My mom, Dawn Roth’s, day begins around 5 pm in the afternoon. She wakes up from her nap, in hopes of being prepared for the night shift ahead. She begins to get dressed after finishing showering and cleaning up; she slips on her navy-blue scrubs that match her piercing blue eyes and attempts to tame her dark brown, curly, permed hair enough to get it into a ponytail for her shift. Once she’s ready and has grabbed everything she needs, which includes anything from her favorite black water bottle to her stethoscope, she heads out to her car and is on the way to the hospital by 6:15 pm.

She has to be early to everything, so when she arrives at the hospital at 6:45 pm, it’s no surprise. Quickly, she gathers all her miscellaneous stuff from the car and hurries inside, clocking into her 12-hour night shift. Her shifts normally seemed to be calm, just the “normal” patients, but sometimes the whole ER gets turned on its head in an instance. A car crash victim had come through the doors one night, causing quite a commotion. Dawn immediately ran over and began compressions in an attempt to save this individual’s life. “The ER is like a river,” my mother would say, “calm and flowing, but you never know what rapids could be around the next bend ahead.” The “quiet” hours within her shift were normally from 3-5 am, when most of the nearby areas are sleeping.

During her shift, communication can vary from silent smiles as she walks past a doctor, lulled whispers to coworkers, common talk to patients, loud yelling from patients, and blaring code alarms signal employees to rush over. The sound of rushed footsteps and concerned talk fills the department as the code sirens continue to sound. Every shift, something seems to happen, from a head wrap victim to a simple laceration on the arm. Dawn has to walk into every shift expecting the worst but wanting the best.