It started as just another quiet night shift. I clocked in at 6 p.m., and for a Friday, things were calm. Lianne and I even joked about making it through without any major emergencies. Cassandra brought in muffins her daughter had baked. The mood was light.
Then, Room 12 changed everything.
It began with a kind of silence only nurses recognize—the unsettling kind. And then everything unraveled.
I can still hear Lianne’s voice, “No, please no,” and the soft, broken sound Cassandra made—not a scream, but something worse. My body moved automatically, but my mind was elsewhere.
When we finally walked out of the room, none of us could speak. We made it to the hallway, behind the supply closet, and I was the first to sink to the ground. The others joined me, and there, we completely fell apart.
I didn’t notice someone had taken a photo of us. A newer nurse must’ve thought we were just overwhelmed by another tough shift. She posted it online with a caption about what nurses carry.
And while she wasn’t wrong, she didn’t know what we’d just been through.
She didn’t see the little pink hat someone had brought from home or hear the lullaby still playing softly in Room 12. She didn’t feel the crushing silence after everything ended. That’s what stayed with me.
The patient, Raina, was in her mid-thirties, pregnant with her third child. She mentioned casually that her husband was stuck in traffic but on his way. She told me the baby had been active all morning, and she had a feeling she’d come early.
Things went downhill fast. Her vitals dropped, then the baby’s. The OB rushed in. Everything blurred, and I won’t recount the details I wish I could forget, but I remember Lianne holding Raina’s hand and Cass adjusting the IV, as if that could change anything. I was calling out numbers that didn’t seem real.
When it was over, the room fell silent.
Then Raina asked, “Can I hold her?” She already knew.
We wrapped the baby in a blanket, and I helped place her in Raina’s arms. She was still, so small. That’s when I noticed the pink hat—handmade by her mother—and the lullaby that played from Raina’s phone, still playing softly.
That’s when it hit me. We weren’t just heartbroken for a patient; we were grieving with a mother.
The photo of us, sitting crumpled against the wall, made its way online with hashtags like #NurseLife and #HealthcareHeroes. Some comments were kind, but others told us to “stay professional” and to “wait until after your shift to cry.”
But here’s what I want people to understand: Sometimes in this job, you have to feel. If you don’t, you lose your humanity.
We cry because we care. We cry because it could’ve been someone we love. We cry because not everything can be documented or filed away.
Later, we returned to Room 12, quietly. Raina was asleep. Her husband was there, red-eyed, sitting beside her. The pink hat rested on the bassinet. No one spoke. We didn’t need to.
Weeks later, we received a handwritten letter from Raina. She thanked us—not for saving her baby, which she knew we couldn’t do—but for showing up, for how Cass had gently smoothed the baby’s hair, for how Lianne whispered, “She’s beautiful,” and for how we let her grieve in silence.
That letter stays folded in my locker. I read it when I need to remember why I do this work. Because it’s not just about medicine and monitors; it’s about being there when someone’s world falls apart, about letting your heart break open, and coming back the next day.
So yes, that photo was real. But it wasn’t about exhaustion or being short-staffed. It was about love, loss, and the kind of pain you carry long after the shift ends.
And I’m not ashamed of it. Because sometimes, the bravest thing you can do in this work is to feel it.
If this resonates, please share. You never know who might need to know they’re not alone.
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