A Day in the Life

A Day in the Life of Jimmy Moss, MD

Jimmy is a nocturnal intensivist at WashU Medicine. Outside of work, he dedicates his time to writing, reading, spending time with his daughters, engaging in charitable initiatives, and playing basketball. His book, available on his website, chronicles his inspiring journey from youth homelessness to Harvard. All proceeds from the book sales have been donated to national and local charities, supporting causes such as domestic violence shelters, women’s safe houses, and homelessness initiatives in the St. Louis area. Since 2023, Jimmy has raised and donated over $16,000 through his book sales.

4:47 PM: I forcefully expand my squint into a recognizable stare that I hope my iPhone will accept, allowing me to turn off my 3rd Alarm sound. My fate determined, I preemptively swipe off the 4th alarm as well. Shower. Dress. Triple check my work luggage haul (laptop, backpack, lunch). Got it. Breathe

5:45 PM: As I am pulling out of their mother’s driveway, Jayla, my 10-year-old, clicks in her seatbelt buckle with her right hand, and grabs my cellphone with her left. She flips through my apps (she knows the passcode), unabashedly pauses the background speaker hum of my NPR Planet Money podcast, selects “The Girls” Apple Music Playlist, and suddenly Adele’s Easy On Me transforms the inside of my car into a private little concert. Staring at Amaya, my 8-year-old, via my rearview mirror as she squeezes her eyes tighter and bellows out, “I was still a chiiillllld!”, I smile at her approval of Jayla’s song choice as we head to gymnastics.  

6:13 PM: Standing with the other parents in a “crowded, overheated, and probably should have some Glade Plug-in filter rechecks” waiting room, I peek at my watch and bite my bottom lip. I can only stay for a couple more minutes. I whisper “Good job” inaudibly to myself, as Jayla completes a maneuver she has described several times but will obviously have to again because I cannot remember what it’s called for the life of me. Speaking of life, I disappear from the sea of other parents—and awkward room smells—and head to work.

6:45 PM: Sign out completed, I quickly step into the bathroom adjoining the call room and pretend to not see the fatigued creases in my smile, the red blood vessels staining my eyes, and graying hairs that have sprinkled themselves into an ever-flowing reminder of time into my beard. Breathe.

8:30 PM: I update my (charge) Nursing teammate about a new admission in the ED- a 69-year-old male with an out of the hospital cardiac arrest, prolonged downtime, on multiple vasopressors. The patient is not a candidate for mechanical support.

2:17 AM: Sitting at a computer in the middle of the ICU, I hang-up the landline phone and inform my Nursing teammates that our patient’s older brother, and only living family member, is 30 minutes away. He was notified two hours earlier that his “little” brother was not doing well and unlikely to survive through the night.

4:07 AM: With the weight of his grief in my arms, the gravity of his tears trickling down the side of my cheek, and the pain of his loss resonating in my spirit, (via a hug) I extend my condolences to my patient’s brother in the hallway near his hospital bed. I explain how important it was for him to be here as his loved one took his last breath. Time of death: 4:01am. 

6:00 AM: Another call from the ED, new admission—patient with chest pain and elevated potassium. I place last minute orders, quickly round with my Nursing teammates, and prepare my sign out sheet for the oncoming physician.

7:39 AM:Looking through melting ice on my car’s windshield, I watch the girls as they stumble themselves to my car and into their seats. I reflexively hand Jayla my phone. Today’s first song: Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off. Pulling into their school’s car line, I again catch a glimpse of Amaya in the backseat, eyes closed—but with her entire heart open—singing, “Sayin’ it’s gonna be alright!”.

8:37 AM: Showered and finally lying down in a room that blocks out sunlight my body desperately needs, I mentally relax, turn my notifications off, plug my cell phone in, and set my 4 alarms: 4:30pm, 4:37pm, 4:47pm, and 5:00pm. As I boldly try to erase “Cause the players gonna play, play, play” from my mind, as well as the silence of pain I felt after losing a patient a few hours earlier, I close my eyes and remind myself… to breathe.

This account is a creative representation of a day in Jimmy Moss’s life and does not depict actual events.