Was waiting for the bus to the hospital yesterday in my scrubs (last time I do that) when I walked past a disheveled man sleeping on the street. Had my Ipod on and went up to the bus stop. As I had just picked up a “man down” earlier, I turned around again just to double-check that his chest wall was moving.

Two women yelled over to me, “I don’t think he’s breathing,” and I said, “Yeah, he is, I just checked.” Initially I found this incredibly strange–strangers waiting for the bus never talk to each other. I’ve walked past homeless people sleeping while waiting for the bus. Never a peep from anyone. It’s a social taboo or something. But then I realized: the scrubs. They figured I was some sort of medical person (a doctor, nurse, tech, housekeeper?) and decided to alert someone who, just by the clothes he was wearing, might know something more about dead or not breathing people than themselves.

While I was doing my ride along, I was wearing jeans, a blue polo shirt, and some brown street shoes. No nametag, no ID. I walked into countless ERs and homes and residential facilities with the paramedics, and was never asked a single word about who I was or why I was there. Why? I had a stethoscope around my neck and sometimes latex gloves on my hands. (For one family, they often looked at me when answering questions asked by the paramedic, probably just because I had my stethoscope twisted around my neck.)

Never underestimate the power of the white coat or its accessories.

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