When the nurse becomes the patient.

The Day Everything Changed

One day, I woke up feeling completely fine. By mid-afternoon, everything changed.

Out of nowhere, I was hit with uncontrollable nausea, weakness, and pain so intense that my body began to shake. I told myself I could ride it out, something so many of us in healthcare tend to do. We are used to being the caregiver, not the one being cared for. But that instinct to “push through it” nearly cost me my life.

Within hours, I was trembling with fever, barely able to stand. Fear took over. My anxiety was through the roof, but I still hesitated to call for help. When I finally dialed 911, my temperature was 103.4. I was rushed to the hospital and admitted through the emergency room.

Five days later, I left that hospital as someone forever changed. What started as a kidney infection had become a bacterial infection that entered my bloodstream. Sepsis. At first, the doctors couldn’t find an antibiotic that addressed the specific bacteria, and every day felt like a battle between hope and fear. I lay in that hospital bed, surrounded by machines and alarms, and learned what it means to be on the other side of care. I had IV fluids, and antibiotics the entire time, with medications for nausea, pain, and constipation, my vitals were taken every few hours, and I had two blood draws a day. (5am seems a riduclous time to wake someone up for blood draw but I knew this was needed.)

The View From the Bed

I have learned that I am a much better nurse than I am a patient. But being in that bed taught me more about nursing, and about humanity, than any class, certification, or year of experience ever could.

As patients, we hang on to every word spoken to us. When someone says, “I’ll be right back with a pillow,” we trust that to be true. When they don't return for a few hours, it’s not just an inconvenience, it’s crushing, it makes you feel invisible. When you are in pain but hesitate to press the call button because you don’t want to “bother” anyone, that’s when suffering grows in silence.

To anyone lying in that bed right now: bother them. That’s what they are there for. You are not a burden. You are a human being who deserves care, comfort, and dignity.

Every time a new person entered my room, I had to repeat my story, again and again. Reliving the fear, the pain, the confusion. I didn’t understand why the story wasn’t known, why I had to keep explaining myself. Each time I did, it felt like reopening a wound.

Please don't confuse my message here, the doctors and nurses who cared for me were awesome and kind. They were tired, but they showed up. I know now how much they carry, shift after shift, but I also know how much weight their words and actions hold for the person in that bed.

Fear, Fragility, and Perspective

At one point, the ER doctor looked me in the eye and said,

“Gabby, you are very sick. You need to take this seriously. If you hadn’t called 911, you could have died.”

That sentence still echoes in my mind. You could have died.

It hit me harder than anything else because I truly didn’t think I was “that sick.” I even told him, “I know I don’t look that bad.” I didn’t realize how sick I was.

That moment changed everything. I started to think about all the times we, as clinicians, see someone minimizing their pain or delaying care because they don’t want to be dramatic or a burden. I see now how fragile life really is, and how easily it can slip away while we are trying to be “tough.”

I live alone. What if I had passed out? What if I hadn’t made that call? It reminded me how vital it is to build community, to make sure someone knows when you are struggling, to have a circle of care even if you live by yourself. No one should be unseen in their suffering.

The Lessons I will Carry Forever

As a nurse, this experience changed how I will care for others. I will still ask about bowel movements and medications, because that is part of the job, but I will also ask, “How are you really doing?”“Is there someone I can call for you?”“What is the hardest part of this for you right now?”"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Because the truth is, the person in that bed isn’t just a diagnosis or a number on a wristband. They are someone’s family or friend. They have pets waiting at home, gardens drying up in the sun, bills they are worried about paying, and commitments they cannot honor.

In my case, I kept thinking about my two cats, alone, confused, and my flower garden outside my little apartment slowly dying without water. Those things might sound small, but they were my world, and I was powerless to tend to them. Thankfully I was able to ask my neighbors to feed them, but one day turned into several, which I am sure they were not expecting, and I can't imagine how the cats must have felt. Their whole world was changed in an instant.

And when my son watered the plants, I cried with relief. It wasn’t about the cats or the flowers, it was about being seen, even from afar. Knowing that life was still happening outside that hospital room and that someone was helping me keep it alive.

For the Patient and the Nurse Alike

To every patient: You are allowed to ask for help. You are allowed to ask questions, to ring the call bell again, to say, “This doesn’t feel right.” You are not being difficult, you are being your own advocate.

And to every clinician, nurse, doctor, or aide who stands at a bedside: remember that the person in that bed is terrified. They might look calm, but inside they are screaming. They are trying to make sense of what’s happening to their body and their life. Look up. Make eye contact. Say their name. Tell them what’s coming next. Even when you are tired, even when it’s your twentieth admission that day, take a breath and see them. Because one day, it could be you in that bed. And when that day comes, you will understand, as I did, that compassion isn’t just part of nursing, it is the heartbeat of it.

I have spent my career standing at the bedside, holding the hands of others as they faced fear, pain, and the unknown. I have whispered words of comfort and strength, reminding them that they are not alone. But this time, it was me lying there, frightened, vulnerable, and at the mercy of others’ hands and hearts.

When the nurse becomes the patient, everything changes. The monitors hum differently. The silence feels louder. You begin to understand how much courage it takes to simply surrender, to trust that someone will see you, hear you, and care for you as if you matter most in that moment.

I left the hospital grateful, not just to be alive, but to have seen nursing from the other side of the bedrail. It reminded me that healing isn’t only found in medicine or machines. It’s found in presence, in compassion, and in the small, tender gestures that say, “I see you. You are safe. You matter.”

So now, when I return to my patients, I will bring this experience with me, not as a wound, but as a witness. A reminder that we are all, at some point, both the healer and the healed.

I am alive.

I am alive.

I am alive.

xo

Gabby

So many people showed up for me; my family, my friends, my neighbors, so many people I have never met personally, and when they asked me if I needed anything, I said yes, something I have never been good at. I am so grateful for all they have done for me. I felt held in the most beautuful way.

Please give yourself permission to ask for help, or if someone offers it, accept it.