The Devil Wears Scrubs (Dr. Jane McGill, #1)

by Freida McFadden

My biggest fantasy is stealing her index cards and watching her flounder. Then I get disgusted with myself that stealing index cards has now become my biggest fantasy.

Because they’re books. How can you get rid of a book? That’s like throwing away knowledge.

Aside from my clothes, the only other thing that’s mine is Jack. He’s my skeleton. Because you definitely can’t be a doctor without a three-foot-tall skeleton in your room. Also, right now, Jack is the closest thing I’ve got to a boyfriend. If it gets any more serious, I may have to introduce him to my mother.

Makes me cringe that she named it Jack

Seriously, I am one minute late. Get over it, Alyssa.

“Good for you!” Mrs. Coughlin says. “Are you still in training then?” “Yes,” I admit. “And how long do you have left?” “Three years,” I say. Minus one day. “How wonderful,” Mrs. Coughlin says. “That will give you plenty of time to find a husband!”

I strongly suspect that these sandwiches are older than my medical school diploma, but I’m too hungry to care.

I hate tofu—really hate it. There’s nothing intrinsically bad about it, but I just feel like I’ve been fooled by it too many times. There’s nothing worse than thinking you’re eating a piece of chicken and mid-chew realizing that it’s actually tofu.

If there’s ever a seat available, there exists a very clear hierarchy of who may sit. First, the attending gets to sit. Then if there’s another seat, the senior resident can sit. Then if there’s another seat, someone can put their purse there. Then if there’s another seat, a homeless drug addict who wandered into the building can sit there. But after the attending, the resident, the purse, and the homeless guy are all settled, any available seats are all mine.

Westin’s “My” Scale is renowned hospital-wide: One My: Patient is mildly ill, likely discharge in next day or two Two My’s: Moderate illness. Patient probably needs some sort of invasive testing. Three My’s: Severe illness. Possibly close to ICU level of care. Intubation is imminent. Four My’s: Call the coroner.

Illness is a treacherous dragon, breathing fire on innocent patients, and as a physician, I want to be the shining knight who battles that dragon and saves my patients’ lives.)

Emesis: Puke Epistaxis: Nosebleed Stool: Poop Dyschezia: Hurts to poop Hematochezia: Blood in poop

As part of my overnight call, I’m cross-covering the whole hospital. That means that if there’s any problem with any patient in the hospital, I’m the gal who’s supposed to solve it. It’s kind of cool. And by “cool,” I obviously mean it’s completely terrifying and I want to curl up in a corner and hide under a big pile of coats.

oldest computer in the history of the world. Before our modern-day computers, people used calculators, and before that they used slide rules, and before that they used the abacus, and before that, they probably used this computer right here.

I would pay a thousand dollars if I could go to sleep right now. Well, actually I wouldn’t, since I don’t have a thousand dollars. How about this—I’d give up a kidney if I could go to sleep right now.

would give anything if I could just not have to get out of this chair. I’d even give up, like, my spleen.” Pssh, just a spleen? Kidneys are way more important than spleens. She’s clearly not as tired as I am.

feel like 4 a.m. to 5 a.m. is that weird time that stands at the junction between when it’s appropriate to go to sleep and when it’s appropriate to wake up.

“Jane!” Her eyes widen in anger. “You are not allowed to leave the hospital while on call. That is totally inappropriate!” Then how the hell am I supposed to get sticky notes?

Today will be different. Today I will not make any mistakes. I have my sticky notes. I will not give Alyssa any cause to yell at me. I will be the best intern who ever was. Ha.

Then she adds, “You look just like my granddaughter.” I pull off my stethoscope and stare at her. Mrs. Jefferson has charcoal-black skin, while I’m as pasty pale as a gallon of milk. “Well,” she amends. “She’s black, of course. But other than that, you two could be twins.” Okay then.

medicine, there is something known as the ROAD specialties, which is an acronym for the four specialties that have the best reimbursement to hours ratio. Basically, great lifestyle with lots of money. ROAD stands for: Radiology Ophthalmology Anesthesiology Dermatology

Although what I really want to say is: Your name is Thomas Jefferson! How did your parents give you that name? Are you aware of how funny this is? I mean, I feel like he should at least acknowledge that, yes, he has the same name as our third president, and yes, it’s weird. He should volunteer that information upon meeting any new person. Because obviously it’s all we’re going to be able to think about.

Right now, I’m just having a lot of trouble believing that something making me so suffocatingly miserable was really the right decision.

“Doing a guaiac”: Stick your finger in the patient’s rectum so you get some poop on your finger, smear the poop on a special card, and see if it changes color when you put a special solution on it, which would indicate the presence of blood.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then, June,” Dr. Westin says. “You look like you’re in the middle of something important.” No, I just have crap smeared all over my finger.

I don’t want to tell Alyssa how I feel. I just want to throw something at her.

Hey, maybe I should just carry the attending on my shoulders during rounds. Would that be okay, Alyssa? And if you’re so gung-ho on never letting the attending stand, why didn’t you go look up the medications?

have literally checked every orifice of Mrs. Rogers’s body and I can’t identify where that smell is coming from. And it’s not going away. If anything, the smell is growing in intensity. It seems like a distinct possibility that in another 24 hours, the whole hospital will smell like Mrs. Rogers. In 48 hours, the entire city. In 72 hours, the entire world. And only I, Jane McGill, slightly incompetent medicine intern, have the power to stop it.

The lettering in the sign “Nursing Home” is worn away at the edge, so that it just says “Nursing Ho.” Nursing Ho. Heh.

Has anyone ever published a case report about an atypical case of horrible, mutant BO?

“We should have a pillow fight,” she says. “A what?” I must have heard wrong. “A pillow fight!” Nina whacks me in the shoulder with a pillow and I shield myself. “Come on, it will be fun.” “I’m sorry, but no,” I say. “I think that we are at the age where the only place it would be appropriate to have a pillow fight would be in pornography.”

I’ve heard that motorcycle riders have lobbied against helmet laws, saying it’s a violation of their rights. What I don’t understand is why wouldn’t you want to wear a helmet if you were on a motorcycle? What excuse could you possibly have? It’s uncomfortable? It makes you look uncool?

“And I promise you, she will go home.” Thomas Jefferson looks skeptical. “I promise you,” I say again.

Don't make promises you can't keep 🤷🏻‍♀️

I wince. I promised him less than 24 hours ago that his wife would be fine. Now I can see them preparing to intubate her. She’s so far from fine, it’s not even funny.

Ugh of all the medical shows I've watched and training I've had this is probably the thing that is so frustrating and drilled into me: don't make promises you can't keep