The Test That Really Counts

“Is this on the test?”

As a faculty member, I hear this question often. I have even asked it myself. My response is usually the same: “It may not be on the exam, but eventually you will be tested on this in real life.”

Almost twenty years ago, I faced two tests. Both were high stakes, but only one really counted.

The Test I Studied For

I was in nursing school, studying for a huge exam. My father had invited us to dinner. My mother had died of melanoma four years earlier, and since then, family dinners had become especially meaningful.

But that night, surrounded by notes and textbooks, I calculated how many hours would be “lost” if I went. My husband offered to take our three children so I could stay home and study. I called my dad to let him know.

He told me he understood. He said he loved me. “Just come by after your test and I will make you lunch, kiddo.”

That lunch never happened.

The Test I Failed

The next day, my sister called 911 because my dad was having trouble breathing. I followed the ambulance to the ER, still half in my nursing-student mindset, thinking this was a temporary setback.

It wasn’t.

A healthcare provider—likely one just as tired and well-intentioned as I had been—delivered the words no one ever wants to hear: “He’s no longer with us… I’m sorry… we did all we could.”

I returned to school a few days later. I took my exam, passed it, and cried. I didn’t cry for the grade. I cried because I realized I had passed the wrong test.

I had studied to succeed in my career, but failed to show up in one of the most important moments of my life.

The Lessons Caregiving Teaches

That loss became one of my greatest teachers.

It taught me that the real tests in life rarely come with study guides or second chances. They appear in everyday choices—between doing and being, between efficiency and connection.

As caregivers—whether in our homes or in our professions—we face these tests constantly. We tell ourselves we’re too busy, that we will make time later, that there will always be another chance.

But time is not guaranteed.

We live in a world that rewards productivity over presence. Yet, at the end of the day, the people we care for—and the people who love us—do not remember how efficient we were. They remember how we made them feel.

The Test I Finally Passed

In the years since, I have been given new opportunities to take that same test in different forms. I have sat beside patients and families in moments of grief, fear, and decision-making. I’ve learned that presence, not perfection, is what matters most.

My passion for palliative care grew from that understanding. It’s a constant reminder that our calling—whether as caregivers, nurses, or family members—is to see the human being before the task.

The Real Test

We are lifelong students in this course called life. We can not dwell on the times we have failed when first presented with new material. Tests are not meant to punish us—they’re meant to teach us.

And sometimes, grace gives us another chance to get it right.

So the next time you’re faced with a choice between tasks and people, between efficiency and connection, remember: the only test that really counts is the one you pass with love.

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Because in the end, caregiving—and life itself—isn’t about acing every test. It’s about showing up for the moments that matter most