The fluorescent, tube style lighting of the pediatric clinic staff pantry hummed a dull, monotonous, vibrating tune. It was a frequency that usually faded into the background of my twelve hour shifts, but today, it felt like a heavy power tool pressing directly into my skull.
I stood motionless by the cold, stainless steel sink. I stared blankly at the expiration date stamped in dark blue ink on a carton of two percent milk resting on the counter. The date read October twelfth. I read it three times, trying to anchor my mind to something tangible because the foundation of my entire reality was currently liquefying beneath my feet.
I was completely exhausted. My lower back throbbed with a familiar ache, and my feet were swollen from pacing the linoleum floors of the ward since six in the morning. In the child seat of the metal grocery cart I had pushed through the supermarket an hour prior, my five year old son, Toby, had been swinging his short legs, happily humming the theme song to a popular animated dog show.
