I strode into the ER with my chart in hand, my mind already on the next case. I barely registered the patient’s name as I began my routine, “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got—” Then I looked up.
Robby Langston.
There he was, seated on the examination bed with his wrist in a painful grip. As soon as his eyes met mine, they widened in surprise. For a moment, I wondered if he hadn’t recognized me—but then he glanced down at my face, hesitating over the memory of my features, and it all came flooding back.
Middle school, high school—Robby had been a relentless tormentor. He had mocked me with cruel nicknames like “Big Becca” and “Toucan Sam,” each barb designed to make me despise every part of who I was. For years, I wished I could disappear, shrink away from the ridicule and shame. And now here I was, standing in scrubs in an ER, holding his chart while he needed my care.
“Becca?” he said, his voice tentative and uncertain. “Wow… it’s been a long time.”
I maintained a neutral expression, carefully concealing the turmoil beneath. “What happened to your wrist?” I asked in a professional tone.
“Basketball injury,” he muttered, adding, “I think it’s just a sprain.”
I nodded, checking his vital signs and beginning the routine of my examination. All the while, memories of the past—of taunts in crowded hallways and cruel laughter in the cafeteria—raged silently behind my eyes. I had always imagined that a day might come when I could face my past and find some sort of closure. I never expected that day would be today.
As I wrapped his wrist, he let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “I guess karma’s funny, huh? You taking care of me after all that.”
For the first time, I saw Robby not as the cocky bully of my youth, but simply as another human being, vulnerable and hurting. And then, unexpectedly, he said something that made my hands pause mid-wrap.