Mary C Kelley

09/10/2025

Where Lullabies Met IV Drips

In the quiet corners of the ward,
where machines hummed and monitors blinked,
there was a softer melody—
a nurse’s voice, just above a whisper,
humming lullabies between the beeps.

Science flowed through sterile lines,
measured in milliliters and dosages,
but humanity flowed through a voice,
a touch, a song,
offering comfort to the fragile and the fearful.

Where lullabies met IV drips,
babies too small to cry found rhythm in care.
The elderly, lost in confusion,
heard melodies that whispered of home.
And families, burdened with worry,
found relief in a song of hope.

These nurses,
they stitched healing not only with sutures,
but with the quiet bravery
to sing into sterile air,
to bring warmth into spaces
ruled by cold numbers.

Generations have passed.
Scrubs replaced starched uniforms,
caps became a memory,
technology became louder than silence,
but the lullabies remain.
Sometimes spoken, sometimes not,
always present.

Because nursing has always been this:
the union of tenderness and skill,
of science and soul,
of IV drips keeping the body alive
and lullabies urging the spirit to stay.

And long after the monitors go silent,
long after the drips run dry,
what remains is the song—
the sound of a nurse who cared enough
to sing against the noise,
reminding the world
that healing is both medicine
and love.

09/10/2025

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09/10/2025

When the Final Shift is Done

Tonight, I set my stethoscope down for the last time.
The badge at my chest feels heavier than it seems—
not from its plastic or metal,
but from the weight of all the journeys it has witnessed.
This is the last call I will answer.

As the ward hums with its familiar rhythm—
alarms ringing, footsteps moving, voices murmuring—
I realize I have lived entire lifetimes inside these walls.

I remember the first hand I ever held,
shaking as much as mine.
The first loss that shattered me.
The first newborn cry that stitched me back together.
The first night I wept in a storeroom,
asking myself if I was enough.

I made mistakes.
I rushed when I should have paused.
I spoke when silence was kinder.
I was brave when tears would have been truer.
To that younger nurse, I would say:
being human is not failure—
it is the very heart of care.

I have closed wounds that healed,
and faced those that never would.
I have stood at the threshold of life and death,
sometimes within moments of each other.
I have carried unspoken confessions,
and grief that clung long after my shift was over.

But I have also seen wonder.
Eyes opening when hope was gone.
Laughter breaking through quiet rooms.
Hands reaching forward when yesterday had been lost.

Through it all I learned—
nursing was never about me.
It was always about them.

So to the nurse I once was:
walk slower.
Listen as if time has stopped.
Hold hands a little longer.
Monitors tell you numbers,
but compassion tells you stories.

Tonight, I step aside.
Others will walk these corridors,
and my name will fade beneath theirs.
But what I leave is not on badges or charts—
it is written into lives touched,
comfort given,
moments shared.

This is the last shift I will take.
The uniform may rest,
but the calling does not.
Once you have given yourself to this work,
it stays with you forever.
The hands may fall still,
but the soul goes on nursing.

09/10/2025

09/02/2025

Can we get a night shift check in?

09/01/2025

The other day I was talking to a new nurse.

Me: “I’m an old nurse.”
Her: “Oh no, you’re not.”
Me: “Yeah, I am. Back when I started, we used red ink for night shift, green for 3–11, and blue for day shift.”
Her: “I have no idea what that even means.”

I just laughed to myself and thought, yep, I really am old.

Who else remembers that?