Thank You for Trying

I’m on shift getting groceries and a man is looking at me. I give a friendly smile and he says, “Thank you for trying to save my neighbor.”

We had a call earlier that week for a check the well-being. We had to break into the home, waking the neighbors who shared the wall. We did CPR for an hour with no changes and time of death was called on scene.

“I’m sorry we woke your family.” I say.

He tells me about his neighbor. Their habits, their work, how long they’ve lived there, how long they’ve known them. He tells me about the kids I looked at pictures of on the fridge while we tried to get pulses back. Young kids. That got me, looking at the pictures, and I’d moved to the other side of his body so I could focus without distractions. 

He told me they were doing well and what his family was doing to help the kids cope. I just listened. I liked listening. I liked hearing about this person as a person with a life and relationships instead of just a body. I liked that this neighbor felt comfortable sharing with me. I liked knowing there were people who cared and were helping each other process.

I wanted to give him a hug when he was done but I didn’t. I just took a deep breath and said, “Thank you for sharing with me. Take good care of yourself, OK?”

“OK,” he said, “Thank you again.”

It makes me want to cry, being thanked for an unsuccessful attempt. It didn’t work. There was nothing we could have done. But we tried. We moved away from the photos when that was needed, and then listened when we could. 

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Review

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This is a story about human connection in the aftermath of loss. It’s about finding meaning in presence rather than outcome, and how even unsuccessful efforts can still matter deeply to those left behind. There is an underlying message that in healthcare, especially in emergency response, success isn’t always about saving a life—it’s about honoring one. The language is simple, even spare, which gives emotional moments like “That got me” or “It makes me want to cry” greater weight. The restraint in tone enhances the emotional impact.

The narrator shows what isn’t often seen: the follow-up moments, the random run-ins where the consequences of a call reappear in unexpected ways. They bear witness both to the neighbor’s grief and the patient’s life, without needing to claim ownership over either. There’s humility in how the narrator writes about their role—no glorification, no heroic posturing, just a quiet recounting of doing a job, absorbing pain, and respecting human connection. Their presence is quiet, respectful, and meaningful.

This story is an excellent example of how small, quiet moments reveal the deepest truths about our work, our compassion, and our need to feel seen. It captures something sacred: the unspoken bond between strangers in the face of death, and how effort—even when it fails to save a life—can still bring comfort and gratitude.