Doctor Life: Things That Happen Only in Our World

“You Know You’re a Doctor When… (A Day That Writes Itself)”

There’s a unique rhythm to a doctor’s day. Not the rhythmic pulse you check on patients — but the wild beat of caffeine, chaos, clinical notes, and absurdly timed meals. This isn’t about burnout or heroism. It’s about the little things that make doctors say, “Yep, this is my life now.”
Here’s a scroll-through-the-mind of every working doctor, written with a wink, a nod, and maybe a groan of solidarity.

1. You think six-hour-old coffee is still “pretty fresh.”
You’ve reheated it three times. The paper cup is holding on by hope and your cortisol levels. But it’s coffee, and it’s yours.

2. You’ve eaten a full meal in under four minutes while standing.
Not because you’re in a rush — it’s just instinct now. If you sit, someone will need you. If you chew too slowly, someone will page you.

3. You know which vein is a crowd-pleaser.
You barely glance at the forearm before you feel it in your soul: this one’s a first-stick success story.

4. You respond to alarms in public like a soldier trained for combat.
Car horn? Fire drill? Elevator bell? Your body stiffens. Your thumb twitches. Where’s the code cart?

5. You’ve said “breathe normally” to someone who clearly isn’t.
Because apparently, it’s that easy. They're hyperventilating and you offer... vague encouragement.

6. You can tell which colleague just finished a 28-hour shift by how they blink.
No need for conversation. The slow nod and blank stare say it all. They’ve seen things.

7. You have three pens in your pocket and still can’t find one.
You bought a pack of 20 last week. They now live somewhere between the hospital walls and the void.

8. You’ve accidentally signed an order with your grocery list brain.
“Ceftriaxone 1g IV daily” — wait, were you writing that or thinking about eggs and laundry detergent?

9. You’ve given medical advice while holding a plate at a wedding buffet.
You’re in formalwear, holding a mini quiche, and someone starts describing their intermittent foot numbness. You nod. You diagnose. You accept your fate.

10. You know someone’s faking sleep on call just by their breathing pattern.
Doctors can detect a fake nap from three beds away. We trained for this. We’ve seen things.

11. You can recite a full case presentation while peeling off a banana.
Nutrition, hand-eye coordination, and multitasking — it’s an outpatient symphony.

12. You’ve had full conversations in acronyms.
“SOB with HTN, hx of CKD, stable on ACE. Labs WNL.”
Your brain is practically Microsoft Excel.

13. You’ve answered your personal phone with “This is Dr. [Last Name]” — to your mom.
And she still calls you your baby nickname in return.

14. You use “stat” when ordering dinner.
You told your friend you needed sushi “stat” and didn’t even flinch. They flinched. You didn’t.

15. You’ve diagnosed someone based on how they sneeze.
Allergic? Viral? Psychosomatic stress response? You’re not judging. You’re just… processing.

16. You’ve re-used a surgical mask for emotional support.
Not for protection. For comfort. You can’t explain it, but that crease in the fabric knows things.

17. You don’t trust silence in a hospital.
When it's quiet, something terrible is loading. You don’t say it aloud. You just knock on wood and hover near the nearest monitor.

18. You know the difference between a “good tired” and a “bad tired.”
“Good tired” means you made a difference. “Bad tired” means you still have five hours left and haven’t peed since sunrise.

19. You’ve eaten a candy left in your white coat pocket with no memory of putting it there.
Was it from a patient? From Halloween? Last month? Doesn’t matter. You ate it.

20. You refer to naps in units of imaging.
“Oh I got a CT-scan length nap today.”
(Translation: 5-7 minutes, under fluorescent lights.)

21. You hear beeps in your dreams.
The pulse ox rhythm has invaded your subconscious. One off-beat tone and you wake up panicked, even at home.

22. You’ve written a discharge note longer than some novels.
The patient was here for three days. The summary reads like War and Peace. Plot twists included.

23. You can write legibly but choose not to.
You used to have good handwriting. Now it's a kinetic art form, unreadable even to your future self.

24. You look at people’s arms and unconsciously rate their IV access.
You’re at a party. Someone gestures. You stare at their median cubital vein and think: “10/10. Textbook.”

25. You’ve been mistaken for every role except the doctor.
You walk in wearing a stethoscope and get asked to fix the AC or clean up a spill. Happens daily.

26. You’ve re-used gloves to carry a sandwich.
When you’re desperate, gloves become grocery bags, hair ties, or water balloons. Don’t judge. Innovate.

27. You can detect which patient is crashing just by how the room feels.
No need to check monitors. You just know. Your gut is smarter than telemetry.

28. You’ve written notes while half asleep and later found phrases like “lungs clear, soul cloudy.”
Somewhere between documentation and poetry. You didn’t mean it, but it’s not wrong.

29. You’ve been paged while in the bathroom and answered anyway.
You’ve perfected the “quiet voice” to hide the echo. You just hope no one flushes in the background.

30. You’ve said “I’ll be right back” and didn’t return for four hours.
You meant it. Then someone coded, someone crashed, someone needed to be transferred, and you forgot your own name.