“I don’t like talking to Jews.” It’s a flat statement, and I’m speechless for a moment

T

he 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.

“Well, I’m going to be meeting him today,” I say, looking more closely at the chart. “Harold Richards.”

“Good luck,” she murmurs, eyes full of sympathy.

I knock softly on the door to Room 216, noticing that my palms are sweaty. No answer. I enter briskly, with what I hope is a cheerful smile on my face.

“Hello, Mr. Richards. I’m Dr. Rubin, and I’m going to check your incision and see how you’re doing.”

Harold Richards is a wiry man with faded gray eyes and sparse whisps of white hair. He looks at me appraisingly, gaze lingering on my name tag and (atypical) scrub skirt. Then he deliberately turns away from me to gaze at the wall.

Well, that went well.