That infernal beeping

I am scared of my pager. That devlish flashing. Those insidious digits. That piercing, obnoxious, persistent, caustic beeping. The feeling of urgency, of panic that it brings. Like the sound of your mother calling your full name after your baseball flew into the window, the jerk forward after you have been rear-ended, the gutteral sensation a millisecond before a free-fall, the sight of a nurse holding a needle. Panic. Pure and simple. It is like a phantom, following me everywhere. WIth each passing beep I hear, on the streets, in the stores, I clutch my left chest, where my white-coat pocket normally is, and feel for that wretched plastic box, realizing that it is safely tucked away in my locker. I live in constant fear of the beep. Scarfing down my food, racing for the nearest elevator, lest it summons me at my most inconvinient moment. It has made a nervous mess of me, always in a state of impending panic, alert, vigilant, petrified.

Here is a list of some pages I have received in the past 1.5 weeks. From least to most malignant. Beep beep...

1. Hey, It's Liz; let's get lunch.
2. Hi pharmacy here, we can't carry out this order ... can you run up 5 flights of stairs and write it again?
3. Hi, 16 E here, are you taking care of Ms. _________? Oh she vomited/had diarrhea/ got constipated/ leaked her colostomy bag/ developed a fistula again.
4. Hi 16 E. Are you taking care of Ms. __________? She received Lasix at 10 AM but still has not urinated. what do you want ME to do? Well [nasty voice], I think she needs to be ASSESSED, don't you?
5. Hi, Vickie, Case manager here, about Ms. ____________ - so why is she still in the hospital?
6. Hi, this is 16E. Ms. ________ just had a temp of 100.8. You need to poke her impossible veins and get blood cultures. And did I mention two sets?
7. Hi, this is 16E. Ms. _________'s daughters and son are here to bitch you out.
8. Hi 16E. Ms. _________ is in respiratory distress; she's desating to the mid 80s. What should we do?
9. Hellloooo, this is Adam (my resident). I know it's 15 minutes before you get to sign out, but boy do I have a great admission for you.

It is like the Clockwork Orange; the beep is my Beethoven 9th. I have the rest of my life to become insane, as well.