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Thirteen years ago, I was a brand-new ER nurse, still wearing my scrubs like a costume I hadn’t quite earned yet. My hands shook sometimes when I signed charts. I double-checked everything. I was terrified of making a mistake that couldn’t be undone.
That night, the call came in just before midnight. Multi-vehicle wreck. Two adults, one child.
By the time the gurneys burst through the doors, the room filled with that familiar chaos—voices overlapping, monitors beeping, shoes squeaking on tile. I remember locking eyes with the child almost immediately. She was three. Tiny. Wrapped in a pink-striped shirt that was too thin for how cold she must have been.
Her parents didn’t make it. We worked anyway. We always do. But when the doctor finally shook his head, the room went quiet in a way that felt heavier than sound.