Nothing Is Ever What It Seems: A Night at St. Anne’s Hospital

“Helen, you need to come quick. Room 503.” Kinga’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the urgency in her eyes was unmistakable. I was halfway through my coffee, the bitter taste barely staving off the exhaustion settling into my bones. I glanced at the clock—4:17 am. Nothing good ever comes at this hour.

I set my mug down and followed her into the dimly-lit hallway. The night shift at St. Anne’s Hospital always felt like a different world—one where time slowed, and the lines between patient and caregiver blurred with every sleepless hour. But tonight, the air was heavier than usual.

Kinga leaned in. “It’s Iwona. She’s been crying all night, begging for her clothes, saying she has to go home. I thought you should know.”

I nodded, feeling the familiar knot in my stomach tighten. Iwona. Just twenty years old, admitted after her second suicide attempt, her wrists still bandaged, her eyes always searching for an escape.

I pushed open the door. Iwona was sitting on the edge of her bed, knees to her chest, her hospital gown hanging loose on her frail frame. Her eyes flicked up, wide with hope and desperation.

“Miss Stanley, please. I need to go. My mom… she needs me. She’s all alone.”

I closed the door gently behind me. “Iwona, it’s not safe for you to leave. It’s only been two days. You need to rest, to let us help you.”

She shook her head violently, tears glistening. “You don’t understand. If I’m not there, she’ll do something bad. She’ll hurt herself, I know it. Please, just let me call her. Just let me see her.”

I crouched down beside her, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Iwona, your mother is being cared for. Remember, you told me your aunt is checking in on her?”

She buried her face in her hands. “My aunt hates her. She’ll tell her things that aren’t true. She’ll tell her I’m crazy.”

I swallowed, unsure what to say. I’d seen this before—families fractured by fear, by secrets, by the silent shame of mental illness. But something in Iwona’s voice tonight felt different, more urgent.

A soft knock interrupted the moment. Dr. Matthews poked his head in, his sandy hair mussed, tie askew. “Everything alright in here?”

I straightened. “Iwona’s upset. She wants to leave.”

He sighed. “We can’t force her to stay unless she’s a danger to herself. Legally, she can sign out.”

Iwona’s head snapped up. “I can go?”

I met Dr. Matthews’ eyes over her head, silently pleading with him. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. Our hands were tied.

When I walked back to the nurses’ station, I found Kinga hunched over the files. “She’s not safe at home,” she whispered. “Her mother’s worse off than she is. Social work said they’d look in, but it’s all paperwork.”

I wanted to scream. To kick the walls. To tell Iwona we could fix it all if she just gave us time. But the system didn’t work that way.

The rest of the night blurred. I filled out forms, called Iwona’s aunt, who hung up on me. I tried to reach her mother—no answer. By sunrise, Iwona was gone. She’d quietly signed her release, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold the pen. I watched her walk out of the hospital, her back hunched against the morning cold, as if already bearing the weight of another world.

I drove home in a daze, the city waking up around me. My own daughter, Emily, was waiting at the kitchen table, scrolling through her phone. She barely looked up. “You look tired, Mom.”

I wanted to tell her everything, to beg her to talk to me, to never hide anything the way Iwona had. But she was seventeen, and I was just her mother—a fixture in her life she resented and needed in equal measure.

Over breakfast, she finally spoke. “Did you help anyone last night?”

I hesitated, unsure how much to share. “I tried. Some nights, trying is all we can do.”

She shrugged, biting her lip. “Sometimes I think you care more about your patients than me.”

Her words stung, but I couldn’t deny the truth in them. How many dinners had I missed? How many of her own cries for help had I overlooked, too busy patching up other people’s broken lives?

The phone rang. It was Kinga, her voice shaking. “They found Iwona. She tried again. This time… she didn’t make it.”

The room spun. I sank into the chair, unable to breathe. Emily reached out, her hand trembling as she gripped mine.

“Mom?” she whispered. “Are you okay?”

That night, I sat alone in the dark, the silence deafening. I thought about Iwona, about her mother, about all the patients I’d seen slip through the cracks. I thought about Emily, and the distance growing between us, inch by painful inch.

Is it ever enough, what we do for the people we love? Or do we just keep trying, even when the world refuses to change?