I'll Be Seeing You

Twenty-One.

The final stretch before the wedding came faster than I expected. One minute it was February and I was crying into Mark's hoodie at two in the morning, and the next thing I knew, it was May. Everything for the wedding was done—venue locked in, flowers chosen, playlist approved, dress hanging in my closet like a little slice of magic. It was all real now. The countdown was on.

But despite the whirlwind of plans and RSVP drama, I had never felt more grounded. I'd poured so much of myself into this life I was building with Mark, but now I was also taking time to pour into me. Work was thriving. I was thriving.

For the first time in years, I wasn't just showing up to the hospital to make it through a shift—I was killing it. Picking up extra shifts, mentoring new nurses, catching things the residents missed. My charts were spotless. My patients loved me. My coworkers leaned on me. My supervisors trusted me.

It felt good to be seen for more than my resilience—for once, I wasn't just the girl who'd survived something. I was the nurse who caught that early sepsis, the one who calmed a combative patient with a few kind words and a steady hand. I was the one who made things happen. And I loved that version of me.

Abby was out of school for the summer, and when we were together, I could see her watching me with that quiet admiration only a younger sister can give. She didn't say it out loud, but I knew she was proud of me. And I was proud of her, too—proud of how far she'd come, how close we'd become, how much she'd grown into someone strong and steady in her own right.

Mark and I were in a good place again. No pressure. Just love, support, and the low hum of excitement that came with knowing something beautiful was waiting for us in June. For once, I wasn't chasing something just out of reach. I wasn't waiting on a test result or a sign or some invisible finish line. I was exactly where I needed to be. And it felt damn good.

It was a Wednesday—mid-shift, mid-May, and the kind of day where the ER felt like a war zone. Controlled chaos, as usual. I was charting in the nurse's station, sipping cold coffee that was hot three hours ago, when the call came in over the radio. Code blue. Pediatric. Non-responsive. ETA five minutes. Everything stopped. I dropped the coffee. Snapped off my gloves. And ran. They brought in a little boy—six years old, if that. Pale, limp, not breathing. His mother was hysterical, clinging to the paramedic's arm, begging for someone to save her baby.

Everyone kicked into gear. I barely had time to think—I just moved. Chest compressions. Oxygen. IV access. My voice was calm, steady, barking out orders even though my heart was racing in my throat. We brought him back. His pulse was faint, but it was there. We stabilized him, got him breathing on his own. And as the trauma team wheeled him to ICU, I finally exhaled for the first time since he came in.

I went to check on his mother. She was curled up on a waiting room chair, her hands shaking, face blotchy with panic and relief. She looked up when I approached, her eyes raw. "You saved him," she whispered.

I sat beside her, still in my scrubs, still smelling like antiseptic and adrenaline. "We saved him," I said softly. "It was a team effort. But he's stable now. You can see him soon." And then she did something I'll never forget. She reached out and took my hand in both of hers. Held it like it was something sacred. "You looked at him like he was yours," she said. "Like he mattered. I saw that. Thank you."

That moment stuck with me all day. It hit different—maybe because of everything I'd been carrying. All the grief, all the hope I'd let go of. And maybe... maybe that little boy reminded me of what I do have. I may not be a mother, but I've saved lives. I've comforted the broken. I've stood at the edge of life and death and fought like hell to pull someone back.