The night I almost killed a man with paracetamol

Two years ago, I was on night shift at St Thomas'. 3am, ward was quiet, I was running on pure caffeine and prayer. A patient rang for his regular pain relief. I checked the chart, picked up the medication, administered it. Routine.

Twenty minutes later, the crash alarm went off. His room. I ran in and saw his oxygen dropping, his face changing colour. The registrar started shouting questions. What did you give him? I checked the chart again. My hand started shaking.

I had picked up the wrong vial. Same packaging, same colour label. But one was paracetamol, the other was something else entirely. The dose I gave him was three times what his body could handle.

They stabilised him. He survived. But that night changed me. I sat in the staff toilet at 4am and cried like a baby. Called my mother in Ibadan at 5am, she didn't even ask what happened. She just said, 'Bose, God is faithful. Now go and rest.'

I learnt something that night. Perfection is a lie we tell ourselves to feel in control. The real skill is knowing what to do when you fall. You get up, you apologise, you learn the lesson, and you never make that mistake again.