirty minutes ago when I got a call with no name. I answered it with hesitation, knowing where my notes are for code orange, and praying it was not a disaster that would be remembered in the minds of Montrealers for decades to come, like Dawson was.
The best of all worlds, which is why I have determined to have the worst job in the world, is the following: without any time to sleep before hand (anyone who does nights knows this is a mistake), I am called in to do the night shift. That’s my best cast scenario. On a 24 hour day of call, I get to work the worst shift, with no appreciable notice, and my tomorrow day off is written off.
You can’t pay someone enough for this to be worth it. Other work places, you are on call and called in, you stay home the next day and the hours worked overnight count. To us, it’s just additional work.
So, tonight I have the worst job in the world. My consolation seems sadistic in context, because the only way I can make this seem better to remind myself that at least I am not a patient.
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