Greg's Journal: The Day I Lost My First Patient

Greg's Journal | Entry No. 6

Before I ever became a nurse, before I ever gave anesthesia, before I ever walked into an operating room as the person responsible for someone's care, I learned a lesson that has stayed with me for the rest of my life.

It happened in nursing school.

I was completing a clinical rotation in the Medical Intensive Care Unit at Vanderbilt University Medical Center. Like every nursing student, I was eager to learn. I wanted to be useful. I wanted to do everything right.

Nothing in school really prepares you for your first patient death. And nothing prepares you for losing two patients in the same day.

The First Goodbye

One of my patients was expected to die.

The family knew it. The healthcare team knew it. The patient had a Do Not Resuscitate order in place, and we understood that we were no longer trying to prolong life at all costs.

Our job had changed. Instead of trying to cure, we were trying to comfort.

There is dignity in that. There is compassion in that. There is also sadness.

I remember understanding, at least intellectually, that this patient wasn't going to survive. Even so, when the moment came, it felt different than I expected.

Death has a way of making a room very still. Conversations become quieter. People move a little more gently. Time seems to slow down.

I thought that would be the hardest part of my day.

I was wrong.

Thirty Minutes Later

About half an hour later, another patient died.

That one wasn't expected. It caught everyone off guard.

Suddenly, what had already been an emotional day became overwhelming. I remember standing there thinking,

"What have I gotten myself into?"

Until that day, healthcare had been exciting. Interesting. Challenging.

Now it felt incredibly heavy.

I wasn't just learning medications and procedures anymore. I was learning what it meant to walk alongside people on the hardest days of their lives.

Going Home

That evening I drove to my uncle's house in Nashville, where I was staying during my rotation.

My aunt and uncle had both worked late. Dinner was waiting. We sat down together like any other evening.

I don't remember talking much about the hospital. I don't think I was ready yet.

I ate. Worked on my care plans for the next day's clinicals. Tried to prepare for another early morning.

Later, I called my parents. That's when I told them what had happened.

Looking back, I'm grateful I had something to focus on that night. Sometimes work itself becomes part of healing.

The Next Morning

The next day I walked back into the hospital. Not because I felt ready. Because that's where I belonged.

Something had changed inside me. I realized that what nurses do truly matters.

Not just the medications. Not just the procedures. Everything.

The way we speak. The way we comfort families. The way we explain difficult news. The way we stay calm when everything around us feels uncertain.

I wanted to become very good at those things. Not because I thought I could save everyone. Because I wanted every patient I cared for to receive my very best.

A Philosophy That Stayed With Me

People sometimes ask how healthcare professionals continue doing this work after seeing so much loss.

The truth is, you develop a philosophy. Mine formed very early.

I believe that when it's someone's time to go, it's their time.

That doesn't mean we stop trying. Quite the opposite.

We do everything we possibly can. We prepare. We think ahead. We use every skill we've spent years developing.

But I don't carry responsibility for something no human being ultimately controls.

That belief has allowed me to continue caring deeply without becoming consumed by guilt.

Oddly enough, I think part of that mindset began even before nursing. It began in the Marine Corps.

When you're in the infantry, you can't spend every moment worrying about what might happen. You have a mission. You prepare. You trust your training. Then you move forward.

I've carried that same mindset into healthcare.

What Families Need Most

As my career progressed, I cared for many more patients who died. It never became easy.

But I learned something important.

Once a patient has passed away, there is very little left that I can do for them. There is still so much I can do for their family.

I can answer questions. I can sit quietly beside them. I can listen.

Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone isn't an explanation. It's your presence.

One of the hospital chaplains who eventually married Marion and me once gave me advice I'll never forget. He said,

"Sometimes I just sit there in silence. If you stay long enough, people will tell you what they need."

He was right.

Silence is uncomfortable until it becomes comforting.

What Death Taught Me About Life

Losing those first two patients changed me. Not because it made me afraid. Because it made me appreciate life differently.

I stopped taking ordinary days for granted.

A dinner with family. A quiet evening at home. Watching my kids play cards around the table. Walking through the lavender fields with Marion.

Those moments aren't ordinary anymore. They're gifts.

Healthcare has a way of reminding you that life is fragile. Not so you'll live in fear. So you'll live with gratitude.

Why This Matters Today

People sometimes assume my career is about medicine. Medicine is certainly part of it.

But the longer I do this work, the more I realize it's really about people.

It's about showing up. Keeping your promises. Treating every patient with dignity. Helping families through impossible moments. And remembering that every person lying in a hospital bed is someone's husband, wife, parent, child, or best friend.

That perspective followed me into every part of my life.

It's in the way I raise my children. It's in the way Marion and I built Bloomfield. It's in the way we create products.

Because whether I'm caring for a patient in the operating room or helping create something that becomes part of someone's evening routine, the goal is the same.

Leave people better than you found them.

That lesson began with two patients I will never forget. And it continues to shape every day that has followed.

For the Quiet Hours,
Greg Wiggins, CRNA
Co-Founder, Bloomfield Schoolhouse Lavender