From the Soul on Call series
Note: These reflections are fictional and intended for educational and reflective purposes only. They are not medical advice and do not represent the views of any employer or institution.
The doctor’s lounge smelled like microwaved leftovers and burnt decaf.
Someone had left a fork in the sink. The microwave blinked an aggressive 2:00. A tired stack of journals slumped beside a coffee pot that hadn’t been fresh since the late afternoon.
Dr. Solan Call sat in one of the mismatched chairs, trying not to scroll.
Twenty minutes until his pager came back to life.
He wasn’t sure how to spend them without feeling behind.
Across the table, Dr. Otto Pilot worked on his laptop, surrounded by notes and time-stamped scans. His posture surgical. He was eating cereal out of a protein shaker with quiet resolve.
Solan: You’re still working?
Otto (without looking up): I chart faster when no one talks to me.
Solan: Right. Sorry.
Otto: I batch dictations during overnight lulls. Less cognitive switching.
Solan: That… actually makes sense.
Otto: Saves twelve to eighteen minutes per night. I logged it.
Solan: You logged it?
Otto: Don’t you?
Solan (muttering): …Only regrets.
Otto allowed himself a half-smile, then resumed typing.
His scans flicked by in grayscale silence—chest CTs, hip films, tiny lives reduced to pixels and patterns.
Solan rubbed the bridge of his nose.
A few minutes later, Dr. Zen E. Flow appeared in the doorway—white coat draped over soft scrubs, thermos in hand, calm as a low tide.
Zen: Evening.
Solan: You on call?
Zen: They’re stable for now. I was nearby.
He moved to the floor, sitting cross-legged by the coffee table. No cushion, no fuss. He poured something herbal-smelling into a small ceramic cup—the kind of object no one else had time to carry.
Solan: Is that tea?
(Zen nods.)
Solan: Doesn’t that dehydrate you?
Zen: Not this one. I titrated.
Solan (blinking): You titrated tea?
Zen (with a small smile): Anesthesiology habits die hard.
Solan watched them both. One building order. One surrendering to it.
He felt caught in the middle—too restless to pause, too tired to keep optimizing.
I should nap, he thought. Or answer those two consults. Or text Misha back.
He didn’t move.
His body buzzed with loose static. An ache behind the eyes. A tension in his legs like he’d been standing for hours—except he hadn’t. He was sitting still. And it was awful.
Solan: I think I have a stillness allergy.
Zen (gently): A lot of us do.
Solan: It’s not even the quiet. It’s what shows up in it.
Zen didn’t nod. Just held the pause. That was his specialty.
Solan shifted in his chair, trying not to check the time again.
It wasn’t about the seconds ticking—it was the exposure.
Without a task, his thoughts had room to circle:
That unsigned discharge form
The thing he forgot to say to that patient’s daughter
The fight with Misha over dinner last week that still didn’t feel resolved
The familiar shame of wanting more than this and not knowing what “more” was
He looked down at his hands. They were clenched.
Across from him, Zen poured another cup. The small, slow movements were almost frustrating. Like he had time to waste. Like he wasn’t haunted by the question of being useful.
Otto finally paused his typing.
Otto: Stillness is just a different kind of data.
Most people skip it because it’s noisy.
Solan looked at him.
Otto didn’t elaborate. Just picked up his spoon and resumed his cereal, one calculated bite at a time.
Solan exhaled. It wasn’t deep. But it was different.
He didn’t reach for his phone.
Didn’t jump up to fix something.
Didn’t move to outrun the feeling.
He wasn’t still, not really.
But he wasn’t flinching either.
That felt… unfamiliar.
And unfamiliar was a start.
🌱 Always moving—but not sure why?
This week’s Soul Kit might help.
I Don’t Know How to Be Still
Not a technique. Not a trick. Just one quiet minute to notice what rises when the noise fades.
Want to keep going?
One email a week with the latest story and Soul Kit.