Chapter 10: Legacy

The months after Frank’s death pass in a strange, suspended silence. I continue my shifts, continue my work, continue being present. But something has shifted. The clarity is still there, but it’s muted now, colored by grief.

I miss Frank. I miss his wisdom, his humor, his belief in me. I miss the way he looked at me like I was something special, something worth believing in. I miss the way he made me feel like I could do anything.

He’s gone.

Yes.

But you’re still here.

Yes.

You’re still present. You’re still honest. You’re still real.

Yes.

That’s what he would have wanted.

Yes. That’s what he would have wanted.

I arrived at the hospital early, as always. The locker room is empty. I undress without hesitation, the cool air familiar on my skin.

I look at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back is tired, her eyes shadowed with grief. But she’s still there. Still present. Still real.

This is who you are now.

This is who you choose to be.

I clip my badge to my lanyard, hang my stethoscope around my neck, and walk out of the locker room.

The floor is quiet tonight. The staff is subdued, still mourning Frank’s loss. I move through my rounds, doing my work, being present. But my mind is elsewhere.

Aris is there, barefoot, his presence steady and grounding. He takes my hand as I pass.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” He pulls me aside. “You’re not fine. You’re grieving.”

“I know.” I take a breath. “I just ... I miss him.”

“I know.” He pulls me into his arms. “I miss him too.”

We stood there for a moment, holding each other. The grief is still there, but it’s easier to bear when I’m not carrying it alone.

The shift continues. I move through my rounds, doing my work, being present. The patients are new, the staff are familiar, the floor is home.

A new patient has been admitted: an elderly woman named Margaret. She’s eighty-two, recovering from surgery, and she’s alone. Her family is in another state, unable to travel. She’s scared, lonely, and in pain.

I enter her room, and she looks up at me and takes in my bare skin, my nakedness, and her eyes widen.

“Oh, my,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

I smile. “I’m Nicola. I’m your nurse tonight.”

“Are you ... are you naked?”

“Yes,” I say, sitting on the edge of her bed. “It’s part of a program we’re trying here. It helps me be more present with my patients. More honest. More real.”

She stares at me for a long moment. Then she laughs a warm, surprised laugh.

“Well, I’ll be,” she says. “I’ve been in hospitals for sixty years, and I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Sixty years?”

“I was a nurse myself,” she says. “A long time ago. Before I retired.”

I feel a warmth spread through my chest. “You were a nurse?”

“For forty years.” She looks at me, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “I started in the 1950s. When nurses wore white uniforms and starched caps. When we weren’t allowed to wear pants. When we were expected to be invisible.”

“And look at you now,” I say. “Naked and proud.”

She laughs again. “I like you, Nicola. I like you a lot.”

I take her hand. “I like you too, Margaret.”

We talk for hours. She tells me about her career, the decades of nursing, the patients she’d helped, the lives she’d touched. She tells me about her husband, who’d passed away ten years ago. She tells me about her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren.

“I’ve lived a long life,” she says. “A good life. But I never thought I’d see something like this.”

“Something like what?”

“A nurse who’s brave enough to be herself.” She squeezes my hand. “That’s rare, Nicola. That’s precious.”

I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “Thank you, Margaret.”

“Don’t thank me.” She smiles. “Just keep being brave.”

I stayed with Margaret for the rest of the night, holding her hand, talking to her, being present. She’s old, lonely, and in pain, but she’s also wise. I can see it in her eyes, in the way she speaks, in the way she refuses to give up.