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Beyond The Nursing Scrubs
The true weight of scrubs
I used to see my scrubs as a uniform, a barrier between me and the outside world. They were functional, comfortable, and easily washable, acting as a sort of shield. But one day I realized they were carrying much more than that.
It started off as a regular shift. The hospital buzz, the soft squeak of sneakers against tile, and the usual flurry of morning tasks. Mrs. Thompson, an elderly woman admitted for what was initially thought to be a minor infection, was the patient I was most concerned about. She reminded me of my grandmother: sharp-tongued but with a soft heart.
When I walked into her room that morning, she was gasping for air. Her lips had a blue tint, and her eyes were wide with fear. When I called for help, the next few minutes were a blur of oxygen masks, repositioning, and IV lines.
She stabilized, but only barely. I lingered by her side longer than I should have, holding her hand and whispering reassurances.
"You are not going anywhere, Mrs. Thompson," I said. "We’ve got you."
She gave me a small nod and squeezed my hand.
That moment would stick with me all day.
Later, as I sat in the break room, eating half a granola bar and scrolling aimlessly on my phone, I…
