First.

AB was my first patient to die. Since the moment I came on that morning, we knew that it was going to happen soon because AB was in grave condition post cardiac arrest. What I didn't knew was whether AB was going to pass on my shift or not. Doctors, palliative care, and chaplain have been filtering in and out of the room that morning to inform the family of AB's prognosis and what can be done should they decide to go for aggressive treatments or what will be done should they decide to end all life support measures.

The family needed more time to decide, and all day my preceptor and I took care of her while waiting for the family to decide. It was obvious to me that AB was very loved, it was evident by the numerous members of family who came by, and how distraught they were of the possibility that that day was the day AB could pass away. My heart went to them.

It hit a little too close to home. My family and I were in their shoes a little over 3 months ago when we have to decide what we wanted to do for Grampa. I knew of that anger of wanting to do more, just to have them with us one day more. I knew of that hope of a miracle, that by the grace of God they'd come back. I knew of that love that allowed us to see and choose what was best for them and not us, the love that allowed us to let them go.

I never thought my first patient death could come this soon. I knew that I will encounter it in my career, but I've had it in my mind that it'd happen when I'm already a nurse, not a student. I'm okay with it though, it didn't make me emotional like I thought I could be because of Grampa. I'm glad I wasn't emotional, it wasn't me place to be because at a time like that, it should be about the family and how I can be a help for them.

Toward the end of the shift, AB's sister came out of the room and asked me who she could talk to "to take the machine off." I informed my preceptor, and the arrangement was being made. I was in the room when the doctor informed the family of the event that will follow, and that brought me back to when the nurse handed me a brown bag of meds that we could give to my Grampa to keep him comfortable and when the home health nurse told us that his time was near. That morning I've thought about what this meant for me, seeing this all too familiar scenario played in front of me soon after my own loss. I didn't know how I would feel if I had the chance to witness this, I only knew how to be there for the family and care for AB the best I knew how.

Sometimes during that shift, I had the chance to talk to AB's sister. At one point, she asked me about nursing school and the hardship that comes with it. I told her that it is indeed not easy, but it comes with having experience to know what to do in caring for someone in her sister's situation. She said, "I'm sure you'd have your (off) time here and there, but you will get there." I chuckled, "Oh I'm sure I've had plenty of my (off) times just in today alone." She smiled, "And that's okay, but you keep telling yourself you'll be good. It'll come to you." "I hope so," I told her.

AB passed away an hour before the shift ended. I wasn't in the room then, I was at the nurses station watching the monitor (the monitor in AB's room had been turned off) and chronicling the vital signs as AB left this world. The doctor asked what time it was when the flat line appeared. "1804," I told him, looking at the strip print out. "1804," he repeated as he looked at the strip, then he went to AB's room to tell the family.

I'd remember always remember sitting at the nurses station and looking up to see AB sister rounding that corner of the nurses station toward the exit door about 45 minutes after AB's death, and as she waved goodbye to my preceptor sitting a couple feet away from me, she also waved and pointed at me to make sure I knew she meant me when she said, "And you. You will be good."

And now, when there's a thousand things running in my mind due to a recent school related conflict that make me doubt myself, when I keep asking myself if I had what it takes to be a good nurse, I'll remember that kind lady, who, in the midst of her sorrow, still took time to be an encourager and told me that I will be good. And I'll always remember what I told her as she left, not only that I hope so, but I will. I will be good.