Exum. Interesting how you immediately start thinking of someone in past tense as soon as they die. But even though she's in heaven now isn't her name still Mrs. Exum? I think so. Her name is Mrs. Exum; she was ninety-three years old and had come into the ER with complications stemming from a quadruple bypass. A nasty infection that left fluid on her lungs. Saying those words, time of death, always jolt me to the core. It's unnatural to announce someone's death in a room full of hospital staff. It is a moment that demands reverence, stillness and maybe even silence. But it is never silent in the ER. I wasn't ready for someone to die on me this morning. I only woke up two hours ago, and I haven't even had caffeine. After comforting and receiving comfort from Mrs. Exum's family, I escape to the cafeteria. I need to talk to Dionne. She always cheers me up when I'm having this kind of a day. On walking into the cafeteria, I spy out the available tables. There is a group of first year interns in the center of the room. Newbies. I'm not plopping myself down anywhere near them. They all try to make friends with residents so that they can get included in interesting cases. They don't realize that we have only a little bit more clout than they do. The attending doctors get to make all of the decisions. We just get in where we fit in.
