My First Patient, My First Death

By: Nichole Boisvert

A young medical student recalls the indelible experience of taking care of a dying patient. It is the story of her first patient and her first death.

Updated May 17, 2020

They tell me you always remember your first. If that’s the case, what images of you will remain imprinted on my brain, snapshots of one, with sandy hair, brown eyes, mocha skin? Will it be your long, spindly fingers? The way when I first saw you, you were sitting bolt upright, eyes wide, hair standing on end as if haunted by some specter of mortality? Or will it be your last days, coma-silenced, sweat from the Caribbean sun going unwiped on your cheeks, condensation from days wearing an oxygen mask chapping your full lips? You were my first patient, my first death.

If you could speak, what would you have told me?

I know you were so much more than the woman, sitting cross-legged, too weak to get up and use the washroom, crying because you had to “number two” and there was no one there to clean you.

I want you to tell me about your son. He looked so beautiful in his suit at your funeral! What he was like? Did you love his father? What it was like for you not to have your daughter at home?