In the shadowed halls of the hospital, there lived a creature more terrifying than any code blue: the Administrator Hydra. A beast with twelve heads, each one screaming a different bureaucratic demand — “Cut costs!” … “Increase billing!” … “More meetings!” … “Less staff!” … “Do it for metrics!” Every time a nurse chopped off one head, two more grew back, each uglier and more clueless than the last. The ORs shook with its paperwork, and the wards drowned in its spreadsheets.

But then came the CRNA. Cloaked in scrub-green and armed with nothing but syringes and stubborn willpower, they faced the Hydra head-on. With a twist of a spinal needle, one head fell silent. With a bolus of propofol, another went limp. The CRNA knew the truth: patients needed breath, not bureaucracy. And while the surgeons quaked at the monster’s budget memos, and the anesthesiologists hid behind committees, the CRNA kept working — line after line, airway after airway, victory after victory.

Finally, the CRNA plunged an IV catheter straight into the beast’s cold, corporate heart, flooding it with ketamine. The Hydra’s heads wailed in twelve-part harmony, but then… silence. The hospital sighed in relief. For a moment, the wards belonged to the healers again.

And so the story spread: hospital administrators may think they run the show, but in every legend, it’s the CRNA who keeps the lights on and the patients alive — while the suits get sedated.

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