We Figured Out What’s Wrong With You

I was meant to start nursing school September, 2019.  But, COVID started locking things down in March and pushed my program back a semester so I started January, 2020 instead. We had clinical rotations, but there were no visitors allowed in the hospital.  Usually my program had nursing students in the hospital for two 8-hour shifts a week but to keep people in and out the least amount possible they changed it to one 13-hour shift a week, and sometimes twice a week. 

Most of the people in the hospital are admitted from the emergency room.  They come to the ER with some sort of symptom. If it’s unmanageable at home they get admitted for treatment and when they’re stable enough, they get discharged. Many of the people in the ER get there from calling 911.

Which just means that a lot of these patients had a stomach ache, or whatever, called 911, were taken to the ER, admitted to the hospital, and were without their phones or chargers or phone numbers because that wasn’t on their mind when called 911.  And now here they were, unable to have visitors. So, for the ones that had something serious going on even unrelated to COVID, they were going through this very alone.

One day I’m rounding on the patients I am assigned and one of my patients says, “The doctor just left, did you talk to him?”

I say, “No.”

She says, “Well, he’s apparently an intern, and he comes in excited, saying, ‘We figured out what’s wrong with you,’ and I get excited, and then he tells me, ‘your stomach has been hurting because you have cancer.’ Can you believe that? He’s all excited like he solved a puzzle. He told me I’ve got three months to live.”

I feel a pit in my stomach and stare a moment, “I am so sorry,” I say.

“He apologized.  I guess it’s some rare form and he thought to test for it, go figure.  I’ve been here a week getting tested. I’m going to have to tell my daughters about this.  Oh my gosh, and I was supposed to help my daughter with planning… what does planning mean now? And…how should I tell them? I don’t think I want to do it over the phone, but I should tell them together, right? And she’s going to be on a trip, but, yeah I don’t want to tell them separately …”

She keeps talking. I stand there and listen.

In a moment when the shock leaves me I remember that I’m here as a student and have a lot to do. I weigh my options. I don’t have time to stand here and listen. I am also unwilling to leave this person to process this alone. I tune in and out of what she’s saying.

I realize it’s been a few minutes and she’s still talking and not paying attention to me.  I decide she doesn’t need me to talk or think, she just needs another human in the room.

I log in to the computer.  We are not supposed to chart on other patients in patient rooms but I decide to do it anyway.  I turn the computer screen so she can’t see, not that she’s looking.  She’s staring straight ahead of her, “My poor husband,” she says, “We really didn’t see this coming, we’ve been so lucky, we’re healthy...”

I take a deep breath and try to create an invisible wall between her pain and myself because I miss my husband right now and if I let myself think about her reality too much I won’t be able to make it through my shift.

Three times I had this happen during my clinical experience in nursing school.  Where I walked into a room to check on a patient and they informed me the doctor had just left after telling them they had less than 6 months to live. 

These experiences made me hate hospitals. It’s not actually the death part that is fucked up. Death is imminent for all of us at one point or another. I’ve seen people right before they’ve died, right after, it’s not inherently problematic. It’s only a problem if that process disrespects life.  You do not inform a human being who trusts you and came to you for help that they are going to die much sooner than they expected and then walk right out the door like you’ve solved their problem.

I also think a lot of doctors keep their heads in the books to get through medical school at the expense of basic social skills. Then work starts in the hospital where it is profit-driven, so time is of the essence and the aim is to diagnose and treat as quickly as possible and then move on to the next.

Anyway, whatever the reasons, my heart goes out to everyone who has had this experience. It is cruel in a way that it doesn't have to be and it is one of the many reasons I generally don’t like our medical system.

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Review

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This story is raw, compassionate, and unflinchingly honest, offering a stark reflection on the failures of institutional healthcare systems—particularly how clinical efficiency often comes at the expense of humanity. It’s a powerful exploration of how systems designed to heal can inadvertently inflict emotional harm, especially in moments when patients are most vulnerable.

The tone is empathetic, reflective, and quietly outraged. There’s a simmering frustration that grows stronger as the story unfolds—directed not at individuals, but at the systemic failures that force both caregivers and patients into emotionally harmful situations. The narrative critiques how both medical and nursing education can overlook the importance of teaching empathy, communication, and presence—skills just as essential as clinical knowledge. 

The narrator’s ability to convey the quiet heartbreak of simply being present with someone in their suffering—without offering solutions, just being there—is what makes this story deeply moving. The acknowledgment that the problem isn’t death itself but how we approach it in healthcare is both refreshing and profound. The reflection on these experiences is layered with empathy, frustration, and the moral exhaustion that comes from witnessing systemic failures firsthand.