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When I was finally discharged, I felt stronger but not brave, like my body had improved faster than my spirit. As I gathered my things, I stopped at the front desk because gratitude had been building in me for days and I needed to let it out somewhere. I told them I wanted to thank the nurse who checked on me every night, the one assigned to my room, and the staff exchanged a look that made my stomach tighten. They searched schedules, reviewed records, and then someone looked up with a gentle seriousness and told me there had not been a male nurse assigned to my room during my entire stay, only rotating female staff. They offered possible explanations, stress, medication, exhaustion, the mind filling gaps, and I nodded as if that settled it, even though it left a strange hollow unease under my ribs.
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