I somehow always ended up on the top bunk. Although I rarely had problems falling asleep, I only succumbed to slumber after spending a few moments ensuring that I was laying flat on my back (to prevent myself from rolling off the railing-less bed and crashing into the tiled floor), planting reminders into my brain to refrain from bolting upright if my pager went off (to prevent myself from slamming my head into the concrete ceiling), and selecting the quietest volume and least annoying tone on my pager (to minimize the chances of waking the other medical students).

The room was simply furnished with three bunk beds. Some women tossed their backpacks onto the beds in the early evening to claim possession of a lower bunk, though we all universally agreed that this was unkind. What if she never returned to the call room for the duration of the night? What if she only slept an hour? Couldn’t we be egalitarians about this?

No, we couldn’t—since the pre-claimers never used the same bag and thus, we had no idea who they were. And it was considered poor form to hover over people who were sleeping and breathe heavily into their faces while trying to recognize any identifying features. While possibly murmuring, “I’m watching you… I’m watching you….”

Rude women would throw open the door to the call room, hastily flip on the light switch and flood the entire room with harsh, fluorescent light (another reason why the top bunks were suboptimal locations), and groan or make other utterances (including unmuffled expletives) while scanning the room for an open bed. They would eventually turn off the light (frequently after the other women in the room mumbled irritably about the light, the time, or the noise) before stumbling onto the flimsy mattress. They invariably were heavy sleepers, which meant that everyone else in the room would hear their pagers—set on the most screeching of tones that shredded eardrums—before they did. Instead of returning the page at the deserted nurses’ station in the hallway, they would call from the telephone in the room, making little to no effort to hush their voices.

“A 67 year-old woman with what? Wait, what? Altered mental status? What is her name? Can you speak louder? There’s a lot of noise in the background. Uh huh—wait, what?”

The five remaining women shared a collective sigh after they left the room—once they slammed the door shut.

Most of us, though, were considerate in sharing the call room. Armed with our pen lights that had earlier peered into sore throats, gaping wounds, and bloodshot eyes, we used them as tiny flashlights after opening the door as little as possible to allow ourselves to slip inside. After locating an empty bed (usually a top bunk), we channeled feline spirits to help us to climb quietly and quickly into the waiting bed. (My efforts were usually unsuccessful; the bed creaked as I scrambled along the post and if my eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness, I often was unsure where my foot was going to land. There were a few occasions that I clonked my head against the ceiling in my enthusiasm of finally laying down to rest, though I tried to say “OW!” as quietly as possible.) Our pagers hadn’t even sounded for two seconds before we silenced them with a heavy hand—and I’m surprised none of us ever fell out of bed due to disorientation or miscalculation of distance. Our escapes were quick and quiet.

As residents, we now are graced with individual call rooms (usually), though the walls are thin. This means I no longer need to stifle my laughter when I hear the irritation and clumsiness next door that we have all undoubtedly experienced:

(pager goes off)

(loud groaning and incoherent bursts of whining)

(bed creaking)

(click!)

(interrupted mumbling)

(more loud groaning and whining, now more articulate)

(heavy, schleppy footfalls)

(door opens)

(door closes)

(footfalls fade away)

(lather, rinse, and repeat)

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)

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