He was 82 years old when he came into our ER, writhing in excruciating abdominal pain. After an ultrasound and a subsequent CT scan, the devastating diagnosis was revealed—end stage pancreatic and liver cancer.

Despite enduring a pain level of 10, he managed to maintain his sense of humor, joking about “biting the bullet.” However, he admitted that the pain had become unbearable.

This resilient individual was not just any patient; he was a decorated veteran of the U.S. Army, a hero who had served in World War II. Recognizing the severity of his condition, the ER MD made the decision to admit him to the ICU. There, he would receive oxygen support and a morphine IV drip to alleviate his suffering.

As I accompanied him to our ICU, I took the opportunity to introduce myself. He extended his hand and said, “Call me Jeb.” And so, from that moment on, Jeb it was.

Between the intervals of morphine drips and the presence of an oxygen mask, Jeb expressed his wish to be a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate), emphasizing his desire for comfort rather than aggressive medical interventions. There would be no Whipple procedure, no major surgeries, no chemotherapy—just oxygen and a morphine drip to ease his pain. It was only a matter of time before he would be transferred from our ICU to the comfort care unit.

Yet, I found it difficult to let go. Jeb and another patient in the unit were considered low acuity, making my assignment relatively easy. I assisted him during mealtimes, ensuring he was comfortable and repositioned when needed. Jeb mentioned that he would enjoy a short game of solitaire, and I gladly obliged, knowing I had the time to spare.

Jeb’s family members came and went, including his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. His wife of 61 years visited him faithfully every day. Whenever he spoke about his wife, a radiant glow enveloped him. He had proposed to her and hastily married before enlisting in the Army during World War II, from 1942 to 1945. Throughout his service, he carried her picture tucked in the inner pocket of his army uniform. His love for his wife, his family, and his country, the USA, was undeniable. His eyes welled up with emotion as we engaged in our brief game of solitaire.

Intermittently, Jeb recounted stories from World War II. He vividly described the liberation of concentration camps in Germany—the stench of decay, the rampant infections, and the haunting sight of emaciated prisoners with hollow eyes. He spoke of their frailty and starvation, detailing the atrocities they endured. And yet, he never regretted his decision to join the army, although he could never forget those harrowing experiences. He expressed his deep pride and gratitude for his life, his family, and his beloved country, the USA. I listened to his accounts with a mix of horror and profound respect for the man before me.

Jeb had a fondness for telling corny jokes, knowing that laughter served as good medicine for both of us. However, the day arrived when it was time to transfer him out of our ICU. My patient, my friend—we shared moments of laughter and tears together.

Reluctantly, I bid him farewell, not wanting to let go. With a tight grip on my hand, he thanked me. And in response, I said, “No, thank YOU.”

As the medical staff wheeled him down the hallway to his new room, he called out, “Goodbye.” In his characteristic humorous manner, he turned to his wife and playfully remarked, “That nurse enjoyed flirting with me,” followed by a hearty roar of laughter.

He was not just a patient, but my buddy—the one who excelled at solitaire, the one who never complained about his pain, the one who faithfully shared his WWII stories while I listened attentively. I felt immense gratitude for this hero and for all the brave men and women who fought and continue to fight for our country, past, present, and future.

Three days later, Jeb took his final breath, surrounded by his loving family. Tears streamed down my cheeks, yet I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the privilege of being his nurse.

Debbie Moore-Black is a nurse who blogs at Do Not Resuscitate.