My normal nightly routine coming home from work includes waiting at North Station in Boston for about 45 minutes for my wife to arrive, to we can commute home together.
Last night something extraordinary happened. Standing in my usual spot, I watched a man, obviously intoxicated beyond belief, wander in through the East doors.
He slowly seemed to collapse, sort of a passing out very very slowly. He lay on the ground for a moment or two, before someone notified the MBTA folks, who promptly called paramedics, just in case.
It took the paramedics 11 minutes to arrive.
In that 11 minutes, I counted 20 people in scrubs of some form come in through the doors the man lay on the ground just inside of.
Of those 20 people in scrubs, 18 of them stopped. That’s 90%.
The other two? They didn’t stop because someone else in scrubs was already checking on the passed out drunkard.
It made me think: do I care that much about what I do?
On their own time, for no pay whatsoever, these people stopped to help someone in need. I don’t know if they were doctors, or nurses, or research assistants, or what. All I know is these people stopped to help.
No one else did.
Be sure to thank your doctor, or nurse, or whomever else does their job to help you.