When my dad went into the hospital, our family was under the illusion that his heart could be fixed through surgery, and he would walk out of the hospital to live his life for years to come. 24 hours later on Father’s Day, he coded in front of us, and twelve days later, he took his last breath. There is absolutely nothing that another human can do to make that reality okay for a family. The reality of the situation was that his congestive heart failure was in the end stage, his lungs were not working well, and after a week of intensive medications to keep his vitals in range, his liver and kidneys were failing. His medical team tried everything possible to save him, including attempting surgery, but his heart was objectively too far gone. There was absolutely nothing his highly skilled surgical team could do to change the inevitable outcome.

As the child of a dying father, there is a level of denial about the severity of the situation. You keep hope until the very last breath because “I am just a kid, my dad. cannot die, right?” Logically, I knew exactly what was happening as I lived at his bedside in the coronary ICU for nearly two weeks. I understood the information. being provided, and I was aware of the prognosis. At that point, the only thing left that can provide comfort is someone to honor, respect, and provide dignity to the sick person. I recognize that in the grand scheme of things, my dad’s case was a lost cause at a certain point. His health declined rapidly. His consciousness and orientation faded. He was well-suited for hospice care, but it took my mom a few days to transition from hopes of recovery to acceptance of dying. Until that point came, my dad’s angel of a nurse did not hesitate to provide the highest level of skill, compassion, and teamwork with other nurses on the unit. He did not bring pity to my dad or our family. He did not patronize my dad. His stride did not stutter for one second. My dad was not a lost cause. In the eyes of his nurse, my dad’s dignity was just as important as that of an alert and oriented patient with a good prognosis.

Malique took the time to bathe and change my dad patiently and gently. He changed his sheets. He fixed his disheveled hair and crooked socks. He provided oral care supplies. He provided privacy to my dad. He was attentive to my dad’s vitals, labs, and medications. When my dad’s consciousness faded as his status worsened, Malique saw I was heartbroken and lost. He reassured me when the alarm sounds came from the monitors or the IV pumps beeped. He checked on me frequently to ensure I was informed and comfortable. He remembered my name. He quickly and accurately understood that I cope through humor, and he was not afraid to laugh or smile around me. He did not walk on eggshells in my dad’s room like everyone else. It was clear he was being his authentic self, and that meant everything to me during those strange, hopeless, sleepless nights. Malique created a space that made the unbearable feel okay. Among all the nightmare moments that are inevitable to a terminal hospital admission, the things I remember most saliently are how Malique treated my dad. He helped my dad as if he were helping his own family. He spoke to my dad kindly, explained everything he was doing, and asked for consent even when my dad was. disoriented. My dad was a valuable and dignified person to Malique. That is what I will remember for the rest of my life. My dad spent his final days with dignity, and there is no greater gift any human could have given to our family. We speak of Malique often and will remember him forever. He is a special soul that was made to answer the call to be a nurse.