The Unexpected Assignment

During handover, when I heard my allocated patient list, my heart sank.

I had worked on that urology ward during previous nursing placements. Many patients returned periodically for surgery, and their faces became familiar—almost like a family reunion.

She had a type of tumor that required surgery about every six months to keep it at bay. Now, as a third-year nursing student, I knew the ropes. I had requested my final placement there, anticipating earning my 'wings' as a fledgling nurse. I remembered her name. She was one of those patients who seemed perpetually sad, abrasive, unfriendly, always with something to complain about. Nothing was ever good enough or simply just enough.

I gracefully accepted my patient list for the day and read up on each of their notes before getting busy. Something felt different this day, though I can't quite recall what it was. Perhaps I got my second wind or an extra shot of coffee. I walked into her room with a bowl of water and an armful of linen.

"Good morning," I said. "I remember you from last time; my name is Nicky." She looked up and just stared at me.

Something clicked in me that day, and I said confidently, "I don't really know what your problem is, my lovely, but I'm not leaving here until I do." Ha, I still can't believe I did that—cheeky 21-year-old girl, who did I think I was? But she looked me straight in the eye and replied. And that's how it started. After ninety minutes, she had told me her story.

A Burden Unshared

"You'll dislike me even more if I tell you," she began.

When she was my age, she had been planning to marry her childhood sweetheart, and then the war happened. She wasn't angry that he enlisted; they had nearly consummated their relationship before he left. In the end, they got engaged, promising themselves the life they wanted after the war. But one fateful night changed everything.

She told me it just sort of happened—she was lonely; everyone was. A group of stationed soldiers suddenly arrived at a party, and that's when the 'real' party started. She felt giddy from drinks and company and lost herself in that one moment of weakness. Riddled with excruciating guilt and remorse, she vowed never to go out like that again, at least until he was home. Soon after, she discovered her fiancé had been killed in action. The thing was, she never told a soul what had happened that night.

Not one single soul.

Life simply went on. Eventually, the war ended, and she met and married a kind man. She had a family but never shook the awful feeling that if she hadn't done that, he would never have died. She ultimately believed she had been punished, and the worst part was, no one ever knew. Her new husband knew and sympathized with her loss, never realizing that she entirely blamed herself. She told me about moments of joy, times in her life when she'd started to forget. But that feeling always eventually came back.

"That's why I'm so miserable. I'm a terrible person."

She was a widow now; her children had even become parents. She simply hadn't forgiven herself. I listened quietly for a long time while I bathed her and tended to her personal and surgical care. I watched her weep, held her hand while she allowed those tears to finally fall.

I thought about myself, the crazy wild parties we regularly had as students, the drinks that flowed, and the casualness of it all. Then I thanked her. I thanked her for trusting me with the heaviest burden of her life.

Ironically, I went to a party that night and sat most of it out on the sidelines, unusually observing, processing, I guess, through a very different lens.

A Final Release

The next day, I was working the afternoon shift; she was still on my allocated patient list. The morning staff reported that she was different—nicer, easier. They asked me what had happened, and I smiled and said very little, just that we'd 'hit it off.' Shortly afterward, I wanted to go and talk to her. When I walked into her room, I saw her color was different. I stood in that doorway and watched her take her very last breath as she died.

She died, I believe, because she had finally let go. After all those years of suffering, she'd finally spoken her truth. I'm eternally grateful that she waited for me to say goodbye.

Teachers come in many shapes and sizes; that day, she was mine.

Reflecting on Unspoken Burdens

This experience taught me the profound weight of unshared guilt and the liberation that comes from voicing our deepest pains. It's a reminder that we all carry stories, some heavier than others, and the act of sharing can be a powerful step toward healing.

Your Journey to Healing

This experience taught me the profound weight of unspoken guilt and the liberation that comes from finally sharing our deepest pains. We all carry stories—some heavier than others—and the simple act of voicing them can be the first step toward healing.

If you’ve found yourself resonating with this story, perhaps it’s time to explore the burdens you’ve been carrying. Healing begins with connection, compassion, and a willingness to take that first step.

You Don’t Have to Do This Alone
If you’re ready to share your story or begin a journey toward clarity and peace, I’m here to support you. Together, we’ll create a safe, nurturing space to uncover the healing and freedom you deserve.

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