Alyssa says to me. The Code Blue is over. The patient was intubated and swept off to the ICU in critical but stable condition. He’s not dead is all I know. Now we’re sitting on 3-South, my popsicle is long gone, and I’m starving. But at least I’m not tired and I don’t have to pee. I figure I’m always going to be ignoring at least one of my body’s needs. “Okay,” I say. I fumble in my white coat pocket for my notes, but then I remember how Alyssa hates it when I read my notes, so I decide to wing it. “Mrs. Washington is a 59-year-old female who—” “Who?” I hesitate. Crap, wrong President. This wouldn’t have happened if Alyssa would let me read my notes when I present to her. “I mean, Mrs. Jefferson is a 59-year-old female who—” “Don’t say ‘female,’” Alyssa interrupts me. “Huh?” “When you call her a ‘female,’ what do you mean by that?
