A Patient Experience That I Will Never Forget

As a relatively new nurse on an intermediate medical unit at a large oncology hospital, I was there the week before Thanksgiving—an emotionally charged time for me, perhaps because of past difficult experiences. Although I was new to nursing, I brought more than 5 years of patient care experience as a nursing assistant. I am meticulous, detail-oriented, and deeply passionate about my patients’ well-being. However, nothing prepared me for what happened that morning more than 15 years ago. I remember it clearly.

At around 4 AM, I admitted a 56-year-old man from the emergency department. He was diagnosed with a new, incidentally found pulmonary embolism (PE), on top of an existing lung cancer diagnosis. Despite his medical challenges, he appeared stable, alert, oriented, and was breathing comfortably on 2 liters of oxygen via nasal cannula. During the admission process, I completed all necessary assessments: fall risk, emotional and psychosocial needs, home medications, and his history. While doing this, I also got to know him. He shared his love for golf and how much he enjoyed spending time with his family. He was kind, warm, and optimistic, even cracking a few jokes. I thought about how well he was handling everything and felt grateful for the quick connection we formed.

After finishing his admission, I helped him settle in. He mentioned he had slept in the emergency department and wasn’t tired. Instead of resting, he wanted to get up, pour himself some coffee, and stretch his legs. I offered to bring him coffee several times, but he politely declined. “I’m fine,” he said with a smile. At that moment, I faced one of the most ethically complex parts of patient care: respecting autonomy while ensuring safety. He was capable, lucid, and in control of his decisions. While I wanted to protect him, I also recognized the importance of honoring his dignity and independence, a core principle of person-centered care. I ensured he was safe, helped him into his skid-free socks, secured his hospital gown, connected his portable oxygen tank, and checked everything. He waved to me as he passed the nurses’ station. I remember feeling proud that he was up and moving—a small win.

Five minutes later, a family member alerted staff that someone had collapsed near the refreshment station. I felt a sinking sensation in my chest. I knew it was him. I rushed to the scene to find him lying on the floor, unresponsive and cyanotic. My heart dropped. I immediately called a code blue and began CPR. For nearly an hour, in a tight doorway, my colleagues and I tried everything. But we couldn’t save him. He died.

The emotional weight from that moment crushed me. I had just met this man. I heard about his family and love for golf, and now he was gone. Despite his insistence and apparent stability, I blamed myself for letting him walk unassisted. The guilt haunted me at home, replaying events over and over. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t imagine returning to work. As a nurse, I had sworn to do no harm, following the principle of nonmaleficence. I felt I had failed. Yet, ethically, I also knew I had done everything within my professional knowledge and judgment to keep him safe.

Later that day, my unit director called me. She had heard what happened and wanted to check in. She said something I will never forget: “Even the most stable patients can take a sudden turn.” She shared a similar story of a patient she had with a PE who passed away quietly in bed. Her words and her empathy helped me start the healing process. I didn’t work my next 2 shifts. I cried for weeks. I questioned whether I was cut out for this profession. But after much reflection and support, I returned. And I came back stronger.

From that day on, I changed my practice. No matter how stable a patient seems, I walk with them or monitor them every time. If they insist on going alone, I assess carefully and follow up often. That day taught me that clinical stability isn’t guaranteed—it’s a moment-to-moment reality, especially in oncology and acute care. More importantly, it showed me that compassion isn’t only about caring but also about giving ourselves grace when outcomes are beyond our control. As nurses, we uphold beneficence and fidelity: doing good, being present, and advocating fiercely for our patients. But this experience taught me that self-compassion is also an ethical duty. Without it, we risk losing the humanity that makes our care meaningful.

This experience shaped who I am as a nurse. It taught me humility, vigilance, and the fragile balance we walk daily. Above all, it taught me that ethics aren’t just about rules; they’re about choices in moments of uncertainty, rooted in empathy and reflection. I will never forget that patient. He reminded me of why I became a nurse and why I continue doing this work.