G.E.

My unpredictable work schedule leaves me with an empty morning but I still manage to wake up a little before 8 am. I immediately grab my headphones and see what podcasts are new this morning. I start my day listening to the tale of how much Robert E. Lee sucked. It's part 1 of a series. I get up and start my coffee before my dog stirs. A few minutes later he pads over to the back door and I let him out to do his business. He's a medium-sized scruffy-looking mutt and he will spend the entire day following me from room to room, curling up on the couch or my bed depending on their proximity.

Around 9 I have a quick call with the boss from my admin-style job. He has a short list of invoices he’d like me to send and I remind him again about the information I need from him to finish a project he requested. I’ve been following up for weeks now. He promises I’ll have it tomorrow. Or maybe Thursday. I’ll follow up again next week.

I sit at my desk to draft the invoices, and my dog takes me sitting at my workspace as an invitation to bark and stare at me longingly. I have no idea where this Pavlovian response was born, but somehow whenever I sit at this desk, he thinks it’s playtime. I grab a handful of kibble from his bowl and toss it away from me for him to chase so he'll wear himself out and let me do some work. Upon reflection, this action may be where the Pavlovian response was born.

After finishing up some emails, the rest of pre-in-person-work time can be dedicated to my projects. These, as of last week, are largely centered around antique sewing machines. I'm trying to make a 60s-era machine that I picked up from a thrift store run properly. I don’t know what I’m doing, so I watch some more YouTube videos about machine oiling and continue to search scans of vintage machine manuals for something that resembles the brandless machine before me. So far, no luck.

I take a break to make "chickpea cookie dough." I saw the recipe a few days ago on Instagram and it has haunted me ever since. I have no idea if it will taste like actual cookie dough or some sugary hummus dotted with chocolate chips. Improbably, it all comes together and somehow tastes closer to dessert than dip. I’m satisfied, and grateful that I’ll have a treat waiting for me after what could be a difficult afternoon.

Around 1 pm I rush my dog outside and hurry him back in before driving over to the hospital. Thank God the main parking lot is open and I don’t have to make the hike to my building from overflow parking.

Almost as soon as I get to the main meeting room, I’m sat down and a man grips my arm, leaving unconvincing yellow bruises in the wake of his touch. He layers in some dark green and blends in a dot of brownish maroon. I hold up my arm to the room and my colleagues nod their approval. The consensus is that my paleness is great for bruise visibility. My boss asks if anyone is interested in learning how to bruise eyes. I am not interested. It's not that I’m against giving people bruises, and I’ll do it if I have to, but I don’t want to be blamed for anyone looking terrible. Someone else volunteers for the honor of brusier.

Eventually, a fresh bruise is placed across my temple and I’m part of the first wave of women to speak to someone about the abuse I’m suffering at home. When the medical student enters to talk to me, I’m quiet and avoid his eyes. Quickly, too quickly, he says the bruises I have make him think I may be suffering physical abuse. He invites me to talk about what I'm going through at home. It's a kind invitation, but too broad for me. I say “okay” but give nothing else. It’s maybe the third question he’s asked me since we met. He gets no free information from me. He's got to work harder, ask more direct questions. He later asks if I’ve ever tried to leave my partner. I say no, but I forget that I’m also supposed to tell him that I could go stay with family out of state. I make a note of it when I write about our encounter.

I thought spending an afternoon covered in bruises on Valentine's Day would give me some wild stories, but it is a job. The bruises are makeup known as moulage. They make special compacts called “bruise wheels” in different shades to match skin tones. In real life, I don’t have a partner and fortunately, I have no first-hand experience being in an abusive relationship. Today, my coworkers and I are helping train future doctors on how to help someone who is experiencing domestic abuse. The students know that we’re actors. After some time with us in the room and some time writing up a note about our exam, we’ll talk for a few minutes out of character. I’ll give them some comments about things they did well and something they can improve.

After my last student, my boss takes me up to an empty classroom. The classroom he was aiming for is occupied by support services, staffed to be on hand in case any students have a strong reaction to the abuse case material. So far it doesn’t seem like anyone has needed her, but it’s good that she’s around just in case. We find a different empty classroom I set up my laptop. I jump into a Zoom room, preparing to talk to a different group of future doctors about my new infant. Usually, I would do this from home but the timing of the day leads me to pretend this classroom is the cozy home I share with my “husband” and “child” and our cat (who is named in the case, but hardly anyone bothers to ask about him).

I speak to four students at once, a multiheaded-cyber-doctor. I don’t know which Zoom window to look at next, but it doesn’t matter anyway because…well, it’s Zoom, and try to just look into my camera so they can see my exhaustion and anxiety. One of the students has her own baby on her lap, and I have a rare moment in this job of feeling like a true fraud. I don’t have a baby. I don't know anything about babies. She should be playing the patient. She would be better at making up answers on the spot to unscripted questions about baby things. Her exhaustion and anxiety are earned.

The Zoom class ends and I head home. It’s dark now, but my dog is wound up from being home alone so I throw the ball for him to chase in our small yard. He would do this for hours but I do not have his energy or the energy to find a way to constantly catch him and pry the tennis ball from his surprisingly strong jaws.

As I start dinner I pop on a podcast. The hosts are recapping a horror movie I've never heard of and would never watch. I nearly forget my “healthy” cookie dough. The day wasn’t nearly as emotionally impactful as it could have been and I don’t feel the pull to eat my feelings. Tomorrow will be a full day of the abuse case, so maybe I’ll be traumatized then. Probably not, though. It's just work, and it's weirdly kind of fun.

G.E. are the code initials for a standardized patient working at multiple medical schools in the Philadelphia area. When not in a hospital, she can be found singing around the city, picking up new crafting hobbies, and playing fetch with her dog.