The Lull

The ER never really sleeps. It hums. A low, constant vibration, like a power line you can’t quite hear until you notice it’s always there. The monitors beep in their different rhythms, IV pumps click and sigh, wheels roll against the tile. Even the air conditioner sounds like it’s straining to keep up.

From a distance, it could almost look calm. Polished floors. Bright lights. Staff gliding past in clean scrubs, moving with a practiced rhythm. A stranger might stand at the doorway and think: it works. This place has order. This place has control.

But I know better. And tonight, I’m not really in it. Not the way I should be.

I stand at the counter, half-sipped energy drink in my hand, watching the halls as another patient is wheeled in. Their face is taut with fear, eyes wide, hands trembling on the edges of the gurney. A paramedic rattles off vitals. Nurses converge, quick and sharp.

I should feel the jolt of urgency that usually comes with this. But instead, I feel like I’m watching a movie I’ve already seen a dozen times. My body knows what to do before my mind catches up: gloves snapped on, chart pulled up, questions asked in a steady, calm voice. I’m inside the room, but part of me is pressed against the glass, looking in from the outside.

“Room five’s open,” someone says behind me. Their voice is brisk, efficient. I nod. Move. Act.

And it works. The motions always do.

I’ve become good at this—the choreography of emergencies. My voice knows how to soothe, my hands how to anchor an IV, my face how to stay still when the family looks at me like I’m supposed to have answers. If you watched me long enough, you’d think I belonged here completely. You’d think the smile, the steady tone, the small jokes between tasks were all real.

But tonight, I feel like an understudy in a role I’ve played too long. The lines are memorized, the cues automatic, but the connection is gone.

Between patients, there’s a lull. It’s the kind of quiet that feels suspicious, like the eye of a storm. Everyone stays moving anyway, tidying, charting, prepping supplies. It’s too clean, too bright. The kind of quiet where you start to hear your own heartbeat and it feels out of place.

I lean against the wall, watching the stretchers lined up, the monitors glowing. It almost looks serene, the way the lights shine on the waxed floor, the way the curtains hang neat and straight. If you didn’t know better, you might even call it beautiful.

I take a sip of my energy drink but it's already become warm. It tastes like cardboard, but I hold it anyway, because it’s something to do with my hands. Something to keep me tethered.

The next patient is older, confused, their daughter trailing behind with worry etched deep in her face. I kneel by the bed, smile soft, voice calm. I ask the right questions, reassure where I can. My hands are steady as I take vitals, check the IV, adjust pillows. From the outside, it looks like compassion. But inside, there’s distance. Like I’ve stretched myself thin enough that the real part of me stays safely out of reach.

I watch the daughter clutch her mother’s hand, her thumb brushing circles on wrinkled skin. It’s intimate, raw. And for a second, I feel the crack. The thin glass between me and the moment. I should step into it, let myself feel the weight. Instead, I shift the blanket, adjust the monitor, and excuse myself with a polite smile.

Back at the desk, I rub at the indentation my pen has left in my fingers. My notes are neat, my charting caught up. Everything looks fine.

Everything always looks fine.

Hours blur. Another trauma, another med pass, another consult with a doctor whose words spin too fast for the family to catch. The clock moves, but I don’t feel it. Time here doesn’t flow; it pools, then drains all at once.

When the shift finally slows again, I find myself at the sink, scrubbing my hands longer than I need to. The water runs clear, soap spiraling down the drain, but I keep going. There’s something hypnotic about it, like I can wash off the distance I’ve been carrying all night. But when I turn off the faucet, it’s still there.

I catch my reflection in the mirror. Same tired eyes, same loose ponytail, same faint shadow under my cheekbones. I look exactly like a nurse at the end of a shift should look. But it feels like a version of me, not the real thing. A photograph. Glossy. Slightly off-center.

Later, when I step outside for a breath of air, the sky is just starting to pale with morning. The parking lot is still, the world waiting to wake. The cool air should feel refreshing, but instead it feels like standing on a hillside, watching a whole landscape stretch below me. Beautiful. Untouchable.

I hold my energy drink, now empty, at arm’s length. The aluminum a little cracked, stained on the inside. Just like me.

From a distance, everything looks fine. The ER behind me still humming, the sunrise painting the sky, my own body steady and whole. But up close, I wonder if I’m just a shadow in the scene. Watching life happen through the glass, never quite stepping inside.