Izzy & Noah

Fifty: A Day in Nurse Life

"They come to the second phase of palliative care," I explain, keeping my voice steady. "At this stage, patients usually have only a few months left. Their tumors have progressed to the point where specific therapies are no longer effective. Our focus shifts to alleviating symptoms—pain, nausea, vomiting, constipation, anemia—and arranging support for them at home."

Beth listens intently, her expression soft yet focused. "I truly admire what you do," she says, her tone carrying genuine warmth. "Not everyone has the strength for this kind of work. But I can see that you're exceptional—someone who truly cares."

Her words catch me off guard. A quiet warmth stirs within me, equal parts pride and humility.

"I'm far from exceptional," I reply with a modest smile. "I have so much more to learn. But I think... I think I've found my calling."

"It's rare to hear someone say that these days," Beth responds thoughtfully. "So many young people spend years searching, uncertain of what they truly want."

I nod, taking a sip of my coffee. "I had to figure it out early on," I admit. "There wasn't much choice but to mature quickly and find my way."

Noah, seated beside me, leans closer, his arm slipping around my shoulders. The gesture is subtle but grounding. "What are you two talking about?" he asks, his voice light but curious.

"My work," I say softly, feeling the weight of the conversation settle around us.

Beth smiles knowingly but doesn't press further. Noah, however, tilts his head, studying me. "You don't talk about it much anymore. You used to tell me about your colleagues or funny little stories. What's changed?"

I hesitate, glancing at the steam rising from my cup. "There's not much to say," I reply finally. "The days are... different now. A little heavier. We lose patients more often than I'd like, but somehow, that makes the quieter, easier days feel lighter. As for my colleagues... they're tolerable, as always."

My voice trails off, and for a moment, silence fills the room. It's not awkward—it's the kind of silence that carries an unspoken understanding.

This is my reality. One I live with every day.

The most shocking moment for me was the death of a patient who didn't seem close to passing away. Just the morning before his visit, we were talking about how his nephew was coming to pick him up and how well he'd been taking care of him. And then, in the blink of an eye, the last thing that happened was he grabbed my hand, and he literally died in my arms.

It's one of those things that happens—life, I suppose. But it still hit me hard. I remember going to the bathroom afterward, just trying to breathe and not cry, even though my whole body was shaking.

As the months go by, we somehow learn to cope with the fact that death is part of life. Some losses are harder than others, though.

The hardest for me was the death of a lung patient who started bleeding from the pulmonary artery. His voice still echoes in my mind, especially the moment he said he couldn't go on anymore.

A newly hired nurse, only a few days on the ward, nearly collapsed from the shock and the blood. The doctor had sweat dripping down his forehead. It's stressful for everyone involved, but the thing that makes oncology special is that the team truly pulls together for each patient. When one of us falters, regardless of our individual relationships, we come together. If the patient takes a turn for the worse, we know exactly what needs to be done. We know who to contact, where everything is, and what's needed—from the waitress to the senior nurse and doctor. We're all one.

"How many of them die?" she asks, hesitantly.

"Two or three a week," I respond. "It depends. Even the full moon makes it worse, and December is usually tougher."

"What's the hardest part of death?" she asks, almost to herself, as if she's trying to understand what lies ahead, as if she's preparing for what we all must face.

"The hardest part isn't death itself, but dying. The suffering, the pain, the suffocation. The 'beautiful' deaths are often kidney failure or liver coma. But I don't mean beautiful, not really. No death is truly beautiful. But with those, they fall asleep. It's as peaceful as death can be, I suppose." I finish my coffee, eat some of my dessert, and toss the rest into the sink, realizing I've lost track of these small details in the chaos.

"Yes, I understand. But how do the families cope?" she asks.

"It varies," I say. "Some turn it into a drama, others just cry and leave in silence. But one thing is certain—we only see people while they're alive, and then we're left wondering what happens to the family afterward. How do they experience all of this?"

I settle back in Noah's chair in the dining room, and Noah listens intently, following our discussion about palliative care closely.

"I think it's time to change the subject. So, you can say something happier about Noah," I say, because it seems to me that the atmosphere has changed, that everyone is thinking about what I've said.

"Oh Noah, my Noah. The sweetest baby, with a flushed cheek, but you didn't even know about this baby, if you believe me, after the death of his parents, when it was a really busy time for all of us." She is silent for a while, thinking about the words, how she would say everything, how she would go on.

"It was really a kind of dark period, when I lost my daughter and at the same time had to raise a grandson, you know, everything was different then. I lived a simple, quiet life, my husband died years ago, of cancer, my life was work and home. And all of a sudden, I had this little child that I couldn't say no to. You know how it is, a bad time, but with him I think I got through this crisis a little bit easier because he kept me occupied, his head still wasn't quiet, he didn't quite understand what was going on. We involved psychologists, both for me and for him. Mainly because he had all the answers, I also knew how to make the right decision and how to keep everything together, when and how much to tell and show at the same time. But I was always honest with him. At the same time, we recognised the right time, his reaction to the stressful period, and we reacted accordingly. And so, the years went by and he was a teenager and very independent and at the same time very immature for his age." She smiles at Noah.

Noah smiles back and rolls his eyes.

Her sincerity is so contagious, her ease. Her selflessness.

"When he told me he wanted to study medicine, I wasn't surprised at all. He had this endless curiosity about the human body—everything about it. Even when he was five, he went to a bookstore and asked for an anatomical atlas. He'd carry it around, studying it like some people study the Bible. And he'd spend days and nights immersed in it, learning, inspired," she says, a spark of fondness in her eyes.

I can't help but laugh because I can just picture him—the book was huge, heavy, and he'd lug it around, pouring over it as if it held all the answers.

And it's moments like these that make me realize how truly lucky I am to have Noah in my life. How much I want him by my side, forever. I move closer to Noah and squeeze his hand.

"And then it all changed—the illness came. It destroyed everything I had worked so hard to build," she says, her voice wavering as I see tears begin to well in her eyes.

She looks up, turning her gaze to the ceiling, trying to steady herself.

"I understand," I say softly.

I understand what it's like—how it feels when the person you care about is struck with illness, how the whole family is affected, not just the person battling it. Cancer is not a fight fought alone; it consumes everyone close, near and far.

It's all-encompassing.

Some days are harder than others. 

The endless cycle of treatments that seem to bring both hope and despair—better, then worse, then better again. 

The disease may rest for a while, but it always comes back, sometimes stronger than before.

But not every story ends in death. Medicine has advanced so much. 

There are cures now, thanks to new therapies and drugs.

I stop, realizing I promised myself no more tears today—only happiness—but as I watch her first tear fall, I feel it. The emotion is too much.