I stared at my phone for three full minutes before I realized my mother wasn’t going to reply. Not even a heart emoji. Not even okay.
Just nothing. My 32nd birthday had come and gone six days ago, and I’d spent it exactly how I’d spent the last four birthdays: alone in my apartment with takeout and a documentary about the opioid crisis. Professional research, I’d told myself.
But really, it was just easier than hoping someone would remember. I’m Naomi Chen, and I’m an ER nurse at Toronto General Hospital. I’ve been doing this for seven years now.
Seven years of 12-hour shifts, of holding hands while people took their last breaths, of running codes at 3:00 in the morning, of coming home smelling like antiseptic and exhaustion. Seven years of my family asking when I was going to do something more with my life. My older sister, Victoria, is a cardiac surgeon.
My younger brother Marcus is in his residency for neurosurgery. My parents are both physicians. Dad’s an orthopedic surgeon.
Mom’s an anesthesiologist. At family dinners, they talk about complex procedures and medical journals and research grants. And then they turn to me and ask if I’m still doing the bedside thing.
“Just a nurse,” my mother had said last Thanksgiving, not even bothering to lower her voice. “All that potential, and she chose to empty bed pans.”
I don’t empty bed pans. I assess patients, start IVs, administer medications, catch deadly mistakes before they happen, advocate for people who can’t speak for themselves.
Last month, I noticed a subtle change in a patient’s pupils that everyone else had missed. Turned out to be a brain bleed. I saved his life by trusting my gut and pushing for a CT scan when the resident dismissed my concerns.
But try explaining that at a family dinner where Victoria is talking about her latest valve replacement surgery. My phone buzzed finally. But it wasn’t Mom responding to my birthday message from six days ago.
It was a group text. Victoria: Family dinner this Saturday at 7. Canoe restaurant.
I have big news to share. Everyone must come. Mom replied within seconds.
Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetie. Dad: Proud of you, Victoria. See you there.
Marcus: Congrats, Vic. Whatever it is, you deserve it. I waited.
Watched the three dots appear and disappear as people typed. Waited for someone to acknowledge that they’d all ignored my birthday. That Mom had finally seen my message from six days ago and maybe, just maybe, felt bad about it.
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