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They were simple, unadorned phrases, but in that sterile vacuum of a room, they were oxygen. In those fleeting moments, I felt noticed—not as a diagnostic code, a bed number, or a chart of fluctuating heart rates, but as a human being worthy of dignity. His nightly presence became the anchor of my routine, a quiet, steady reassurance that I wasn’t drifting away into the void.
When the day of my discharge finally arrived, I felt a renewed strength, though I knew I was still as fragile as spun glass. As I gathered my meager belongings and prepared to step back into the world of sunlight and traffic, I felt a deep compulsion to express my gratitude. I stopped at the head nurse’s station, my legs still slightly shaky.
The staff members exchanged puzzled glances. They pulled up the digital schedules, scrolled through the logs of the past fortnight, and cross-referenced the payroll assignments. After several minutes of searching, the head nurse looked at me with a gentle, somewhat pitying expression.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “But there wasn’t a male nurse assigned to your floor at all during your stay. We’ve had a strictly female staff on the night shift for the last month due to some regional transfers.”
The staff suggested that perhaps the combination of high-grade antibiotics, the stress of the illness, or sheer exhaustion had blurred the edges of my memory. They explained, quite logically, that patients often perceive hallucinations or “vivid dreams” while recovering from trauma. I nodded, accepting their explanation with a quiet “thank you,” even though a strange, cold unease settled in my chest. I walked out of those sliding glass doors and into the crisp January air, telling myself that the mind is a powerful thing, capable of creating whatever company it needs to survive.
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