Losing residents is part of the job.
You know that going in.

But no one really talks about what it feels like when you lose someone…
and you’re not sure how you’re supposed to feel.

Within a few weeks, we lost two residents.

And I sat there thinking—
am I sad?
I think I am… but not the way I expected.

I haven’t been here long enough to really build a deep bond with them.
I knew their routines.
Their preferences.
The little things that make a shift smoother.

But I didn’t know them in that long-term, heart-tugging way.

So it felt… distant.
Like hearing news instead of experiencing a moment.

The unit got quieter.

Not dramatically.
Not in a way that stops everything.

Just… noticeably.

An empty seat.
A room that feels different when you walk past it.

And life keeps moving.

Breakfast still needs to be served.
Call lights still go off.
People still need meds, help, redirection.

There’s no pause button in healthcare.

And somehow, at the same time…

The drama between staff gets louder.

Little things turn into big things.
Side comments. Tension. Stirring the pot.

It’s like when something heavy happens—
instead of sitting in it, the energy shifts somewhere else.

And now you’re not just processing loss…
you’re navigating personalities, attitudes, and unnecessary noise.

It’s a strange place to be.

Feeling:
a little sad
a little disconnected
a little unsure
and a little overwhelmed by everything else going on around you

All at the same time.

But maybe this is what people don’t say out loud:
Not every loss breaks you.
Some just… sit with you.

Quietly.

And maybe caring doesn’t always look like deep grief.

Sometimes it looks like:
noticing someone isn’t there anymore
hoping they were comfortable
wishing things were easier at the end

Even if you didn’t know them long.

Healthcare keeps moving.

But every now and then,
you feel it in small, quiet ways.

And that counts too.

— Scrubs & Side Eyes
Just trying to keep it together one shift at a time.