The ED crew exchanges a look. A look that says: We are off the clock. We have not slept. We are wearing compression socks with crocs.
On an ED commuter train, there is an unspoken rule: Do not wake the sleeping nurse. You will see them upright, coffee cup balanced on a knee, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. They are not actually asleep. They are triage-napping —a state where the body rests, but the ears remain tuned for the specific pitch of a cardiac alarm or a violent outburst. If the train conductor makes an announcement that sounds even remotely like a code blue, they will wake up running. Entertainment: Gallows Humor at 70 MPH Because ED professionals deal with the absolute worst of humanity’s physical plant, their entertainment is… specific. You will never hear an ED crew listen to soft jazz or watch romantic comedies on their phones. Instead, the train carriage becomes a live studio for dark comedy.
Look over the shoulder of an ED doctor on the evening train. They aren't scrolling Instagram. They are watching a 15-second video of a fish bone being pulled out of a tonsil, set to Yakety Sax . This is their equivalent of a cat video. The collective snort-laugh that echoes through the carriage usually means someone just watched a Foley catheter get inflated in the wrong spot. molested on train
The reply comes instantly: “Did you chart it?” When the train finally pulls into the home station at 8:15 PM, the ED crew gathers their bags. They look nothing like the heroes on primetime medical dramas. Their hair is flat. Their eyes are heavy. Their conversations are grotesque.
Between 7:00 AM and 9:00 AM, the train is filled with two distinct species of ED staff: The Night Shift (leaving) and The Day Shift (arriving). They pass each other like ghosts. The night crew has the "thousand-yard stare"—the result of having spent eight hours holding a laceration together while a patient screamed about the Wi-Fi. The day crew has the "pre-shift anxiety tremble"—fueled by the knowledge that the night shift left them three critical patients and a missing crash cart. The ED crew exchanges a look
But as they step onto the platform, there is a quiet solidarity. The train gave them 45 minutes of laughter, dark jokes, and silent commiseration. It prepared them to go home, kiss their bewildered spouses, and try to explain why a story about a lawnmower accident made them laugh so hard.
This is the premier ED train game. It requires two or more exhausted clinicians. “Would you rather deal with a weekend drunk who claims he’s the King of England, or a hypochondriac who has Googled ‘exploding head syndrome’?” “The King. At least he stays still for the IV.” The game escalates until someone mentions "rectal foreign body removal," at which point everyone groans and the game ends. We are wearing compression socks with crocs
The 6:17 AM express out of Westhaven doesn’t look like a nightclub. It smells of stale coffee, wet wool, and regret. But to the cluster of people slumped in the rear carriage—wearing hospital scrubs under puffer jackets and sipping energy drinks like wine—it is home base .