I started nursing school when I was pregnant with my son. I needed a career where I could earn a living, leave my husband and make sure the kids and I wouldn’t starve. That was the plan. Graduate, make regular money and give my kids a peaceful home life. 

As I sit in my ecmo patient’s room six years later, finished with the witching hour tasks and taking a breath for the first time this shift I realize it has turned into something way bigger than that. Being a night shift critical care nurse has become part of my identity. I’ve tried working day shift, leaving bedside nursing for that ‘soft nurse life’ and it all left me feeling like I was missing something. Would I wish bedside nursing on anyone? Nah. Do I love it anyway? You know what, hell yeah. There’s a fair amount of guilt working nights, being away from my family for bedtime, sleeping during the day and missing out on concerts and having to schedule date nights weeks in advance, but I found someone tolerant and understanding of all of that. I couldn’t ask for a more patient and caring man to warm up my eye mask before my day time sleep of the dead. 

Making the decision to enter into one of the most cut throat areas of nursing besides trauma, has made me a stronger, but also slightly unstable person. It’s hard to describe to non-healthcare workers that even though sometimes my shifts are so stressful I want to throw up and sometimes have nightmares for a few days, I can’t walk away. Is it a mental illness? Probably. Those who get it, get it. I’ll drive home after the sun comes up and KNOW that this shift, this one patient had my full attention, and I did my best to make them feel safe, or if it was their last night in this life I held space for them with dignity and compassion. The dark humor, the occasional breakfast with coworkers, the urge to throw our scrubs in a bonfire, all of that aside: we can’t leave bedside. At least not yet. The watch isn’t over. My back will probably give out first.