I can see you could still stand to lose a few pounds, and the color of your hospital gown washes you out. But other than that, good to see you again, Rebecca.

(Also, the high neckline isn’t really doing your chest any favors, are you still wearing push-up bras?)

It’s kind of crazy that we’re running into each other here after all these years. I haven’t thought about you at all, but I’m sure you’ve thought of me plenty between the scars I left on your psyche and my super popular, super unprofessional TikToks I post everyday in my scrubs. Everything you say is true when you’re wearing scrubs. Which leads me to my next point: you got coronavirus because you eat non-organic produce.

Woah there, missy, I can see from the part of your face that isn’t covered by an oxygen mask that you think I’m crazy. Well riddle me this, how can anything I say be wrong when I have a nursing degree? A nursing degree I earned while still engaging in numerous extracurricular activities, like drinking celery juice spiked with Skinnygirl™ Bare Naked Vodka , reading Gwyneth Paltrow’s website like it’s the bible, and bullying the other nursing students who were actually there because they like science and care about people.

If you get sick, it’s all your fault. No matter the illness—diabetes, cancer, the ‘rona—except for when my Uncle Harvey had prostate cancer. That wasn’t his fault. That was just God giving a tough battle to a tough soldier.

How can you sit there and wheeze out that I’m being unfair to you? We’re in a deadly global health crisis, so what? I like to blame people for their misfortune to distance myself from the fact that it could happen to me, or at least that’s what my gay sister who I never talk to says.

You have coronavirus because you can’t afford to shop at Whole Foods and you still don’t know how to match your foundation shade to your face.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let me look over your chart.

Your blood oxygen levels are as low as your social skills and your heart rate is higher than the number of times I made you cry your sophomore year of high school. In simple, non super smart medical personnel terms: I might get the immense pleasure of sticking a tube down your throat so you can breathe. Think of it as a physical manifestation of all the trauma my fellow mean girls and I put you through as a teenager.

I can’t guarantee you that you won’t die, so you should really get your affairs in order. And by affairs I mean the boring legal stuff, not the illicit and sexy kind, because I can’t imagine anyone wanting to have sex with the girl who didn’t have any Abercrombie & Fitch shirts at age 16. And do you still have acne? I can’t see any on the portion of your face that is visible to me but I wouldn’t be surprised by any hormonal acne around your chin. You radiate adult acne energy.

Anyway, here, have some medicine I guess. I have a professional obligation to help ease your suffering even though arguably a small part of what drew me to the medical field was the opportunity to see human pain up close. Have a little sedative, have a little pain medication, and close those ugly eyes for what may or may not be the very last time.

And oh, one last word of advice?

You really should redo your makeup before you FaceTime your relatives to say goodbye.