On a Tuesday evening in December of 2015, I was confronted with my ugly inhumanity.
At the time, I was a junior clinical clerk on my night shift in the cardiology department. It was a slow evening in Ward 5C as usual. Patients of less severe conditions tend to be placed here. After all, this is not 5D, just a short hallway away, which houses higher risk cardiology patients.
I was chatting with a fellow junior clerk GL when the intercom calmly announced, “9595, East Campus, 5D.”