We see them at Starbucks, exhausted, grabbing a coffee in those sea-blue scrubs. We pass them in the grocery store aisle after their shift. We call them “heroes,” especially over the last few years.
But that word is too easy. It lets us off the hook.
We have no idea what they just came from. We have no idea what they saw, what they held, or what they had to do just to keep breathing.
But I’ve seen it. And I can’t unsee it.
I saw a nurse in the ER in downtown Cleveland, on one of those nights when the hallway is the waiting room. A man was brought in, homeless, soaked from the rain, and incoherent from withdrawal. He was fighting, scared, and alone.
The other staff were stretched thin. But this nurse, “David,” didn’t just strap him down. He got a basin of warm water and a towel. He gently, firmly, washed the grime from the man’s face and hands. He spoke to him, not at him. “You’re safe now,” he said. “We’re going to help you.” In that moment, he wasn’t just a patient; he was a person. David gave him back his name.
I saw a CNA (Certified Nursing Assistant) in a memory care unit in rural Florida. She was sitting with “Mrs. Eleanor,” a sweet woman in her 90s with severe Alzheimer’s. Mrs. Eleanor was weeping, asking over and over for her mother, who passed away in the 1970s. She kept saying, “I’ve been bad. Does she still love me?”
The aide, Maria, who is only 23, took her hand. She looked right into her eyes and said, “She loves you more than anything in the world. She told me to tell you she’s so proud of you, and she’ll be here after your nap.”
Mrs. Eleanor’s weeping stopped. She smiled. For those ten minutes, Maria was that mother. She stepped into that fractured memory and offered a forgiveness the patient didn’t even know she needed. It was an embrace that healed a wound 50 years old.
I saw a pediatric nurse covered in… well, everything. A little boy was having a violent reaction to a new medication. He was scared, he was vomiting, and his parents were stuck on the interstate, frantic. This nurse held him, whispering “I’ve got you, buddy. You’re strong. I’m right here,” all while managing his IV, cleaning him up, and never once showing an ounce of disgust. Just pure, protective strength.
And this… this, I will never forget.
I saw a nurse in Labor & Delivery. A baby was stillborn. The silence in that room was heavier than anything I’ve ever felt. The young mother was just… gone. Numb with grief.
While the doctor spoke softly to the family, the nurse took the tiny, perfect, silent body. She bathed it in warm water. She gently lotioned its skin, combed the fine hair, and dressed it in a small blue knitted cap and a soft white gown.
She didn’t treat this baby as a medical loss. She treated it as a person.
She wrapped him in a blanket and placed him in his mother’s arms. “He’s beautiful,” the nurse whispered. “You have as much time as you need.” She gave that family the only moment they would ever have to say hello and goodbye with dignity, with peace, as if their child were simply asleep.
I’ve seen nurses on the phone, not with a doctor, but tracking down a pastor, an imam, or a rabbi at 3 AM, because a patient’s soul needed healing as much as their body.
I’ve seen them, time and time again, clock out after a grueling 12-hour shift, sit in their car, and just cry for five minutes. And then I’ve seen them walk back inside because the next shift called in short, and they refuse to leave their team—and their patients—hanging.
They do this while the system stretches them to the breaking point. They do it while they miss their own kids’ soccer games, while they’re drowning in paperwork, while they are exhausted, underpaid, and burned out.
They do it because their ethics, their duty, and their love for humanity come before everything else.
We get so caught up in debates about healthcare policy, insurance companies, and mandates that we forget the people holding this entire broken system together with their bare hands and compassionate hearts.
If there is a more noble, more sacred, more fundamentally human profession than nursing, forgive my ignorance.
I don’t know of it.
They are the ones who stay when everyone else leaves. They are the ones who touch us when we feel untouchable. They are the first hand we hold when we enter this world, and they are often the last hand we hold when we leave it.
Don’t just call them “heroes.” It’s not enough.
See them. Respect them. Advocate for them. And the next time you see one, whether they’re on shift or just trying to buy milk, look them in the eye and say, “Thank you.”
They’ve earned it more than we will ever, ever know.
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