the unit was particularly quiet.

J and L, nurses whose voices usually bounce off the wall and hit my eardrums like some unexpected thunder, are whispering.

i assumed somebody just passed away.

the meds refrigerator is locked.

the supply drawers are locked.

after 8 pm, the doors of all the patients’ rooms are closed.

RNs laugh; but not out loud. nobody’s eating. nobody’s reading to update on who divorced who in hollywood.

everyone’s moves seem robotic.

and the locking of the drawers seem automatic and practiced.

if i didn’t have a patient who was screaming profanity that will put a sailor to shame; or that other patient whose trach needs to be suctioned every 30 minutes, i would have thought i was in the wrong unit.

the darker the night, the silence gets more deafening.

at 9 pm, i can’t take it any longer.

“what’s up with all these weird silence and JCAHO compliance?” i asked the charge nurse.

she shushed me with her look and puckered her lips, pointing to room 8.

the last name on the patient’s room looked familiar, but it didn’t register right away.

i had to take one more look. then it made sense.

the patient in room 8 is our nurse manager’s husband.

oh.

apparently, there is always a child in all of us.

we sign “RN” at the end of our names so we look and feel professional.

the truth is, we were just a bunch of kids. in scrubs.

don’t worry, the cookie jar stays unopened. because someone is looking.