Throw Out the Milk

Dr Aurora Iriarte often told junior colleagues that neurology wards fell quiet after midnight. But tonight, she heard ragged breathing near the vending machine, well past two in the morning. As she rounded the corner, she found Dr Adam Walters — a fast-rising Infectious Diseases consultant, usually calm under pressure — crouched on the floor, clutching a 50ml syringe of fentanyl and vecuronium.

Aurora’s pulse kicked up. “Adam,” she murmured, stepping closer. “Trouble with the machine?”

He pressed the plastic barrel to his forehead, tears slipping down his cheeks. “It’s all jammed. The system, me… everything.”

She adopted the brisk, no-nonsense tone of a senior doctor. “You know that dose. It’ll arrest your breathing in under a minute.” Give me the syringe before you kill yourself.

Adam exhaled a brittle laugh, not resisting when she gently pried the syringe away. “I’m done playing hero.”

She tucked the lethal cocktail on a high shelf and hooked an arm under his. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.” You matter too much to give up now.

They slipped into a side treatment room. Adam clung to her, trembling. Outside, staff hurried by, oblivious. Aurora noted his clammy skin, dilated pupils, the stench of despair. He’s another doctor on the edge.

The next morning, Aurora stared at the staff lounge’s sad excuse for coffee. Sleep had been impossible. She opened her phone to a message from Adam:

I owe you. Don’t know if I can stay… Thanks.

She typed, erased, retyped: We’ll get through this. Then she slipped the phone into her coat. A wave of dizziness darkened her vision. She took two paracetamol from her pocket. Just a migraine, she told herself, ignoring the hush of adrenaline still coursing after last night’s near disaster.

That evening, an emergency bleep. “Cardiac arrest, psych ward bathroom!” The overhead system blared. Aurora dashed down the corridor, heart pounding. Nurses crowded around a limp figure. She pushed through and saw Adam’s ashen face, oxygen mask askew.

“V-fib,” Dr Greene called out, voice urgent.

Aurora knelt, placing defib pads with practiced speed. “Clear.” A jolt. No change. Another. On the third shock, Adam jerked awake, gasping. Relief cut through Aurora like a blade. They rushed him to ICU, the staff mobilising in a swirl of brisk commands.

She leaned against the wall, forcing air into her lungs. A savage headache flared behind her eyes. Again, he nearly died. We saved him—but for how long?

Around midnight, Aurora left the ward, ignoring co-workers’ worried glances. The staff car park glistened with puddles. She paused by a battered Fiesta, glimpsing her reflection. Her face looked hollow, the overhead lamp flickering.

A sudden bolt of agony struck behind her right eye. The world spun, phone slipping from her grip. She dropped to her knees, darkness closing in.

She woke to bright sunshine. Not the hospital. A campus courtyard. She stared at her old medical-school ID pinned to a crisp lab coat. Twenty-five years ago.

Across the courtyard stood a younger Aurora Iriarte, second-year med student. Same determined expression, hair pinned tight, hugging an anatomy folder. The older Aurora rushed forward, heart in her throat.

Her younger self stopped, eyes narrowing. “Can I help you?”

The older Aurora forced a direct, doctorly tone. “Listen, I need to warn you about where you’re headed. Neurology… the NHS…” She trailed off, feeling a savage ache in her skull.

The younger woman frowned. “Oh, you’re one of those gloom-and-doom types. Look, I’m ready to do the hours, the bleeps, the short staffing. It’s worth it.”

A frustrated tremor spiked the older Aurora’s voice. “You think it’s just hours? The system devours you: constant rota gaps, bed crises, management nonsense. Colleagues break. Some turn to pills or worse. We bury them quietly.”

The younger Aurora’s jaw set. She sounded less like a student and more like someone clinging to a dream. “So your advice is to give up? Then who’s left to keep the wards running?”

“It’s not giving up,” the older Aurora said, pressing a hand to her temple. “It’s recognising that if the milk in the fridge is rotten, it doesn’t matter how much you paid for it. You have to throw it out.”

The younger Aurora snorted, voice sliding into everyday speech. “Rotten milk? You’re telling me my entire career plan is spoiled? I’ve worked for this since I was ten.”

A swirl of dizziness nearly knocked the older Aurora down. “I nearly died in the corridors. Another doctor tried to kill himself. Is that the future you want?”

The younger woman hesitated. “I’d rather burn out than never try. If you’re really my future, maybe I don’t want to be you.”

Darkness swamped the older Aurora’s vision. She grasped her younger self’s sleeve. “I forgive you for wanting this. But I need you to forgive me for letting it go. You can’t make me stay.”

The courtyard dissolved.

Aurora jolted awake in a hospital bed. Overhead lights glared. Dr Greene hovered, scribbling notes. “You had a subarachnoid bleed. We coiled it. Touch and go, but you’re stable.”

Adam Walters stepped in, looking wiped out. “They nearly lost you,” he murmured, voice thick. “I insisted we try a new approach from the Oxford journals. You saved my life. I… I couldn’t let you go.”

She took in the IV lines, the monitor’s steady beep. Memory of the time-warp hammered her thoughts: Younger me refused to break from the NHS dream.

For the next week, Aurora recovered in the ward. Adam visited daily, silent guilt etched in his features. One afternoon, he sank into a chair, posture tense.

“You reading about the bleeds?” he asked, nodding at a research paper on her lap.

She tapped the page. “Doctors are at the highest risk for mental-health crises. No surprises.”

He swallowed. “So do we keep fighting inside the system or… is that a fool’s errand?”

Aurora closed the folder. “My younger self would call walking away cowardice, but she never saw colleagues break down. She never saw you on the floor with a syringe.”

Adam’s jaw tightened. “We’re taught we can carry anything. It’s a lie. Sometimes, we need to throw out the milk.”

A flicker of weary acceptance crossed Aurora’s face. “Yes. If it’s killing you, walk away. That’s what I’d tell her… even if she hates me for it.”

Discharge day. Dr Greene signed paperwork, reminding Aurora to avoid stress. She nodded, a wry grimace twisting her features. Adam escorted her to the hospital entrance, drizzle slanting through grey skies.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You heading back to Neurology soon?”

Aurora stared at the sliding doors, remembering the meltdown in the car park, the swirling confrontation with her younger self. “I don’t know. Maybe not. I don’t owe the NHS my life.”

Adam swallowed. “Yeah… I might stay a bit, see if I can help from the inside. But if I crash again…”

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Then leave. It’s your right.”

They exchanged the fragile smile of two survivors. A bleep echoed from inside, staff sprinting toward the next crisis. Aurora and Adam stood aside, letting the swirl pass.

Out in the car park, Aurora walked slowly, scanning the spot where she’d collapsed. A damp patch and the faint smell of rain. I almost died here.

Her phone buzzed: a text from Liaison. Next month’s rota is bare. Are you able to fill in?

She typed back with trembling fingers: I’m taking extended leave. Unsure when I’ll be back. Send.

The overhead lamp crackled. She recalled the argument with her younger self: “Better to burn out than never try.” Aurora closed her eyes. No—sometimes living means letting go.

She started her car, headlights cutting through the drizzle. The hospital’s silhouette loomed in the rearview mirror. Aurora inhaled, steadying her pulse.

“If the milk in the fridge is rotten,” she whispered, “it doesn’t matter how much you paid. You have to throw it out.”

Tears prickled. She drove away, uncertain but alive, leaving behind the corridors that once defined her entire existence.