For the past ten days, every day, I've walked the long hospital halls here when arriving in the morning, leaving at day's end, heading to the cafeteria or Balducci's Market or Salad Sensations. As the days wore on, fragments of this long forgotten phrase kept coming to mind: "There are eight million stories in the naked city," a line that ended every weekly episode of a major New York City cop drama from fifty years ago, a line that has run through my head like a refrain since I've been here. Because you can't help but feel the thousands upon thousands of human stories recorded in the venerable halls and walls of Hopkins. You can almost hear them being told.
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Sampling of names of those who've been taking care of Colleen here: Cynquetta, Towanda, Cornelius Red Deer, Mohammed, Quetta, and nurse Cara from time to time took to calling Colleen "Lovington."
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