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My fluffy-white-haired head nurse wore spotless square-heeled shoes and a floral hanky fanned in the breast pocket of her starched uniform dress. She looked like an advertisement for Griffin shoe polish and Niagara starch. When I looked at her, I’d be tempted to shove my scuffed flat-soled shoes in her face and twirl the drawstrings at the waist of my wash-and-wear uniform up in the air.

When I’d worked there a week, I asked her if I could be assigned to the four-bed intensive care ward that was part of our floor. “No,” she said, fingering her rhinestone-studded pen. “You are too young and haven’t had enough experience yet.”

I wanted to strangle her.
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