I hurriedly shoved the IV in her vein there was no time to put it in the bag let alone a pill, the Heparin should be working soon. We should see a change any second; it got worse. There was blood everwhere. I saw Dr. Bigelow glance at the tray next to me, I saw the look in his eyes and knew before he had the composure to ask me. By then I had grabbed the vial off of the tray nearly breaking it in the process; banging the fragile glass against the metal tray. It was too late she was gone the steady, deafening beep across the screen as she lay in front of me bleeding through every inch of her skin. My first one. The first patient Ive lost. And it was my fault.

The EMTs were doing chest compressions and connecting IVs and everything in their power to keep their chief alive. “The epi syringe!” His partner was already ripping the packaging open. She gave the shot right into the chief’s arm ignoring the IV port. “Still no heartbeat. We’re gonna lose him!” “Pads are on. Ready to shock.” “I’m clear.” “Shocking!” “We’ve got a heartbeat.” “What’d I tell ya? All is not lost when we’re on the call.”

[Note: I did not follow the prompt exactly. Just used the words. In order. Maybe I will write a different piece following the prompt a different day.]

I always wanted to save people.

Save them in ways they could never imagine.

Flying from rooftop to rooftop, punching and thrashing at a villian.

Pushing a syringe into my elderly patient had to do.

He was nice enough, always using manners and making me smile. He was a bright spot in my day, the patient I looked forward to see.

But I was never prepared for the days I would dread visiting him.

Walking in the room almost felt like a task. I could hardly look directly at his pale face and dull eyes.

If only I knew what happened to his pink cheeks and pretty smile.

I always greeted him with a joke, the way he used to greet me. Sometimes his eyes would light up, but that was only on good days.

On bad days, I couldn’t get a peep.

And on the last day, the day his heart was started declining.

He smiled.

His dimples showing.

He tilited his head and pointed at me with the last of his strength.

“Not all is lost with the heartbeat.”

4am just hit, my feet are sore, my eyes are heavy and all I want is my bed. I have one last set of meds to pass before my shift ends and I can already hear three of my patients hollering my name. “My back hurts, I need my pain medicine!” “I need more ice for my cup!” “I cant find my call light.” It never stops, sometimes, I dont understand why I chose this job. I never dreamed of becoming a nurse. Singing is my passion. I remember being a little girl, standing on the kitchen counter singing along with the radio while my mother cooked. Every morning, she made my favorite breakfast, blueberry pancakes with whip cream in the shape of a smiley face. I can still smell the buttermilk pancakes snd homemade syrup she made. The aroma was so strong and sweet, it touched every wall in the house. She loved my singing. She never missed a recital, until she became ill. Cancer entered her brain once I started highschool. She died on my 19th birthday and I havent sung since. My eyes fluttered with tears as I thought about my mother’s smile. She was kind and caring, willing to help anyone. She reminded me of my patients, ailing but still full of life. A shaky sigh poured from my mouth before gazing down at my cart to check my last patient. I grabbed a hand full of tissue to wipe my papers, my salty tears have soaked. As im approaching the end of the hall, the alarm sounds. I’m sure its Ms. June in room 4B in need of another bathroom break, that woman never gives me a break. I continue to fill up the cups with pills, hoping and praying one of the other girls will answer the call. I hear loud footsteps echo down the halls, a few more seconds pass and I hear terrified screams come from the room. “Help! Please, we need a nurse!” I quickly drop everything in my hands and sped towards the comotion. Turning into the room, stood five of the nurse assistants surrounding Ms June. The room reaked of blood and alcohol wipes. My body froze and my jaw dropped with shock. I have been a nurse for many years but I never experienced something like this. I ran over to her body, I felt for her pulse, I checked her pupuils. Her IV has been tampered with, the tube is torn and there’s a small syringe next to the trash. Someone was in a hurry. I immediately began cpr until more help arrived. “Stay with me Ms, June, c’mon, hang in there!” All I could think about was my mother. She reminded me of Ms. June in her final stages. She was gentle and soft spoken but stern. She would tell you about all the wild things she did as a younger girl but made you swear not to tell a soul. Her laugh was contagious and her smile lit up any room. I did compressions for what seemed like forever. She was so fragile, a crack let out from every compression. It was a sign that her rips were breaking. I could feel my arms getting weaker after each one. I couldnt stop, she deserved to live. The head nurses burst in the chaotic room. She stands over me as I push on the small, delicate body. I felt her hand graze my shoulder, “Emily.. its over” I knew what she was getting at, I knew there was nothing more any of us could do. Sitting back on my knees, tears rushing down my face. My hands were shaking and covered in blood. The room was silent enough to hear a pen drop. Her heartbeat began to decrease.. beep………. the machine flashed, alerting us of what we already knew. We lost her. A team of EMT’s approach the horrific scene. Their eyes scan the area from top to bottom, left to right. The syringe beside the trashcan. The monitor, that was still signaling a heartbeat could not be found. And the woman we just lost, Ms. June. I looked into the eyes of my fellow nurses, feeling the sorrow they felt. Although Ms. June was a pain, she was an unique soul. One of the EMT’s announced for everyone to exit the room. Picking myself off the floor, my body felt heavy. My legs were numb, my knees were weak. Blood is still dripping on my shirt from the incident. It looked like evidence from a crime scene. Cleaning myself up, I adjust my blue scrub shirt and exit the room. It still now 6am, one hour left of my shift. Breakfast is starting to be served. My mind is still a blur. I cant focus on my task. Suddenly, two young men appear in the cafeteria with a large cart, that witholds the trays. The smell of pancakes fills the space. “Mm.. blueberry”. That sweet smell was nostalgic. With all the saddness I was currently feeling, it was a sense of relief. It brought back the memories of my mother. The person she was before the cancer. I thought about Ms. June and what her life was like before she became ill. She lived every day full of joy and laughter. Never knowing when her last day may be, she was content. I went over in my head which of Ms. June’s children I should contact first. Her eldest daugther, who visited frequently and brought gifts. Her son, who pays for her stay here. Maybe her youngest daughter, who always seemed to busy to stop by. Moments passed before realizing I only have ten minutes left of my shift. I finished up the paperwork on Ms. June before handing it over to the next nurse. Making my way to the break room to gather my belongings, I passed by Ms. June’s room one last time. The EMT’s had already removed her body. The janitors were cleaning and sanatizing the room for the next patient. The smell of lysol and bleach lingered through the crack of the door. Trashbags containing the blood stained sheets sat outside the door. Her name tag removed from the door. I’ve experienced death before but nothing like this. The image of her body is trapped in my head. The slight metallic scent from medical equipment mixed with body odor and antiseptic agents. The sheets that hung off the edge of the bed from adjusting her body to perform cpr. So many thoughts roamed the inside of my head. Myb watch vibrated notifying, my day has come to an end. I pushed through double doors and exited the premises.

