From the Soul on Call series
Note: These reflections are fictional and intended for educational and reflective purposes only. They are not medical advice, are not based on any specific individual, and do not represent the views of any employer or institution.
The lights went soft instead of dark.
A slow dim, like the hospital remembered how to whisper. The overhead hum shifted to the steadier throb of the generator. Computers blinked into a waiting kind of blue. The EMR login screen refused to load and looked almost relieved about it.
Dr. Solan Call stood in the lounge doorway with a kettle in one hand and the strange permission of having nothing urgent to click.
Outside, wind fussed at the windows. Inside, the air smelled like decaf and winter coats. A stack of journals leaned into a bowl of single-serve oatmeals as if they all needed each other to keep standing.
Nora Boundarie arrived with a tote and an apology that had not yet formed.
Nora: Network is down. They said to hold non-urgent tasks.
Solan: Holding is allowed.
She sat. The apology dissolved into her shoulders.
Max Stats slid in next, hair slightly chaotic, pockets stuffed. He opened his laptop. The login wheel turned once and stopped.
Max: I am tracking my first official minute of forced unproductivity.
Solan: How does it feel.
Max: Suspiciously like rest wearing a fake mustache.
From the hall, a soft scrape. Buzz T. Grind leaned his shoulder against the frame, then changed his mind and leaned the other shoulder. He did not mention coverage. He did not offer to check the backup call tree. He simply lowered himself into a chair that complained on impact.
Buzz: What are we doing.
Solan: Waiting.
Buzz: For what.
Solan: Nothing, I think.
Buzz considered that like a new instrument. He kept his coat on.
Priya Dosey arrived with a fist of tea packets.
Priya: I come bearing pharmacologic support that is non-scheduled and mildly effective.
She laid out chamomile as if it were a formulary. Solan poured water that smelled like hope and municipal pipes.
Frankie Whirl slipped in last, curls tucked into a beanie that said A Little Tired. She took in the dim room, the blue screens, the people not moving.
Frankie: Oh good. The apocalypse looks like a staff meeting with better lighting.
They laughed—the kind that loosens something without asking for a speech.
The lounge exhaled. The generator kept its patient rhythm.
Ari Katz hovered in the doorway with a notebook and an expression like a question.
Ari: Are we allowed to sit if nothing is on fire.
Frankie: Sitting is encouraged. Staring is a bonus. Napping earns extra credit.
Ari sat cross-legged on the floor and pretended not to beam.
For a long minute, no one rushed to fill the quiet. Max fiddled with a pen and then put the pen away. Nora opened her email on her phone, found no bars, and put the phone face-down. Priya arranged tea packets by scent for reasons that were not clear and also perfectly clear.
The kettle clicked into silence.
Solan: Tea.
He moved through the room with mugs like a small, ordinary ritual. It was not efficient. It was not impressive. It was something to do with his hands that felt like offering instead of fixing.
Ari broke the quiet without shattering it.
Ari: What do you all do when you are not being doctors.
It was the sort of question that belongs to power outages.
They looked at one another as if unsure who was allowed to go first.
Max: I have been experimenting with naps.
Frankie: That counts as a sport.
Max: I am still in the beginner league.
Priya: Bollywood dance class. Once a week. Sometimes twice when the charts are losing.
Nora: I said no to a Sunday last week. I put my phone in the freezer for ten minutes and then remembered I needed it to defrost the fish. But still. I did not go in.
Buzz: I stood on my porch last night and watched it snow for eight minutes.
Buzz: I did not answer one group text. Felt illegal.
Frankie: I taught my kid to make bannock. He pretends he doesn’t care and then eats four. I pretend I’m fine and then eat five.
Solan: I started a file that is not a progress note. It has sentences no one asked me to write.
Ima Peake appeared in the doorway with a pen already uncapped. She took one step in and stopped, like a tide checking itself.
Ima: The ED is quiet. I do not trust it.
Priya: Tea.
Ima: I used to paint small things. You can finish a lemon in an evening. A face takes forever.
No one treated it as a confession. It was just a sentence that hung beautifully for a moment and then settled into the room.
From someone’s pocket, a phone buzzed and gave up. The generator hummed. The lounge window showed a parking lot bleached to a soft white.
Solan reached for a napkin to set under Priya’s mug and found a sticky note glued to the underside of the table.
Rounds delayed. System reboot.
The handwriting looked like intern. The paper looked like last year. He peeled it free and stuck it beside the emergency flashlight on the wall where it could shine in its own small way.
Ari: Is this what rebooting feels like.
Max: Statistically inconclusive.
Frankie: I think it feels like when you stop running and you can hear your heart again.
Buzz: I forgot it made a sound unless I was climbing stairs.
Priya: Listen. There it is.
They were not cured. No one announced a revelation. The work was still the work. The pager would wake. The network would return. The EMR would remember everything they owed it.
But for a handful of minutes, they were here. Together. Unimpressive and worthy at the same time.
The lights flickered. Screens blinked themselves alert. Somewhere down the hall, a printer cleared its throat. A door hissed open as if the hospital had been holding it closed on purpose.
No one moved.
They stayed a little longer, just to remember how it felt.
🌱 What does this stir in you?
If the quiet felt like proof, this week’s Soul Kit might help.
The Still Point
Just one soft place to pause, breathe, and notice what remains when the noise goes silent.