Day 2.

The Patient

(scene opens on two nurses, Claudia and Greg. Greg is talking to a thirty-year-old patient with an infected cut, while Claudia finishes entering information.)

GREG: So you should be good to go now.

PATIENT: Okay, thanks. Uh, when do you think it'll be all better?

GREG: Two days. Tops.

(Patient looks reassured)

GREG: Yeah, this is piddles. Nothing. The pus is just your body saying, We can handle this on our own, we don't need a hospital or a nurse named Greg or sterilized gauze; we're on top of this shit. Yeah?

PATIENT: (looks slightly uncomfortable) Yeah.

CLAUDIA: I got a cut infected once, got real bad. Hurts like a mother, doesn't it? You just rest up now.

PATIENT: Yeah. (nods, laughs, gets to feet, walks out)

GREG: Goddammit Claudia you always do this.

CLAUDIA: What? What are you talking about?

GREG: It was a tiny cut. I bet it didn't even hurt him that much. You have to automatically dock at least two numbers from whatever their pain scale answer is. If they actually could experience a ten, it'd be a different story.

CLAUDIA: Only the parents do that, for their kids. Everyone, when they're answering for themselves, tries to balance being tough versus being actually cared for, have you noticed that?

GREG: So the whole, "Oh it doesn't hurt that much, I mean, I can take it" thing, that's the illusion.

CLAUDIA: It's human nature!

GREG: So why indulge it?

CLAUDIA: Because once they know that they're not going to die, they want to know that their pain is understood.

GREG: You're....you're legitimizing their hypochondria!

CLAUDIA: I don't think so.

GREG: Yes you are! Patients should be told what they need to know.

The patient finishes paying at the front desk, looks back, and waves to Claudia, who waves, smiles, and nudges Greg to wave back too.

Greg mutters indistinctly under his breath.