It was a crazy night. At 07:59, I'm still trying to get out of there.
Cardiothoracic surgeon walks by and spots me, wearing the same harried look as 13.5 hours prior.
"Oh my God, you're still here? This must have been a bad night after I left," he says.
Yes, I agree. It was. "And by the way, I'm sorry about that cluster of a transfer Doc B dumped on you."
His reply? "Ah, it wasn't your fault. You can't help the fact that numb nuts over at Hospital B probably can't even tie his shoelaces without someone holding his hand, and he still probably gets it wrong. We must rise above our distress though, and carry on*."
*Dare I say it? Did I make a surgeon friend? This one is normally grouchy. Maybe I'm just not used to the grouch being directed elsewhere; this is quite a new position for me.