A Basement Confession

The vending machine in the hospital basement only accepts secrets instead of coins.

I was running on fumes, desperate for caffeine. The burn behind my eyes threatening to push me over a cliff I’d been toeing the last three nights.

The machines on the first floor were empty. So I was left with a choice, go up, or go down to the basement.

I was always warned against going to the basement.

“Those machines are never stocked— It’s better to go up to the OB unit, they have better snacks anyway.”

And I always followed that advice.

Until tonight.

I was burned out. People’d out.

I couldn’t force a smile while a proud new parent tried to bring me into their world of joy.

I had no more smiles left to fake.

I just wanted something to drink and a moment away from it all. A moment to process the ache of the last few nights. Process the feeling of John Doe’s pulse– bounding at first, then weak, then thready, then gone.

“Tell me your deepest regret….” it whispered.

My deepest regret?

My god…

There are too many.

Do I go the cheap route? “Nursing school. Easily my deepest regret. I’m an introvert living in a profession built on service to others.”

No.

I don’t truly regret that. I’m good at what I do.

“I… I regret telling him he would be okay. I regret telling him that we would save him.”

I said the words to the empty, dark, silent basement.

Then the tears came.

Warm rivulets carving salt lines down my face.

The machine didn’t care.

It hummed for a second and spit out a Diet Coke.

I picked it up and went back work.

—Authors Note—

I’ve been a nurse for ten years, working in emergency departments across the country. I wrote this story as a way to process and explore the emotional toll of a profession that demands so much of us, every single day.

As healthcare providers, we’re often asked to move from one room where a patient slips away—to another where we’re expected to smile, reassure, and carry on as if nothing just happened.

That kind of emotional compartmentalization, walling off grief and exhaustion to give the next patient our full attention, chips away at us in quiet, lasting ways.

Be kind to your nurses. We’re doing our best. And some days, that costs more than you know.