When I went with my gut

Content note:
This story includes descriptions of a medical emergency, clinical judgment under pressure, and responsibility for patient safety.

Three months into my new ER job, I was seriously questioning my career. After nearly three decades in nursing — and losing my nurse clinician position due to funding cuts — I felt like I’d gone backwards. I was exhausted, disheartened, and honestly, ready to quit.

Then one day, a young woman came in complaining of severe foot pain. There was no redness, swelling, or injury. She was six months pregnant and had miscarried the year before. As I examined her, something in my gut told me something was very wrong.

It was that quiet inner voice — the one you learn to listen to after years at the bedside.

I checked on her often. On one of my rounds, I simply walked past her bed, and she screamed in pain — from the draft of my movement. That moment sent chills down my spine. I’d seen this before. Ten years earlier, I’d had a similar patient. Necrotizing fasciitis.

My heart sank. I knew she needed immediate care, but no one believed me. I was the “new nurse” on the team. No one knew my background or my experience. I could feel their doubt, but my instincts wouldn’t let it go.

I moved her to the acute area anyway. Within minutes, she started crashing. Her blood pressure dropped. She vomited. She was drenched in sweat. I inserted two large-bore IVs, ready to hang antibiotics even without an order.

I wasn’t about to lose her.

When my manager saw what was happening, she rushed over. The doctor finally came, and we got her transferred to a higher-level trauma center within twenty minutes. I watched her leave, terrified she wouldn’t make it.

That night, I went home and cried. I didn’t know if she or her baby had survived. That’s one of the hardest parts of emergency nursing — we rarely get to know how the story ends.

But this one did.

Nine months later, I was working triage when a woman walked up holding a baby girl. She smiled at me and said, “I was hoping you’d be here. I wanted to thank you for saving Holly and me.”

She was walking. She was alive. She still had her leg. Her baby was healthy.

I burst into tears right there at the triage desk.

That day didn’t just save a patient — it saved my career. It reminded me why I was still here.

Every Christmas, she still sends me a photo of Holly. She’s growing fast, healthy, and full of life — a living reminder that trusting your instincts can change everything.

Sometimes, the universe gives you exactly the sign you need to keep going.

• If you need support

  Reading or sharing stories like this can sometimes stir up difficult feelings.
  If you need support, help is available.

  Canada (finding emotional & mental health support):
  Call 211 or visit https://211.ca/
  (Connects you with local mental health, counselling, and support services.)

  Canada (crisis or emotional distress):
  Call or text 988 (24/7)
  (You don’t have to be suicidal to reach out — support is available for moments of overwhelm or distress.)

  Outside Canada:
  Find local support at https://findahelpline.com/

  If you’re in immediate danger, please contact your local emergency services.
  
  You’re not alone in what you’re feeling.

• What this story helps us see

  • The emotional impact of high-stakes care often extends well beyond the shift, particularly when care providers are left without closure or affirmation after difficult decisions.

  • Speaking up in moments of uncertainty can place care providers at personal, emotional, and professional risk, even when doing so protects patient safety.

  • Being believed, supported, or taken seriously in critical moments can shape not only patient outcomes, but a care provider’s sense of purpose and ability to remain in the profession without burning out.

  • Care providers carry deep, experience-based knowledge that is not always visible to others — especially when they are new to a team or role.