December 24th, 1963

The beeping of the heart monitor filled the room, each pulse louder than the last, like a drumbeat that couldn’t be ignored. I stood by the bed, syringe in hand, my breath shallow, my heart racing. The patient’s condition had deteriorated so quickly—one moment they were stable, the next, it felt like everything was slipping through my fingers. The seconds were slipping by too fast. Every decision felt heavier than the last, and my hands, though steady, betrayed the chaos in my mind. Was I doing the right thing? Was this the right dose? The weight of my responsibility pressed down on me, thick and suffocating. A single misstep, just one, and everything could change in an instant.

I glanced down at the syringe, then at the monitor again. It was now or never.

I’ve done this before. I’ve been trained for this. I know the steps. Two doses. I’ve handled much worse, much scarier situations than this. But as I pushed the plunger, three words stormed through my mind, one after another.

Syringe.
Heartbeat.
Lost.

Syringe.
Heartbeat.
Lost.

They came crashing in, one after another, a wave of fear and doubt. Like a tsunami after an earthquake, they followed me. Every thought seemed to spiral into those three words, making the world around me spin out of control. The sound of the monitor’s beeping seemed louder now, sharper. My breath caught in my throat, and my pulse raced. Was it too late? Had I missed my chance? Was this the moment I’d feared?

Time seemed to stretch on, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was running out of it.

And then, like a miracle, the seconds started to fade back into time. The steady beep of the monitor, once erratic and tense, began to steady. The rhythm slowed, softened. Each pulse, a small victory. Each breath, a silent prayer answered. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until the weight in my chest began to lift.

The patient’s color returned, their breaths deepened, became a little more certain. I let out a long exhale, my legs feeling weak as I leaned against the wall. It wasn’t over, not yet, but for now, I had won. The storm had passed.

Looking down at them, I couldn’t help but smile, a soft tug at my lips. Those words, haunting as they were, didn’t become a prophecy today. They stayed in my mind, a reminder of how fragile life is, but in this moment, I knew. I knew that I had done everything I could. My training. My heart. It made a difference.

