I took my car and drove in the middle of traffic to be near my daughter. The hospital was as most New York hospitals I have seen: overcrowded, noisy, modest, filled with a very diverse population. When I finally made it to the Emergency Room and after the security screening a nurse walked me through aisles full of patients and expecting relatives. She told me she was in bed #1272B. I was reading the numbered signs above each closed curtain but I could not see hers. The girl perceived my confusion and walked me to a printed sign next to the nurse station. “Here she is, ” she said without a trace of any apologetic tone.

Her bed was leaning over the side of the nurse station, a chair stuck on its foot and an IV placed behind her to avoid any of the patients or medical staff from tripping with it while they walk the narrow hall. I sat down on the chair and proceeded to ask the expected questions and to offer my love and compassion. Bed #1272B offered no privacy, however, it did gave me a frontal view of the gigantic screen where a spreadsheet showed the name and status of each of the thirty patients who were admitted at the time. More than half of those had Hispanic names.

The medical staff was as diverse as the population it served. An Indian doctor was speaking Spanish to the Dominican family that were accompanying the toddler they had brought. Behind the curtains in front of us was a tween girl screaming because she did not want to be tested for the flu and in between screams she started throwing up.