A woman living in my apartment building is a nurse and a head nurse at a major hospital in Washington, D.C.
So many neighbors end up confiding in her about their health issues. They go for checkups where she works, and some have been seeing doctors in her department for years.
Everything people tell her—all those little details she picks up at work—she ends up sharing with folks in the building. She tells some more, some less, but she always talks.
Even with people she barely knows, just a polite nod in the hallway, if they visit that hospital, she’ll be telling others what’s going on with them.
It’s subtle, too. She won't start a conversation specifically about someone, but she’ll slip a tiny comment or a single sentence into a random chat.
There's no way I'm ever going to that hospital. If I do, I know all hundred people in this building will find out my business. And then comes the constant phone calls. She's the one who starts it all.
So many neighbors end up confiding in her about their health issues. They go for checkups where she works, and some have been seeing doctors in her department for years.
Everything people tell her—all those little details she picks up at work—she ends up sharing with folks in the building. She tells some more, some less, but she always talks.
Even with people she barely knows, just a polite nod in the hallway, if they visit that hospital, she’ll be telling others what’s going on with them.
It’s subtle, too. She won't start a conversation specifically about someone, but she’ll slip a tiny comment or a single sentence into a random chat.
There's no way I'm ever going to that hospital. If I do, I know all hundred people in this building will find out my business. And then comes the constant phone calls. She's the one who starts it all.