--- ## **Article Title: Five Minutes Too Late** **By Nolan** Today I was cast in someone else's crisis. The task was simple: deliver 24-hour cartfill meds. I'd already clarified, "Only if it's not due now--it may take me up to two hours to get everywhere." The methadone was not urgent, I was told. So I did what I always do: sorted methodically, moved efficiently, held my line. Forty-five minutes later, I got the call. A pharmacist, abrupt, letting urgency take the wheel: > "They're screaming for it." > > I said, "I'll head there next." > > He replied, "Better make it right now." Not a request. A judgment. I hadn't sounded urgent enough. I hadn't mirrored the panic script. I got to the elevator. Rode it in silence. When the doors opened, I moved toward the floor like a man in a role he didn't audition for. In the med room, a nurse rushed past and cut me off. We both knew he saw me. He didn't care. I followed him in and waited, quietly, as he clicked through Pyxis screens. He wasn't pulling meds--he was pacing digitally. His agitation was clear. He had the patient's name up--the same name I recognized from childhood. A boy from church. A friend with a broken family, shamed at school when his father left for another man. He fell hard into drugs. That's whose meds I carried. The nurse turned to me. > "Are you the one that has the methadone?" I answered simply. > "I have methadone to be loaded." His reply came like a slap: > "Well, you're about five minutes too late. He already pulled his G-tube out." Then silence. A challenge, almost. He wanted guilt, some sign that his anger had landed. All I gave him was: > "Oh wow." Stiff jaw. Eye contact. No retreat. He broke it first--turned and left. --- There was no thanks. No understanding. Just a ritual accusation. I'd been appointed scapegoat in someone else's adrenaline drama. But I didn't take the role. I held my boundary. This wasn't about a delay. It wasn't even about methadone. It was about pain displaced--onto the nearest calm body. In this case, mine. But I don't carry it. --- POSTSCRIPT: ON THE VERBAL HEX "Well, you're about five minutes too late. He already pulled his G-tube out." This statement added no clinical value. By the time it was spoken, the G-tube had already been removed. The comment offered no plan, no update on the patient's condition, and no instruction for next steps. It did not alter care-it only introduced blame. Even if arriving earlier might have prevented the event, that possibility was no longer relevant. The past could not be changed. And the methadone was still needed, likely to be administered once the G-tube was replaced or an alternate route established. The statement was not informational-it was a verbal hex. It attempted to offload the nurse's agitation by transforming it into guilt. His tone, his phrasing, his timing-all functioned as a kind of ritual spell, casting responsibility onto the nearest calm presence: me. But I didn't take it. By recognizing the pattern, I was able to let the charge pass through without carrying it. --- A STERILE EXAMPLE OF A VERBAL HEX To further clarify, here's a more clinical, textbook-style scenario: Scene: Nurse: "Can you send that med up?" Pharmacy Tech: "Sure, it'll go up shortly." Nurse: "It was due an HOUR ago." What just happened? That last line didn't inform. It didn't help the patient. It didn't accelerate the process. It served no operational purpose. It was a hex-a verbal jab delivered *after* a solution was already in motion. Why do nurses do this? Because they're overwhelmed. Because they're exhausted. Because they want someone else to feel the weight they're carrying. But that's not communication. That's emotional offloading. And it's corrosive to any system that depends on trust and collaboration.