A Day in the Life of a Sleep-Deprived Resident: The Chronicles of a Walking Zombie in Scrubs

A Day in the Life of a Sleep-Deprived Resident: The Chronicles of a Walking Zombie in Scrubs

4:30 AM – The Alarm Clock Betrayal
Somewhere in the depths of my dream—where I was peacefully diagnosing fictional patients and winning the Nobel Prize—my alarm clock goes off. It sounds like an air raid siren. For a moment, I question my entire existence.

• First thought: Is this life? Is this a simulation?
• Second thought: Did I even sleep?
• Third thought: If I close my eyes for two more minutes, will time stop?

Snooze? No time. It’s go-time.

5:00 AM – Commence Zombie Mode
Shower. Scrubs. Coffee. (Emphasis on the coffee.)
I grab my ID badge and throw my stethoscope around my neck, the universal symbol of “I have no idea what I’m doing, but I hope this fools someone.”

• Did I eat? Nope.
• Did I pack lunch? Also no.
• Did I consider quitting medicine? Every single morning.

5:30 AM – The Battle Begins (a.k.a. Pre-Rounds)
As I shuffle into the hospital, I see other residents—eyes glazed over, fueled by caffeine and regret. We nod at each other. Words are unnecessary. The shared trauma is enough.

• My goal: Gather patient updates before the attending rounds.
• My reality: Trying to read progress notes while my brain threatens to shut down like an old laptop.

A nurse stops me:

• Nurse: “Hey, your patient’s potassium is 2.8.”
• Me (brain buffering): “Ah, yes, potassium. The... uh… molecule.”
• Nurse: “Do you want to replete it?”
• Me (internally panicking): “Yes. Yes. Give them… the… potassium… dose.”

I pray they don’t ask me how much because my brain is currently running at 10% battery.

7:00 AM – Attending Rounds (a.k.a. The Ritual of Humiliation)
We all gather like medieval peasants waiting for judgment. The attending arrives, bright-eyed and refreshed—probably because they slept last night. Imagine that.

• The questioning begins.
• I get grilled about a patient’s sodium levels. My mind goes blank.
• I try to summon my medical knowledge, but all I can recall is the theme song to Grey’s Anatomy.

Then comes the ultimate moment of betrayal:

• Attending: “Did you read this patient’s chart?”
• Me: “Yes.”
• Attending: “Then why is your answer completely wrong?”
• Me: “…Sleep deprivation is a known cognitive impairment?”

Everyone chuckles. My soul leaves my body.

9:00 AM – The Hunger Games (a.k.a. Trying to Eat)
I haven’t eaten in 12 hours. The cafeteria calls to me.

• I sprint to grab a granola bar.
• Just as I take my first bite, my pager beeps.
• Code Blue. Room 407.
• Food? Not today, Satan.

10:00 AM – The Chaos Continues
Every patient needs something.

• Room 312: “I need my pain meds.”
• Room 214: “Why hasn’t my discharge happened yet?”
• Room 517: “Doctor, what’s your opinion on ivermectin?”

Meanwhile, I still haven’t peed today.

12:00 PM – Did I Just Blackout?
Somehow, it’s noon. I don’t remember what happened in the last two hours. I check my notes:

• I wrote “Patient stable, improving.”
• Which patient? No idea.

I go to check on Mrs. Johnson in Room 221. Turns out, she was discharged yesterday. I may actually be hallucinating.

2:00 PM – More Pages, More Problems
I get paged every 10 minutes. My soul is leaving my body.

• “Patient’s BP is 88/60.”
• “Your attending wants to see you.”
• “Did you sign the discharge orders?”

At this point, I’m just saying “yes” to everything.

4:00 PM – The Mid-Afternoon Crisis

• I question my life choices.
• I wonder what my non-doctor friends are doing.
• Probably brunch. Probably napping.
• Meanwhile, I’m in a hospital, whispering to myself, It’s fine. Everything is fine.

6:00 PM – More Admissions, More Tears
Right when I think I’m wrapping up, three new admissions arrive.

• One has a 15-page history.
• One is “found down” with no medical records.
• One only speaks a language I don’t understand.

I stare at my screen, hoping my notes magically write themselves.

9:00 PM – The False Hope of Leaving on Time
The shift is supposed to end at 9 PM.

• Spoiler: It won’t.
• I’m still admitting patients.
• I still haven’t peed.
• The nurses start saying, “Wow, you’re still here?”

11:00 PM – The Delirium Phase
At this point, my brain enters “end-stage exhaustion.”

• I laugh at things that aren’t funny.
• I forget how to spell “pneumonia.”
• I document that a patient is “alert and demented.”

12:30 AM – I Can Leave… Maybe
I start packing up when—

• Pager beeps.
• “Your patient in Room 409 has new-onset chest pain.”
• …I was so close.

2:00 AM – Finally, Escape
I drag myself out of the hospital. The air feels different. Freedom? Is that you?

• I drive home in complete silence.
• No music. No radio. Just the sound of my own suffering.

2:30 AM – The Collapse
I get home, lie down, and—

• BRAIN: “Hey, remember that one patient’s potassium?”
• ME: “Shut up.”
• BRAIN: “Also, did you sign the discharge?”
• ME: “PLEASE.”

I pass out mid-thought.

4:30 AM – Repeat.
The alarm rings.
Another day begins.
Is this what war feels like?