Published: 2025-09-19

The piercing sound of the alarm clock woke John up. With his eyes still closed, he swung his arm in the clock’s direction, hoping to deactivate it. It was a cold, misty morning, and John wanted to stay in bed, wrapped in the comforting heat of his blanket, but he knew he had a big day ahead. He sat on the edge of the bed and his feet touched the cold floor. A chill ran through his body as if it was an electric current. He opened the night table’s drawer and took a notebook out. He stood up, put the notebook under his armpit, and walked to the bathroom.

He looked at himself in the mirror, as if examining every wrinkle and crevice in his face. John was 32 years old, and yet, he looked tired. He had bags under his eyes and was hairless. He ran a hand across his head, turning to the left and then to the right, but there was no overnight miracle; today, as yesterday, he was still a bald man. He examined his head with great diligence and then stopped, sat on the toilet, and wrote in his notebook. He wrote in detail. One paragraph, then another one, and he went on that way until he filled the page. The morning sun was shining bright; John knew he was going to be late for work, therefore he took a quick shower and left the house in a hurry.

John was a pediatrician in the Metropolitan Hospital of New Town, one of, if not the most well-respected medical institutions in the city. Even at such a young age, he was gifted and accomplished in his profession; his peers held him in high regard, and his patients loved him, but John didn’t care for any of that. He only cared for one thing and that was his work.

The emergency room was already full of worried parents and crying children. Doctors and nurses ran from one side of the room to the other. Others left the room and came back carrying instruments, equipment, or medicine. John stood in front of the door, clutching his notebook. He wasn’t fond of working in the emergency room; it was too chaotic for him. John was a man of the mind, a man of research, being stuck with a group of overprotective parents, and kids that needed nothing but a small dose of paracetamol and some rest was not stimulating enough for him. Nevertheless, it was his job, and everything he did, he did professionally.

He entered the emergency room and looked around. There were at least eight children already. He gave the notebook to a nurse and told her to type the last page and email it to him. She frowned; it was not her job to run John’s errand, but she couldn’t refuse. John asked for another nurse to accompany him as he visited each of the children. He did not asked what the problem was, neither did he establish any conversation with the parents. He just read the chart, gave some instructions to the nurse, who promptly relayed them to another nurse, and went to see the next child.

The emergency room was never busier than when John worked on it. The nurses and doctors had to be alert and think on their feet to match John’s pace. He was not gifted when it came to social skills, but his mastery of the medical sciences was undeniable. People feared him because of his antipathetic nature but when it came to his competence as a professional in the field of medicine they had no choice but to respect him.

The hours went by. Everything moved quickly in the emergency room; patients left, and new ones would arrive. It was chaotic but not particularly challenging. John stepped away after tending to the children; the nurses and doctors should be able to take over for a few hours. As he left the emergency room the nurse who had accompanied him all day long said to him, “Good work here today, doctor.” He nodded as he grabbed the notebook from the other nurse’s station.

He ran to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked attentively, not trying to find anything in particular; he just looked. At his face, his nose and nostrils, his mouth, his eyes, his ears, his lips, his tongue. He then started examining his hairless head. He moved his neck from left to right and from right to left, looking, paying attention. He softly ran his hand through the back of his head, feeling the skin of his scalp. He finally stopped looking in the mirror, opened his notebook, and started writing. One paragraph, two paragraphs, and he continued until he filled the page. After he was done he closed the notebook and left the room.

The Metropolitan Hospital of New Town was composed of multiple buildings, and John was on his way to a different one. Nobody seemed to frown at John in this ward; people greeted and smiled at him. The nurses even looked at him with flirtatious eyes and offered him coffee. Kids ran towards him and hugged him as soon as they saw him. He was well-known and loved here. This was where his body and soul, his heart belonged. It was the Pediatric Cancer care ward.

A group of kids grabbed him by the hand and dragged him to the play room. “Look, doctor, we have new toys. Come play with us.” John played with them for a while, and then he left. The kids waved at him as he left the room and then, still waving, followed him to the corridor before being told by a nurse they must return inside.

The next day, John woke up, tired as ever. The heat of the blanket covering his body was too comforting to renounce to, but the sun was rising, and the alarm clock wouldn’t stop its ringing. He went to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He examined his face, then his head. He ran his fingers through the back of his head and suddenly stopped. Hair was starting to grow on the back of his head. He opened his notebook and started writing.

THE END.