I nearly lost my life while giving birth to my son.
We both spent ten days in the hospital after that. My baby was in intensive care, and I was stuck in a small room down the hall. I barely slept. Nights were the worst because everything was quiet except for the machines and my own thoughts. I didn’t have anyone there with me, and the fear felt heavier when it got late.
That’s when this nurse started coming in.
Every night, usually after midnight, she’d quietly step into my room. She never rushed me or acted annoyed. She’d sit down and tell me how my baby was doing, if the doctors had said anything new, how he was breathing, whether he’d opened his eyes. Sometimes the news was good, sometimes not. But she always ended with this calm smile that made things feel a little less hopeless.
At the time, I didn’t realize how much I needed that.
Two years later, I was watching the news one night, barely paying attention, when I suddenly recognized her. It was the same face and the same calm presence.
The story was about local heroes. She was running a volunteer program that stayed overnight with parents of babies in intensive care. She said no parent should feel alone during those nights.
Then they mentioned that she’d lost her own baby years earlier and that hit me hard. Suddenly, everything made sense. She wasn’t just doing her job, she knew exactly what those nights felt like.
I ended up reaching out to the hospital and, somehow, she remembered me. She sent me a handwritten letter saying that helping parents through those moments was what mattered most to her.
I still think about her when things feel heavy. She showed me that kindness doesn’t have to be loud, it just has to be there.
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