From the moment I stepped into the operating room, I knew I’d found my purpose. Becoming a surgeon wasn’t just a career — it was a calling. After years of sacrifice, I’d finally earned my place at one of the city’s top hospitals. Then one night, everything changed. Just after midnight, paramedics rushed in with an unconscious woman — a homeless patient, suffering from blunt force trauma and internal bleeding. No ID. No insurance. Hospital policy required approval for costly surgeries like hers — and at that hour,
no one was around to give it. “She won’t last an hour,” a paramedic said urgently. I knew the rules. But I also knew what was right. “Prep the OR,” I said. The surgery took three hours. Her spleen was ruptured, and she had lost a lot of blood. But we saved her. The next morning, I was called into a meeting. Dr. Langford, the chief of surgery, was furious. “You cost the hospital thousands,” he said. “You’re fired.” No one defended me. That night, I lay awake, jobless,
