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I lost Kacak.
Throughout my career, breaking bad news has been an art. A skill you hone—delivering devastating words while maintaining composure, preserving empathy even as you do it again and again. Often, it never feels easier. You simply tell yourself it must be done, so you do it, and you get through it.
It is hardest when you thought you could have saved them. When the loss is followed by a chorus of haunting, evil ifs. Those few patients you carry with you throughout your career. Some, you remember their final moment. Some, the last words you shared. Some, the ashen look on a loved one's face as your words found their mark.
Some days, you had to confirm death.
I remember the routine: the checks, the documentation, informing the nurse-in-charge so the last offices could begin.
In those moments, I never felt fear. Perhaps sadness, or sorrow. But never fear. Never apprehension.
Yesterday, it was different.
I saw Kacak lying on the porch and thought he was sleeping—he loved sleeping in the sun.
He looked as if he were resting. I stood there, enjoying the sight of him... until I noticed he might not be breathing. As I walked towards him, seeing no movement of his breath (a truth already obvious, of course), I kept telling myself I was wrong.
Even standing beside him, I hesitated to touch him. I was terrified of confirming the loss. I did not want to feel that he was still, that he was motionless. I was still hoping he would wake up and come to me.
Reflecting on this moment, I realized how much I had insulated myself all this time.
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