For now, that’s enough.

Another 12 hour night shift done. Another patient too young to leave the living world. He was an addict, he unfortunately ended up with an infection from a syringe that had already been used. He was only 21. When he came in, his heartbeat was continuously slowing down, I gave him CPR for 2 minutes, switched with Mary for the next 2, and then back to me. But we lost him. I wish I had to opportunity to talk to him, understand the circumstances that made him start drugs. Maybe he had childhood trauma, maybe he hung out with the wrong crowd. I wish I could do that with all the patients I lose. I think I would become too attached though. Being desensitized to continuous death is easier than mourning the loss of someone’s child, friend, parent. People thank me for doing this job, I chose it because I thought I would be helping people. And I do, but I see so much death and sadness. And no human is equipped to see it that often.

12/6/2024 Diary of Winnie Park

Today was… rough. I’m not so sure if choosing pediatric oncology nursing was such a great idea anymore. The pay was great and as morbid as it sounds the patients were just about the sweetest people you could ever meet. After today though, i’m not so sure i’m cut out for this job.

I can’t believe i even have to write this but Ollie Turner, that sweet little six year-old boy with a tumor, died. He had a disease that was caused by something called a Central Nervous System Atypical Teratoid/Rhabdoid tumor. It was growing on his spinal cord so almost all his automatic functions like movement, heartrate, breathing, and talking were affected by it.

It was awful to watch, especially for a kid so young. He was so sweet, but he couldnt stand the sight of a syringe, i remember once he got so scared he threw up.

I think half the hospital is in shock from his death. He had to go to so many different departments for testing and treatment. I don’t think we should be as surprised as we are though. His cancer had already spread so far by the time he got diagnosed, i don’t know if it was possible for him to survive.

I still feel awful about it though. I can’t just let go of a person i’ve grown this close to. Ollie spent a lot of time these past few months in the hospital for treatment, so i got to know him well. He said he wanted to be a nurse like me when he grew up, so he could help people too.

And then today, i had to be in the room when his heartbeat stopped. I don’t know if he looked scared exactly, just… lost. He looked lost. He looked as if he hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might die. As if it hadn’t occured that not all stories get happy endings. Of course he didn’t know that, he was 6. His story should’ve ended happily. The last time i saw him should’ve been walking away from the hospital, not going down to the morgue.

I should never have started this job. I just can’t take remembering the look on his face. The sadness in his parents eyes. I think i’ll move back home to be around family again, if anything were to happen to me like that… i’d want to have my family around. I’m not sure what i’ll do, but maybe if i get away, back home, i’ll feel safer. Maybe i’ll stop having the mightmares too.

Saw patient she was ill weak

Checked doctors notes

Used syringe to get blood sample

Heart beat was abnormal but stable

Suddenly it stopped

I injected ccc of Andrenline to start it up

Again and again and the heart rate stabilised

Cautiously I waited and saddened to say I was lost for words as to what happened

I tried as hard as I could. Truthfully, I did. When the syringe punctured his skin, though, I knew it was too late. The needle just didn’t go in right. It feels weird to say - to write - but, the needle hesitated as if his skin were steel. Of course, it eventually went in, but I knew something was off. His eyes lolled from side to side. His tongue hung out of dried lips. A few seconds later, the sound of his heartbeat fading permeated the room. I called for a doctor, but it was late and he took too long to come. By the time he was in the room, the patient was lost.

This page will not be stained by tears. I never wanted him to live anyway. I’m happy I finally got my chance at revenge.

I hand the doctor a syringe, give the kid a sucker, and walk the parents to the door. I honestly thought nursing would be more exciting, but three months into the job and I'm already bored with my routine, Syringe, sucker, door, repeat. Most of the time when I'm not assisting a docotor to preform standard checkups, I end up wandering the halls. Usually this leads me to the natal wing. I wish I could show up there for work every day. Picture it: bringing life into the world. Caring for those little babies and having them depend on you; actually need you for something. Hearing their gentle heartbeats and cries as you carry them in your arms. Seeing the utter joy on the mother's face as she holds her child for the first time. It would be a dream come true. Sadly, there will be nothing of the sort for me. I will only ever experience those precious moments if I'm watching my favorite doctor reality tv show, or getting lost in one of my frequent delusions. Sighing, I head back to my office. I should probably be there to give the next kid a sucker.