High school trauma is meant to have an expiration date, a tacit understanding that the ghosts of the corridors cease to exist as you walk across the stage in a polyester gown. However, for others of us, the pain simply goes into hibernation rather than disappearing. I’m Lena, a forty-one-year-old nurse who has spent sixteen years perfecting the poker face in the high-stakes setting of a medical-surgical ward. I’ve dealt with aggressive patients, bereaved families, and marathon-like double shifts. However, nothing had prepared me for the moment I glanced at the Room 304 chart and saw Margaret’s name, which used to make my stomach turn.
Margaret was the unchallenged queen of the social order twenty-five years ago. While I was the “scholarship kid” dressed in thrift shop sweaters whose mother cleaned the very homes Margaret spent her weekends in, she had the kind of effortless, expensive beauty that served as armor. She specifically targeted me rather than just ignoring me. She was the creator of the moniker “Library Lena,” the one who tipped my lunch tray onto the ground as her group of friends giggled and talked about the stench of my “old” clothes. I shrunk throughout my adolescence in an attempt to hide from the predator.
As I entered that room at 7:12 a.m., I hoped that her recollection of me had been obscured by 25 years of existence. Her caustic, cutting tone had not changed as she grew older, with reading spectacles perched on her nose and thin creases around her eyes. She didn’t even look up from her phone when I presented myself as her nurse; instead, she complained that it had taken “forever” for me to get there. I believed I was safe for the first two days. Beneath my mask of expert clinical care, I robotically checked her IV pumps and kept an eye on her vital signs. However, Margaret’s sixth sense of vulnerability was always present.
The room’s atmosphere changed by the third day. Her gaze burned into the side of my skull as I scanned her morning prescriptions. With a sly, predatory smile on her face, she said, “Wait.” “Am I familiar with you?” I attempted to sidestep the understanding, but it struck her like a bolt of lightning. “Oh my God. You are the one. Lena from the library.
The hospital walls disappeared in a moment, and I found myself back at sixteen, standing in a packed restaurant with milk seeping into my sneakers. Age had not lessened the cruelty in her eyes; rather, it had just become more sophisticated. She started a deliberate psychological warfare campaign. She made fun of my choice of profession, questioning why I hadn’t pursued a career in medicine and mockingly speculating that I “couldn’t afford” medical school. She intruded into my private life, and when I told her that I was a single mother of three, she smugly said that having multiple children “divides one’s attention too much,” suggesting that I was a bad parent.
Bullying at work is a startling problem in the healthcare industry, according to statistics. According to research from the American Nurses Association, between 18% and 31% of nurses report experiencing bullying or “incivility” at work. Usually, it’s “nurses eating their young,” but when a patient starts acting aggressively, the balance of power is drastically distorted. Margaret was only constrained by her own animosity, whereas I was bound by a code of ethics and professional conduct.
She started to get aggressive. When I touched her IV, she would recoil as though I was purposefully being harsh. I was “tugging” her pillows, she complained to the CNAs. She was a picture of grace and suffering when the doctors were present, but the instant the door closed, the mask fell apart. I came to see that she was constructing a case rather than just being cruel. My reputation as a caregiver was the one thing I had spent my entire life building, and she was attempting to ruin it.
The stress reached a breaking point on the day of her discharge. Dr. Stevens, my boss, asked me to personally arrange her release, a request that seemed to carry a lot of hidden consequences. Margaret looked more like a CEO than a patient when I walked into Room 304. She had her bags packed and was wearing a nice silk top. She gave me a chilly look before I could even open the discharge folder. “Lena, you ought to step down right away.”
I was astounded by its audacity. She told me that she had already discussed my “mistreatment” and “unprofessional tone” with the administration. She gave me a direct look and threatened to make things “messy” if I didn’t quietly go. She was gaslighting me with her voice and status, taking advantage of the fact that hospitals nearly always prioritize “patient experience” numbers over personnel. Because I reminded her of a side of herself she didn’t want to face—the mean girl for sport—she wanted me to lose my job.
However, the universe balances the scales in an amusing way. A voice bellowed from the doorway, “That won’t be necessary.”
Margaret froze. Dr. Stevens entered the room, closely followed by her daughter, a younger woman who bore a striking resemblance to Margaret. It turned out that Dr. Stevens had chosen to stand right outside the door to observe the discharge procedure after noticing my obvious concern. Every syllable of her threat had been heard by him. He had witnessed the “Library Lena” mask slip.
There was complete humiliation. Margaret’s daughter blushed deep crimson; she seemed to have a far stronger moral compass than her mother. With a mix of shock and sympathy, she glanced at my name badge before turning to face her mother. “Mom? “Is this the high school girl you told me about?” she muttered. In that instant, the daughter understood that her mother had been deliberately attempting to destroy a woman’s life because of a childhood grudge, rather than merely “venting” about a poor nurse.
Dr. Stevens didn’t hold back. In addition to being baseless, he told Margaret that her actions amounted to harassment of hospital employees. He gave her the option to either drop the allegation and go in peace or deal with the possible legal repercussions of reporting a licensed professional falsely.
The daughter intervened right away, apologizing excessively on her mother’s behalf and escorting Margaret, who was astonished and silent, out of the room. Margaret had no answer for the first time in twenty-five years. She had no audience to support her, no sharp cut, and no smart nickname.
Dr. Stevens lingered for a short while after they departed. He informed me that I had demonstrated excellent professionalism and that, in order to safeguard my record, he would be adding a formal commendation to my file. I finally let go of the breath I felt like I had been holding since 1999 when he departed and I sat down in the empty hospital room.
Margaret hadn’t changed, but I had, I realized as I glanced at the unmade bed. I had changed from being that reserved girl in the library. As a mother, a survivor, and a professional, I was vital to that hospital’s operation. That day, I made the decision to stop shrinking. Margaret ultimately resigned from her role as the antagonist in my novel, despite her attempts to force me to quit. After adjusting my stethoscope and straightening my scrubs, I entered Room 305. I understood exactly what I was worth for the first time in my life, and I had work to do.