You’re fired, Dr. Diana. And please leave your coat and badge on the table now. Director Whitman’s shout echoed through the crowded lobby of Santa Clara Hospital, causing dozens of patients and staff to turn their heads to witness the humiliation. Diana Santos, 38, never imagined that her decade of impeccable service as head nurse would end like this, being escorted by security like a criminal in front of everyone.
Her dark eyes remained disturbingly calm as the director continued his public show of power. Serious violation of hospital protocol. Unauthorized treatment.
Use of medical resources without prior payment. Whitman practically spat the words, his face red with theatrical anger. People like you need to learn their place in this institution.
People like you. Diana knew the venom behind those words well. In her 10 years there, she had heard the whispers in the hallways, seen the dirty looks, felt the weight of denied promotions.
Director Whitman, Diana replied firmly, removing her immaculate white coat, I saved a man’s life last night. A man who arrived here bleeding, semi-conscious, with no identification. No medical insurance.
Whitman interrupted, slamming his fat hand on the reception desk. No credit card. No health insurance.
And you wasted valuable hospital resources on some indigent. The flashback came quick and vivid, 11 p.m. the night before. Diana was finishing her shift when the automatic doors opened.
A man staggered in, his clothes torn and bloody, his face covered in mud and blood. He collapsed on the floor before anyone could react. Please, help, were his only words before he lost consciousness.
The night receptionist Patricia, a blonde with long nails more interested in her cell phone than in the patients, didn’t even get up. No insurance, no treatment. Those are the rules.
Diana didn’t hesitate. While everyone watched in shock, she ran to the fallen man. Weak pulse, irregular breathing, possible head trauma.
Years of experience screamed that every second counted. Call Dr. Martinez. Prepare emergency room 3. Diana ordered, already starting first aid.
But Dr. Diana, the rules, Patricia began to protest. To hell with the rules. This man is dying.
Now, back in the present, Diana handed her badge to the desk. Security guard Johnson, a black man who always greeted her with respect, looked away in embarrassment as he escorted her out. You’ll regret this, Whitman, Diana said calmly.
One day you’ll understand that I saved more than a life yesterday. The director laughed, a loud, unpleasant sound. The only thing you saved was some homeless bum.
Now get out of here before I call the police. As Diana walked through the revolving doors for the last time, she noticed something peculiar. The homeless man who always stood on the corner of the hospital, the one all the employees had known for years, was not in his usual spot.