Paradise

The sound of a generic alarm. The darkness of 5:45 AM. The chill of shifting my place in bed. The silence that falls upon dismissing the alarm. The texture of the carpet on my feet as I step from the bed. The bitterness of the caffeine tablet on my tongue. The sharp brightness of my morning to-do list on my screen.

The stinging light of the bathroom. The dull acknowledgement of sleep-matted hair in the mirror. The comforting taste of minty toothpaste. The refreshing chill of the water that follows, then sinks down into the drain. The warm smell of coffee, brewing for my father. The lightness of the polyester scrubs on my legs and neck. The glow of a screen when practicing Spanish. The softness of a morning kiss goodbye.

The drifting of a breeze across my face and hands. The gentle clunk of a handle to open the car door. The smooth rumble as my father drives. The music swelling in my earbuds, urging me to greet the day. The gentle light on the horizon, orange cream smeared on gray clouds. The gray silhouettes of the dawn hospital. The sacred nature of the approach.

The silence of the hallway, letting my footsteps echo. The silence of the elevator, rising slowly through the floors. The silence of the team room, and relatively pronounced shutting of the door. The clackles of keys when signing in. The shifting of paper out of the printer. The scratching of pen across a list of names and vital signs. The tightness of my face when browsing today's news and tasks. The determination as a student to understand more.

The relief of a greeting when my classmate arrives. The simultaneous anxiety and excitement of my supervising resident coming 2 minutes later. The brilliant, orange light of the sun as it drifts above the gray landscape surrounding the hospital. The shuffle of papers as we rush out of the room. The bending of my neck over the patient locations. The weight of possibilities inside my head.

The joy at greeting the first patient. The joy at hearing them say they have much improved from last night. The thumping sounds of the stethoscope being placed on their skin. The sound of air flowing smoothly through their lungs. The sound of phlegm at the end of each exhale. The scratching of pen over a blank sheet of paper to update today's progress note. The smile at all but confirming one discharge for the day. The sincerity of the farewell and well-wishes before moving on.

The anticipation of entering the darkness of the next room. The lump in my throat when hearing desperate murmurs. The disappointment at their confusion. The hope that their partner will show up later today to reorient them. The softness of a hospital blanket wrapped around their thin body. The understanding that this patient will be discharged as well. The understanding that there isn't anything else we can do here at the hospital. The desperation to think of something else to do. The acceptance that there are more patients to help. The reluctant step back into the light of the hallway.

The excitement of reading a new study of another patient's heart. The surprise of the contrast showing open coronary arteries without blockage. The satisfaction of seeing the vessels revealed in real time, unlike the static pictures in my study aides. The disappointment that the patient didn't get to see that. The disappointment that they were left behind while being treated. The determination to teach them about their heart failure. The joy of hearing them explain their own condition to me after our discussion. The hope they will follow up with the outpatient team like they said.

The scraping of chairs as we settle into morning rounds. The colors flowing across my list as I scribble down notes. The tightness of my chest yielding to smoothness as I speak of my patients. The satisfaction of fully understanding the plan for one patient. The anxiety of not fully understanding the plan for another. The huddled journeys into and out of rooms and elevators. The laughter at jokes made by patients and doctors alike.

The silence of the team room as we document the subjectives for the day. The occasionally discussion when other departments call our phones. The tenseness of deciding what was important enough to document after speaking with a patient. The relaxation that envelops me when I submit my note.

The stillness of the courtyard as I leave for the day. The warmth of the afternoon sun as it sinks beneath the buildings. The sleepy twilight that creeps around my father and I on the drive home. The satisfied exhaustion of a day well-spent.

The thoughts that linger from the day. The warmth of the water from a showerhead. The softness of blankets abandoned this morning. The cotton-like oblivion as sleep unknowingly takes me.