In April 2020, as coronavirus was ravaging New York City, a young medical student nicknamed Jay decided to take part in a program fast-tracking her graduation so she could start working in the Covid-19 wards. She was supposed to have a relaxing few months of celebrations before she started residency over the summer. Instead, she went straight from graduation to the crisis frontlines. And she had no way of knowing that there was one patient there who would alter the course of her life, leaving his imprint on her, indelibly, from the moment they met. It was a slow morning and Jay was hunched over her computer in the workroom. When she heard shouting in the hallway she sprang up and ran outside, looking for its source. There was a Hispanic patient with Down syndrome, wearing the hospital's typical blue striped gown, who was ripping binders off the nursing station and throwing them on the floor.
"Stop!" one of the nurses yelled, frantically grabbing the binders off the ground and setting them back in their place. "What are you doing? Stop!"
Her pleas went unacknowledged. The thud-thud-thud continued as the patient dropped reams of paper. He was wailing, his cries mounting to a crescendo that flooded the hall. A second nurse appeared and shushed the first. "He does this when he's frustrated," she said. "Don't worry."
The nurse put out her hand. The patient eyed her outstretched arm warily, then grabbed it. Slowly, he followed her back toward his room.
READ ON 
No comments:
Post a Comment