From the “Soul on Call” series
Note: These reflections are fictional and educational in nature. They are not medical advice and do not reflect the views of any institution or employer.
The hospital mirror didn’t lie.
It didn’t dramatize either. Just reflected, plainly, the evidence of another long shift: collar skewed, eyes dulled at the edges, skin one shade grayer under fluorescent light.
Dr. Solan Call leaned over the staff sink, rinsing his hands with a focus usually reserved for procedures. The soap dispenser wheezed. The water ran too hot. His pager buzzed—he didn’t look.
He needed thirty seconds of stillness. He could afford that much.
Through the door: hallway chatter, two IV pumps, a distant overhead call.
Inside: just the faucet, the hum of the overhead vent, and the mirror—hung slightly too high, like eye contact was optional.
He dried his hands. Folded the towel slowly. Looked up.
The face staring back was his. But it took a beat longer to register.
Not because he looked unfamiliar—but because he looked… unspecific.
The call room was dim when he stepped in.
Someone had left behind an empty coffee cup and a half-written progress note. A jacket hung off the chair like it had been shrugged out of mid-thought. A crumpled sticky note on the microwave read:
STOP MICROWAVING FISH
—EVERYONE
He opened his laptop. Not to chart. Just to look busy.
The door opened.
You hiding in here too?
Nora Boundarie entered, a sealed container in one hand and the ghost of a scowl on her face. Her badge lanyard was twisted, rubbing raw at the seam. There was a crease in her forehead that hadn’t been there last month.
Max called in sick.
Three of his patients are mine now.
No explanation. No ask. Just assumed I’d flex.
She dropped onto the couch. Didn’t open the container.
I get it. I’m internal. He’s internal. It makes sense on paper.
But it’s the assumption.
That I’ll say yes. That I won’t push back. That it won’t cost me.
Solan didn’t interrupt.
I used to care.
About being a good teammate. About being that person.
Now I just… do it.
She rubbed her neck. The gesture said more than her words.
Do you ever feel like the longer you keep saying yes, the less of you is left behind?
He didn’t answer right away.
Something flickered—uncertainty, resistance, maybe even shame.
He adjusted his badge without meaning to.
Sometimes I catch my reflection mid-shift
and wonder if I’m still in there.
Or just the outer casing.
She looked at him. Not unkindly. Just tired.
And if you are still in there… do you want out?
He didn’t know. He let the question hang.
The microwave beeped. Neither of them moved.
Solan glanced at the small mirror above the sink.
It wasn’t for reflection, really. Just something to check your teeth before rounding.
But still—there he was. Crisp coat. Alert eyes. And beneath that, a faint flicker of… something.
He remembered the night before. Trying to write a discharge summary and ending up typing lines that weren’t clinical. Not poetry. Not progress notes. Just stray thoughts that didn’t belong in the chart.
He hadn’t deleted them right away.
You know what I miss?
He looked over.
I miss liking who I was at work.
Not always. But enough.
I used to feel… proud.
Not just of what I did. Of how I showed up.
She picked at the corner of her container. Didn’t open it.
Now I feel efficient.
And interchangeable.
A silence settled. Not awkward. Just full.
He thought of something Ray had said once, half-serious, peeling a banana like it was a sermon:
Standing still is still a kind of movement.
Just not the kind that graphs well.
At the time, Solan hadn’t known what that meant.
But maybe this was it.
Nora stood up. Pulled her shoulders back. The crease in her forehead lingered.
I should eat.
Or fake it.
Or at least do one thing today that isn’t reactive.
She glanced at him.
You think it ever comes back?
What?
The parts of us we stopped listening to.
He paused. For once, he didn’t reach for certainty.
Maybe they don’t leave.
Maybe they just wait.
She nodded. A tiny, almost involuntary motion. Then she left.
He sat there a moment longer. Then looked up at the mirror again.
Same face. Same eyes.
But this time, he let the gaze hold.
Just long enough to register that he hadn’t disappeared.
Not completely.
Still here.
Still someone.
🌱 Still functional—but not fully present?
This week’s Soul Kit might help.
The Silent Mirror
Not a fix. Not a performance. Just a soft return to the part of you that never really left.
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