Under the small room’s fluorescent light, she clutches her husband's hand.

He stands next to her as she lies on the table, her leg crinkling the paper sheet as it bounces in anticipation. “We’ve waited for this day for many years,” she says, then smiles wide. 

“Should we find out the gender?” he asks.

The ultrasound machine reveals unexpected news. The doctor’s face turns serious as she outlines the silhouette of their unborn child with no flicker of a heartbeat. Like a kaleidoscope, I watch their future dreams flash between their eyes, then hand them Kleenex for their tears.

Here I am, part of a sacred space with a couple I’ve never met, finding balance between professionalism and humanity.

-

As their nurse and a mother, I witness this delicate dance between life and death. Time suspends. The room’s sharp smell of antiseptic brings me back. “I’m sorry,” I say, squeezing her hand.

Here I am, part of a sacred space with a couple I’ve never met, finding balance between professionalism and humanity. 

When my watch buzzes, I notice I am 10 minutes late for the next appointment. I shift from a solemn mood to a sense of urgency. I need to reset the room and politely greet the next couple as if nothing had just happened in this space. My mind pushes to get back on schedule. 

Feelings suppressed in a deep, undefined place, I move through the rest of the day in thirty-minute increments. With each appointment, my emotions roller coaster from happiness to hope to grief, with only minutes in between each before a new ride takes off. I keep climbing aboard, shouldering my patients’ burdens and grief.

The day ends. As I enter the threshold of my home and greet my children, I exhale—such sweet relief. I never realize how often I hold my breath.

Pamela, a DNP student, psychiatric nurse practitioner, wrote this narrative based on her experiences as a patient and as a nurse who has experienced loss and cared for people through loss and grief. She is mother to three young girls and lives in the Charlottesville area.