When Caring Becomes the Care - A Short Story of My Experience with Pediatric ICU

I have been a nurse for many years. I’ve read the literature, attended the in-services, and participated in countless rounds and safety huddles. But nothing prepared me for how my understanding of caring would shift when I found myself,  still holding my identity as a nurse, but in that situation, a parent, holding my six-month-old son in a hospital bed.

He had a respiratory virus. It started like any other cold, but something in my gut told me things were changing. My partner and I—both nurses—knew better than to wait. We took him to the hospital. The moment we stepped through the emergency department doors, we moved from being clinicians to being just another frightened family trying to make sense of a system we thought we knew.

The Missing Pieces of Care

At first, the care was clinically appropriate. People came and went. Vital signs were taken. Assessments were done. But no one told us who they were. No one explained what they were doing or why.

I had never realized how vulnerable it feels not to know who is touching your child. My partner and I whispered to each other: Was that an RN or an LPN? What were they assessing? Did that seem normal?

We weren’t just looking for clinical competency. We were looking for connection, for reassurance, for someone to see not just the infant in respiratory distress—but the parents barely holding it together.

Caring Amid the Chaos

When our son’s condition rapidly worsened, it was my partner who noticed his oxygen saturation dipping below 80%. He rechecked it. Still low. The Charge Nurse confirmed it, then walked calmly out of the room. Seconds later, “Pediatric Code Blue” rang out over the intercom.

I remember sitting frozen, holding my baby, wondering if the Code Blue was for us. And then, in a blur of footsteps and equipment, the room was full. There were too many people, and yet no one seemed to be speaking to us. We didn’t know who anyone was, or what was happening. I could only focus on the tiny laryngoscope being prepared, the terrifying thought that my baby might be intubated. That he might not make it.

And then—someone touched my shoulder. A member of the team looked me in the eyes, spoke in a calm, clear voice, and explained what was happening. They helped me hold my son. They told me what would come next. They didn’t make promises they couldn’t keep. They simply stayed with me, with us, in that moment. That was the care.

A Moment That Changed My Understanding of Person-Centred

It was in that moment that I understood, in my bones, what person-centred care really means. It’s not just a framework or a set of principles. It’s a way of being in the clinical space, with empathy, presence, and intention.

After stabilization, my son was transferred to the PICU at Alberta Children’s Hospital. There, the model of care was strikingly different. Family presence was not just tolerated, it was welcomed with a big bear hug. We were invited into rounds which were structured to include the family. Rounds happened at the bedside. Our observations, our questions, our presence were seen as integral to his care.

The pediatrician who had first seen our son even came to visit him in the PICU. That small gesture of continuity, of caring beyond the health record, meant the difference between being a bystander or an inconvenience to be a valued member of the collaborative care team. We were the experts on our child, and the system created there embraced this.

The Legacy of Caring

When our son finally returned to a general pediatric ward, the Charge Nurses introduced themselves at every shift. They didn’t just provide updates—they created space for conversation, concern, and connection. It wasn’t just about the tasks being done; it was about being seen and heard.

As a nurse, I used to think that caring was an outcome of good practice. Now I know it’s the foundation. We can’t assume that clinical excellence alone meets the needs of the people we serve. Without relational practice—without the human connection—we risk missing the heart and the head (I'm talking the brain) of health care.

A Different Kind of Knowing

I returned to my own practice changed. I think differently now about introductions, about tone, about explaining what I’m doing before I do it. I think about the parents watching me, wondering, Can I trust you with the person I love most in the world?

Person-centred care isn’t something we add to the “real” work, it is the work. And caring isn’t an extra. It’s the foundation of health care.