The 0100 hour

The clock above the nurse’s station blinked 01:05 a.m. as I adjusted my stethoscope. The ER was quiet, except for the hum of the air purifier and the occasional chirp of the monitors. It was the kind of quiet that I had learned to both cherish and fear.

The night shift has always been mine. At first, I was worried as a new nurse because there are fewer resources —but over time, the stillness of the hours, the feeling of being a watchful guardian for my small town, it grew on me. Tonight, the air felt heavier than usual, though I couldn’t pinpoint why.

In the middle of the nurse’s station sat a vitals monitor. It's not as bright as the other computers but it provides a soft glow when the light is dimmed.

I stared at it now, my eyes tracing the outline of each box. In the distance, the ambulance radio crackled to life, announcing an incoming patient: a farmer in his sixties, shortness of breath. Routine, yet urgent in a place where resources were stretched thin.

The farmer arrived pale and wheezing, his boots still dusted with soil from a field he’d probably left only hours ago. I worked swiftly, moving with quiet precision as I connected oxygen, drew labs, and reassured him in a steady, low voice. His eyes flicked toward mine as if to anchor himself.

“It’s nothing, really,” he rasped. “Just too much work today.”

“Let’s not take chances,” I replied.

As I moved through the motions of my care, I noticed the monitor's reflection in the window. I couldn’t see the glow. The moment passed quickly. I dismissed this as my own exhaustion, but something about it lingered in my mind.

By 5:00 a.m., the farmer's condition had stabilized, his breathing had become easier, and his color returned. I sat by his bedside, charting notes on the computer. He spoke up softly.

“Thanks for sticking it out with me. Nights must get lonely here.”

I smiled, shaking my head. “It’s quieter, but only sometimes! I don’t mind though, I think the quiet has its own kind of rhythm.”

He nodded, his eyes slipping closed. I stayed a moment longer, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. There was something sacred about these moments, I thought, when care transcended routine and became something closer to connection.

As I walked back to the nurse’s station, the monitor caught my eye again. I stopped. The reflection I had seen earlier now felt deliberate, like the monitor had been waiting for me to notice. I reached out and touched it, my fingertips brushing against the screen.

It was glowing, of course. But that moment stirred something inside me.

By the end of my shift, the sun had begun to edge its way over the horizon, casting the ER in pale gold. I sat in the parking lot for a moment, car keys dangling loosely in my hand.

I glanced back at the hospital, where the vitals monitor still stood watch. In its unassuming way, it reminded me of my role—a small light in a vast darkness, not enough to illuminate the world but sufficient to guide those who crossed my path.

And that, I thought, was more than enough.