I had to cross a wing of the medical center multiple times today. It seemed unusually calm.

The reason why it seemed “unusually” calm is because the housestaff are currently unusually anxious. The interns have completed their first week as newly minted doctors and we are all hearing about their trials, tribulations, and tears.

July is a rough month for interns. Residents and attendings, at their worst, are pushing the interns around because they can. The interns just don’t know any better—and it is unkind to exploit their ignorance. Not only must unfortunate interns deal with the haranguing of seniors, but they must also simultaneously take care of patients while learning how to manage The System.

As an intern, it took me nearly two weeks to feel comfortable navigating my way around the hospital. Then there are the rest of the details: Where are the charts? Where can I find more paper to write orders? Where are the bathrooms on this floor? Where is the clean utility room on this ward? What’s the phone number for inpatient pharmacy? What are the hours of the cafeteria? What is the code to the call room again?

And you want me to tell the patient’s family that her chances of surviving the procedure are very low?

Indeed, the hospital seemed unusually calm.

I clearly heard my footfalls on the tiled floor and, as I passed each room, I glanced inside to capture snapshots in time.

A man with glasses was reading a newspaper. He was leaning forward in his seat; each elbow was resting on each respective knee. He was wearing shorts and a white shirt. He didn’t look up when I walked past; he was clearly engrossed in the newsprint. Next to his chair was the hospital bed and tucked inside was a woman with dark hair and closed eyes. Her tresses splayed out against the pillow and her tired hands, fingers relaxed, sat atop her lap.

A young man was sitting up in his bed. He looked tired, but he was smiling. His thick hair was unkempt and sticking out in different places. The hospital gown was clearly too large for his lanky frame; his collarbones jutted forward from his body like cabinet handles. His mom—I guess it was his mom—was sitting next to his bed. Her back was to me. She was leaning forward and talking to him. He laughed quietly as I passed by.

In one doorway, all I saw were a pair of feet with pasty white skin and the occasional blue vein resting on a hospital bed. At the foot of the bed was a bag of urine glowing bright yellow, almost like antifreeze. A frumpy white blanket was hastily stuffed to one side of the bed.

An older man was sitting in a chair, reading a dusty paperback book. There were a few stains on his hospital gown—remnants of lunch, I suppose. His right neck, coated with a translucent bandage, reflected the fluorescent lights overhead; from this bandage sprouted a clear stem that blossomed into several bags of clear fluid hanging from a chrome IV pole.

Two nurses, hair tied back and mascara on their eyes, spoke in hushed, unrushed tones to each other near the vending machines.

A woman slowly propelled herself down the hallway in her wheelchair, her head cocked to one side—not by choice, but by pathology. We looked at each other as we passed; she looked away first, her facial expression unchanged.

A burly man with glasses and dressed in blue scrubs was talking loudly with a patient; he was offering a wry response to what the patient—who was reclining on a gurney, leg elevated—had said moments ago. Something about the burly man made me think that he was a orthopedic surgery resident. We also looked at each other as I walked past; I looked away first.

I had set a goal of writing 40 posts about relationships in 40 days. July 1st is the 40th day. This is the 27th post. Clearly, I will not reach my overly ambitious goal—and, furthermore, many of these posts drifted from the original intention.

Everyone in the hospital was waiting. They were all passing the time.

Sometimes, the moments slip by unnoticed. Sometimes, we ignore them with hopes that they will pass sooner.