When your favorite patient dies, your job changes. Your cheerful smile walking down their hallway turns into a bittersweet grin. You watch them slowly drift away and you feel as if your last breath is forced out just as their last easily flows out. Your heart stops for a moment just as theirs slowly comes to an end forever. As they empty and clean the room, you look away in a disgust almost, because you feel like they should give everyone time to grieve and adjust. But that's just how it is.

You decide whether or not you go to the wake and say your final goodbyes to them and their family because, without him, you would never have known the family. Without the family, you never would have had the pleasure to care for him and even care for them. They thank you and apologize for his bad days, but you reassure him you loved him on his bad days just as you did on his good. And you thank them for giving you the amazing opportunity for being able to care for him and be his family at his new home.

You go back on your memories of giving his family hugs on holidays, them bringing the floor special treats, and all the laughs and memories you shared. His bad days were nothing compared to the love and compassion you felt for him.

You return to work your first shift without them and almost forget about it. But you get to their door to read a new name in their bed. You unintentionally resent them and avoid that assignment and hallway for a bit until you realize that they need you as much as your favorite patient did. They are still adjusting to their new home and need your fresh smile, acceptance, and warm support as they have just faced a giant change in their life, just as you have.

But you still kindly think about their room, just how they left it. Their arrangements of pictures and even their special afghan laid on the bed and how you would fight with laundry if it was down there longer than necessary.

You go back on the memories you shared together. And realize how much you will miss the conversation that is actually far more special than you realized. You will miss them yelling the nurse's name, asking for water, cranberry juice, and forever telling me I "looked good." Even learning that Frank Sinatra was a "bad guy who played with guns." Never would I ever have learned that Frank was a part of the Mafia without you. And when Muhammad Ali died, hearing your fears about Parkinson's and holding your hand until you laughed.

I won't forget you asking me if I wanted money for helping you, but I would tell you I am helping because I love you and care. Yes, helping you was my job, but I did do it as full-hearted as I could because I love you and because I care. I won't ever forget you asking about staff at my college (even you knew the late father, while I know the "Junior"), but I still said "he's doing good" anyway.

Losing your favorite patient changes your life, job, and perception on life. Death is too permanent when you have a favorite patient. You learn how valuable it is working in their home to be apart of events as intimate as their death. When I think of you, I wish I could cry. But I must be strong for you, just as you would want me to and to be there for my patients for the rest of my life.

With every patient you lose, you lose a piece of yourself, too. But you learn so many things that help shape you into an amazing, compassionate person each patient would be proud of. Every story, piece of advice, and shared fear builds you up and makes your patients, current and past, honored and proud.