The bus rattles down Main Street, carrying us toward St. Helena’s Community Clinic. My stomach turns in small circles. I stare out the window at the gray Oregon morning, where clouds hang low over the parking lots and coffee shops. Maya sits beside me, tapping her pen against her notebook, whispering facts about pulse rates. Jonah sits behind us, earbuds in, staring quietly at his notes. We all wear our white student uniforms—stiff, new, and a little too bright. Mine still smells faintly of detergent and nerves.

When the clinic comes into view, my chest tightens. It’s smaller than the hospital, a single floor with glass doors and a faded sign. But when I step inside, the air changes. It smells like antiseptic and coffee and something human—sweat, medicine, and time. The lights buzz softly overhead. A woman coughs in the waiting room. A child whispers to his mother. I want to breathe steady, but my heart beats fast, out of rhythm with my thoughts.

Mrs. Ramirez meets us at the front desk. “Remember,” she says, “you’re here to learn. Watch, listen, help where you can, and always respect their space.” Her tone is gentle but firm. She hands us each a clipboard and a small notepad. My palms are already damp.

The first patient I help with is an older man named Mr. Patterson. He sits on the exam table, his hands rough and spotted. “Blood pressure, right?” he says with a grin. “You’ll do fine.” His calm voice settles my nerves. I wrap the cuff around his arm, just like we practiced. I try to remember each step. Inflate, listen, count. My fingers shake, but the sound comes through—the faint thump of his heartbeat. It’s slower than Jonah’s, heavier, steady like a drum in a quiet room. I write down the numbers, hand them to the nurse beside me. She nods, checks them, and smiles. “Good work.” Those two words make my throat tighten. Good work.

Across the room, Maya fumbles with a thermometer, drops it, blushes, and laughs nervously. The nurse pats her shoulder. “Happens to everyone,” she says. Jonah is helping organize patient files. He looks calm, collected, like he’s been doing this forever. I envy his stillness.

During a short break, I sit in the hallway, drinking from a paper cup of water. The walls are pale blue. Nurses walk by with quick steps, murmuring updates. A woman in scrubs pushes a wheelchair past me. The patient inside looks tired but smiles when their eyes meet mine. It feels like the smallest connection in the world, but it’s enough to make me breathe deeper.

In the afternoon, Mrs. Ramirez asks us to shadow one of the nurses during wound care. I stand behind Miss Gordon—the same nurse who gave the lecture. She unwraps the gauze from a man’s arm, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air. The wound is deep but clean, a pink line across his skin. My stomach flutters, but I don’t look away. Miss Gordon moves with quiet grace, talking softly to the patient. “Almost done,” she says. “You’re doing great.” Her voice is calm, steady, the kind that makes pain smaller.

Afterward, she looks at me. “You okay?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, though my heart feels like it’s running.
She nods. “It’s normal to feel shaky. The first time always stays with you. Just remember—compassion is not weakness. It’s awareness.”

Her words stay with me as we clean up the station. The smell of disinfectant clings to my sleeves. I keep thinking about the man’s wound, the way his eyes looked calm despite the pain.

When we leave, the sky has cleared. The air feels lighter, washed clean by the afternoon rain. Maya chatters the whole bus ride back, about how she nearly tripped over a cart but didn’t fall. Jonah listens, half smiling. I look out the window at the clinic fading behind us, the light hitting the glass doors just right.

That night, I write in my journal:
Today I met my first patient. I touched his arm and heard his heart. I saw how pain looks when it’s treated gently. Maybe healing isn’t just science—it’s presence. Maybe it’s standing there, even when you’re scared, and saying, “You’re not alone.”

When I finish writing, I press my palm to the page, as if trying to keep that moment alive under my hand. My uniform still smells faintly of antiseptic, but now it feels different. It smells like purpose.

Before I sleep, I close my eyes and picture the clinic again—the blue walls, the calm voices, the rhythm of footsteps. Somewhere in that sound, I hear my own heartbeat answering back.