It’s just past 3:00 AM, and the hospital never stops. People think night shifts are quiet, but they’re wrong. A&E never sleeps. Patients come in, waiting hours for treatment, pacing the floors, demanding answers from nurses who don’t have them. And I see all of it—the quiet suffering, the anger, the exhaustion.
My job isn’t to fix broken bones or diagnose illnesses. It’s to clean up the mess. Blood, vomit, coffee spills, the footprints of hundreds of anxious people. You’d be surprised how much gets left behind when you’re stuck waiting for hours. Empty crisp packets, water bottles, tissues crumpled in frustration. I move from one end of the waiting room to the other, mop in hand, sweeping away the evidence of another long night.
I nod at the receptionist as I pass. She’s been here all night, just like me. Her fingers rub at her temples as another patient approaches the desk. The same questions, the same tired responses. I don’t envy her job. At least I can move around.
A woman paces near the vending machine. She’s been here for hours. I’ve seen her snapping at the receptionist earlier, demanding answers, demanding action. But she’s calmed now, or maybe she’s just too tired to keep arguing. Her husband is somewhere behind those double doors. I wonder if she knows how many people are back there, waiting just like him.
A little further down, a drunk man slouches in his chair, head nodding forward. He reeks of alcohol and sweat. I’ve already had to clean up after him once tonight when he missed the bin. I’ll probably have to do it again.
I slip into one of the treatment rooms next. A nurse gives me a tired smile as she finishes dressing a wound. The bin is overflowing, and I swap it out for a fresh one. “Busy night?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“They always are,” she says, pushing back a strand of hair. “And we’re short-staffed again.”
I nod. It’s always the same. More patients than staff. More demand than resources. I don’t know how they do it, these doctors and nurses, working through exhaustion, trying to keep people alive. My job is hard in its own way, but at least I don’t have someone’s life in my hands.
As I head back into the hallway, I pass the doors leading to the ambulance bay. Cold air rushes in as paramedics push through with another patient. Head injury. He’s unconscious, and there’s blood, a lot of it. The floor will need scrubbing again after this one. But that’s my job. I clean up the aftermath, make the place look as if nothing ever happened, so that when the next wave of patients comes in, they don’t see what came before them.
By 5:00 AM, the waiting room is quieter. Some people have been seen, some have given up and gone home, and some still sit, eyes drooping with exhaustion. I wipe down the seats, picking up the remnants of their wait. A half-eaten sandwich, a coffee cup with lipstick smudged on the rim, a crumpled leaflet about NHS services.
The receptionist catches my eye again. We don’t speak, but I can see the same thing written across her face that I feel in my bones—another long night, another shift nearly over, but not quite.
I take a deep breath and keep moving. The work doesn’t stop, and neither do I.
By 5:30 AM, I get a moment to lean against my mop and roll my shoulders. The ache in my back tells me I should take a break, but there’s still work to be done. The doctor’s lounge needs a tidy-up before the morning shift arrives. The staff hardly has time to clean up after themselves. Empty coffee cups and half-eaten sandwiches litter the small tables. I gather them up, wipe down surfaces, and refill the paper towel dispenser.
I overhear two nurses talking near the doorway.
“We had six patients waiting for imaging, and radiology was backed up again,” one of them says, voice heavy with exhaustion. “I don’t know how they expect us to keep up.”
The other lets out a tired laugh. “They don’t. They just expect us to keep going until we drop.”
I glance at them as I throw away a stack of discarded notes someone left on the counter. I can’t say anything to make it better, but I understand the frustration. I see how hard they work, how little appreciation they get.
By the time I get back to the waiting room, another round of patients has arrived. A woman holding a toddler, the child’s forehead slick with sweat, her tiny face flushed with fever. A young man gripping his arm, pain etched into his features. A teenager with swollen knuckles, his mother whispering something to him.
I recognize the weary look in their eyes. They’re in for a long wait.
I move towards the janitor’s closet to grab a fresh mop head. As I pass the receptionist’s desk, she lets out a deep sigh, rubbing at her temples again. I hesitate for a moment before setting my mop against the wall.
“Long one?” I ask, knowing the answer.
She glances at me, a tired smile barely forming. “Like every other night.”
I nod. “Want a tea?”
She looks surprised but then nods. “That’d be great, actually.”
I step into the break room and pour two cups from the staff kettle. The tea is lukewarm, but it’s something. I hand her one, and we stand in silence for a moment, sipping.
“This place would fall apart without you,” she says suddenly, her voice sincere.
I let out a short chuckle. “Same to you.”
She smiles before turning back to her desk. The moment passes, and we both return to our duties.
By 6:30 AM, the first hints of daylight creep in through the high windows. The night shift doctors are wrapping up, morning staff shuffling in, fresh but unaware of the chaos they’re about to inherit. I push my mop bucket toward the exit, feeling the weight of another shift pressing down on me.
As I step outside for a breath of fresh air before heading home, I glance back at the hospital. It’ll be just as busy tomorrow. Just as chaotic. And I’ll be here again, keeping it clean, making sure no one notices the mess left behind.
The hospital doors close behind me, but the work never ends.
This is a fictional account intended to provide insight into the perspective of an A&E janitor. While inspired by real-life situations, it is not based on any specific case or individual.