By Faith Ellestad

 I am standing at my dresser with six socks in my hand, trying to decide which degrees of blackness make up the best pair. On closer inspection, I decide one is probably navy blue, and stuff it back into the sock drawer.  OK. I think I’ve got a match until I notice that one of the very blackest socks is about 2 inches longer than the other.  It must be from one of those extra-long pairs I bought, thinking they wouldn’t pinch my toes, but in fact, bunch up in my shoes.  Time is marching on. I have already spent 15 minutes angsting over the color of my footwear, and am still dressed only in a towel, getting later and later for work. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I can wear boots and no one will have any idea what color my socks are. Picking up the pace, I fling on my outfit of the day (sweater, plaid slacks, boots), and head out.  I am expected to be there on time, all the time.  It’s important.  I am the department scheduler.  All assignments lead, ultimately, to me. I should really have a backup for such emergencies as this.

Arriving at the hospital, my intent is to hide out in my office and accomplish all the projects I didn’t finish yesterday. Immediately upon opening my door, I detect a flashing message light on my phone. I’d better check voicemail before I start anything else.  It’s a sick call. I’ll need to fill out a form.  Crap, I’m almost out of sick slips.  I really should order more before I forget. Of course, I can’t remember where in my computer files I stored the order forms so I start a search.  Perusing my folders, I find all sorts of outdated documents and begin deleting. Eventually, I stumble across the order requests and fill one out. While I’m at it, I should probably order supplies of the other forms I use.  There’s no telling if I will remember where to find them next time, so I complete and print out three more requests.  Normally, I would ask a student to deliver these to the mailroom, but there are no students today. It’s exam week and they are all off studying, so I take the forms down myself.

 Back at my desk, I decide to check my email. Fourteen since yesterday, some time-sensitive, some not, two junk. Delete. Delete. I wish the computer guys would fix the junk filters.  I answer the ones with immediate need, then  “mark as unread” the rest so I won’t completely forget about them.  Phone message light is flashing again.  Am I ready with tomorrow’s Operating Room assignment list? Honestly, how could I be?  I’ve been extremely busy. I’ll get it ready now. Except I’m very hungry.  All that sock business this morning took up valuable breakfast time. Luckily, on my way out, I stashed a piece of raisin bread in my purse to eat during break.  But what is a break for, if not coffee?  I trudge down several corridors to access the machine. 

Finally, mission accomplished, I head back to my office to prepare the personnel list for tomorrow’s OR schedule.  Almost instantly, someone appears in my doorway with an urgent need, requiring an adjustment to the assignments for Friday.  I remove him from the available staff list, and fill out a sick slip from my rapidly dwindling supply, knowing we will be short-staffed in the OR come tomorrow.  But if you need a root canal, you need one, and frankly, I would not want anyone in that type of pain performing a medical procedure on me.  I’m sure the OR director will understand why I didn’t consult him before approving this request. Executive decision by me.  I take a moment to bemoan the sad fact that I am not paid an executive salary, and to congratulate myself on my timely reorder of sick call slips.

Time ticking away. I have made no dent in yesterday’s unfinished business, and am building up new chores by the minute.  Another presence looms in the doorway.  She needs an early out tomorrow to attend a meeting she forgot to mention last week.  Oh, and two other faculty will need to be relieved for the same meeting. She sits down in my extra chair. “Oh please,” I pray silently, “don’t tell me the story of your life again right this minute.  I am so busy.” Prayer goes unheard. At least her tale is only 20 minutes long this time.  My, this day has taken a downward turn, and not just for me.  Imagine the OR director discovering he’ll have to deal with all this tomorrow.  At least he gets well paid for it, I snark silently, as I head down to the cafeteria to buy lunch on my hourly salary. I bring the plastic shell of pasta salad back to my desk to eat while I work. Pasta salad is cheap and can be inhaled quickly when I am feeling pressed for time. I eat a lot of pasta salad.

Assignment schedule completed on paper and delivered to the Operating Room director, I begin to enter it into our new database program.  But something is not right.  Many names are not showing up. The schedule should have been published on-line long before this.  My call to the IT guy goes to voicemail.  He will be back from Canada next week.  Great.  No help there. Sadly, I will have to enter everything by hand and publish it the old way. Another precious hour of my day unexpectedly co-opted by technical failure.

 I know a barrage of calls is forthcoming from people who can’t figure out what they are doing tomorrow because THE SCHEDULE IS NOT ONLINE. They will just have to go to voicemail. I am already too busy to listen to whining, even my own. Overtaken by a sense of urgency, I type, copy and deliver paper schedules around the entire hospital, including the many people who request them each day, but often don’t even bother to glance at them. Irritating, but at least this futile exercise will allow me stretch my legs.  Maybe I’ll even run into someone who would enjoy sharing a complaint or two. I’ll make time for that.  Yep, there’s Amy. And Mel.  Especially Mel.  Another 15 minutes gone.  Therapeutic, though. 

Refreshed, I return to my office, prepared, finally, to tackle yesterday’s backlog.  Right after I check my voicemail. And my email.  And restock my absence slips. 

Wow, it’s 4:30!  Where did the day go?  I guess the in-basket will still be there in the morning. Maybe if I just wear sandals tomorrow, I can get an earlier start.

© 2026 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents.  Now retired, she has taken the opportunity to sort through family memorabilia, discovering a wellspring of tales begging to be told, which she hopes to expand upon in written form (where appropriate, of course!).   She and her husband live in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law, and recently expanded their family to include Thistle and Bramble, two irrepressible young felines.