Page 105 of Dr. Attending

Caroline

I’m sipping my coffee, halfway through one of Morgan’s spicy books about kinky doctors when my phone pings. I put my Kindle down, praying that the message is from Weston because I’m currently feeling a little worked up and wouldn’t mind a little sexting session.

SOS I NEED YOU TO COME TO MIDTOWN MEMORIAL

I frown as I read the text. Unfortunately, it’s not from my boyfriend, trying to have a mid-morning quickie—it’s just my dramatic friend, trying to irritate the hell out of me.

You don’t have rabies.

And stop sending SOS when it’s not an emergency.

If I had to guess, she’s about to tell me that she thinks she has a pulmonary embolism, or something equally as absurd. And I’ll have to tell her that she doesn’t . . . she’s just pregnant.

In the year and a half since I started medical school, I’ve learned one thing without a doubt—healthcare workers are the biggest hypochondriacs in the world. It’s probably because we know too much, and we’ve seen too much. So any time anything abnormal happens to our bodies, we immediately come up with the most obscure diagnosis we can think of.

This is an emergency.

I have hyperemesis gravidarum.

I finish the last sip of my coffee and let out a sigh.

The condition she’s talking about is the medical term for uncontrollable vomiting during pregnancy. And while I would normally take a concern like this much more seriously because it can become emergent if the patient isn’t able to keep anything down for a while, I know without a doubt that Morgan isn’t nauseated in the slightest.

You’re fine. Drink some water.

As soon as I send a response, Morgan begins typing back.

No!!! I need you to bring me my ginger chewies.

Please. I’m going to vom all over myself.

I roll my eyes because I don’t believe her for a second, especially after she sent me a picture of herself last night with a mouthful of Nerd Clusters, telling me that the new Christmas flavor was both delicious and nutritious.

Plus, if she truly is that nauseous, she needs an IV and some medicine, not an over-the-counter candy.

I type out a reply as I cross my apartment to put my mug in the dishwasher.

Have one of the residents that you love write you a Zofran order.

A text comes through almost immediately after I press send, making me wonder if she’s even working today.

Funny. You know I hate them all.

And I don’t want meds. I’m #holistic.

I actually laugh out loud because now I am absolutely sure that she’s full of shit—the woman loves processed foods more than anyone I’ve ever met.

She called me crying last week when Walker told her she shouldn’t have Sweet’N Low in her coffee because it can cross the placenta. If I remember correctly, the direct quote between her sobs was something like, “This baby is taking away everything that I love in life.”

Yeah. I’ll believe it when I see it.

To be fair, I can’t judge her love of processed foods because I’d probably be clinically depressed if I had to give up my Alani energy drinks. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve included them several times on my list of things to be happy about each time they release a new flavor. But that doesn’t mean her argument is convincing enough to get me out of my apartment in forty-degree mid-November weather. There’s only one person who could do that, and he’s been in the clinic all morning.

I put in a pickup order at Target under your name.

PLEASE GO GET THEM.

I know you’re not busy.

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