"KD, there is someone here to see you," my coworker said with a smile.

I was busy taking care of a patient, but looked up and saw a slightly unsteady young man tightly holding onto a walker surrounded by his family.

Of course, I instantly knew him. He was so thin and tall; I realized I'd never seen him standing up before without me helping him.

Just then he asked, "Are you the one who took care of me all that time?"

I said, "Yes," walking slowly toward him. I felt tears slide down my cheeks.

"Well," he started, taking a moment to breathe. "I came here to thank you."

Oh Sammy, my Sammy, I fought so long and hard for you and wanted you to live so badly, I thought. I didn't think you could pull it out a few times; your injuries were so severe.

Only 19 years old in a terrible car crash, he was broken from head to toe. He had so many seemingly infinite complications from multiple traumas: acute respiratory distress syndrome, sepsis, renal and liver failure. You name it, Sammy had it-twice.

I had to give the "death talk" to the family more than once, and I took that more seriously than most anything else. Several times I really thought he wouldn't make it through the night and found that I was holding my breath when I clocked in until I saw that he was still there in bed 5. Thank you God, thank you awesome nurses and docs, I silently prayed. And then I'd go in and do my best for him, as well.

It took Sammy months in the ICU, then longer still on the med/surg floor, building up the strength needed to endure rehabilitation. I visited him on the floor and in rehab quite often during those first months, but the medications had blurred his memory. This was a blessing.

So, while he didn't clearly remember me, he knew I was familiar; we had the experience of having been through a terrible battle together.

In time, my visits dwindled, but I often thought of him and wondered how he was doing. I never dreamed he would make the trek down to the ICU to see me-a marathon for him.

I went to him and gently embraced him, this man I had monitored and bathed and fought so hard to help save.

He let go of the walker and leaned on me one last time. I could feel my face damp with tears as Sammy looked at me and said, "I don't really remember much about being in here, but I can remember you, and my family has told me how much you did for me. How much you cared about us. I came here to say thank you for saving my life."

Nurses aren't paid a lot, not considering the physical and emotional toll of the job. But in that moment I felt richer than anyone else on earth. The burnout, the stress: it was all gone for a moment. It was all worth it in that thank you, feeling the gratitude of a young man I had helped live.