“I don’t like talking to Jews.” It’s a flat statement, and I’m speechless for a moment
The moment of truth. I look at the board in the ICU to see which rooms the senior resident assigned to my care. Second year of residency means three months in the ICU, spread throughout the year, and it’s my last month of the three. Light at the end of residency’s tunnel!
“Lucky you, you’ve got Room 216!” I whirl around to find Julie, one of the ICU nurses, grinning.
“What’s wrong with Room 216?” I ask.
“It’s just an old guy recovering from appendicitis. Surgery is no picnic when you’re in your nineties. I heard he’s a World War II vet.”
“What’s the issue?”
“A real grouch. His bed is never at the right angle, his drinks need more ice…. He rings for us so much I think he’s just bored,” Julie tells me.
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