. . . On our terminal CF patient. She is still here. (I should have known: after all the books and stories where the doctor makes dismal predictions of fatality and is proved wrong, I should have known better than to put implicit faith in the attending’s prediction of two more days.) Her family cooked Easter dinner and brought it in, and the nurses set up one of the conference rooms for them. There’s a sense of relief among the doctors and nurses, that her family is pulling together now. Late, but better than never. When we had dismal expectations for the weekend, no one had heart to tell her family that we didn’t think she’d make it to Easter. So nice that we didn’t need to. But some day soon. . .

(It’s half an hour till time-to-leave-the-hospital, and my beeper just went off. I thought the senior resident was going to give me an admission, guaranteed to keep me here another hour and a half. I didn’t know it was possible to feel such deep revulsion for a small black object. But I’m guessing that’s only the shadow of what I’ll feel when I’m an intern.)

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