Angels of Westmoreland Honor Guard

01/15/2026

Marie G. Cardella touched many lives with her quiet, compassionate demeanor. After graduating from Jeannette High School, she enrolled in the former St. John’s Nursing Program in Pittsburgh, where she earned her nursing degree. She began her career at Jeannette Hospital as a staff nurse and later served as the nurse on duty for Latrobe Steel. Most of her career was spent at St. Anne Home in Greensburg, where she started as a staff nurse and rose to become Director of Nursing for several years before her retirement. Even after retirement, Marie volunteered countless hours at St. Anne Home, assisting with patient records.
During her time at St. Anne’s, Marie lived less than a half-block from her place of work. Her dedication to residents and their families, to her staff, and to the home itself was evident to everyone, especially her family. If she was called about an issue, no matter what time of day or night, she would be there to help. Her children accompanied her to work as they grew up and witnessed firsthand how devoted and caring their mother was. Her son, Michael, followed in her footsteps and became a nurse, and her daughter, Dana, worked in medical offices.
Michael recalls his mom always stressing the importance of physical touch when talking with a resident. A touch on the arm or back, along with talking and actively listening, was essential to making residents feel cared for—something he carries into his own nursing practice.
Dana recalls her mother as insistent on understanding the importance of meticulous documentation. “Dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s” was a refrain she heard many times: If it isn’t documented, it isn’t done—Document, Document, Document. All nurses understand this crucial lesson.
Marie was not only a nurse at her workplace but was also considered the “neighborhood go-to,” sought for aches, pains, and injuries. There was a young boy who had a nasty fall from his bike on the road, and Marie was the first on the scene to help. Once a nurse, always a nurse. Her family would agree, though, that when it came to her own children, she could be a marshmallow—lovingly protective, but not always the cool and calm demeanor she showed to others.
Marie Cardella was a leader who did so with quiet, loving reserve while upholding high standards. She was a defender of her staff when she felt they were not being treated fairly, yet she listened to all parties before making decisions. Her family always came first, but her residents, their families, and the staff she oversaw were a very close second. May she be remembered as compassionate, loving, and caring by all who had the privilege of knowing her.

12/24/2025

12/20/2025

One of our members, Lisa Mensch, volunteering with Toys for Tots ❤️💚

12/17/2025

Nobody ever paused CPR to ask me what my GPA was. No dying man ever grabbed my wrist at 3:00 AM, looked me in the eye, and asked, "Did you graduate with honors?"

They only asked one thing: "Am I going to be okay?"

My name is Martha. I am 74 years old. I don’t have a LinkedIn profile. I don’t have a TED Talk. I drove a used sedan for twenty years and my retirement party was a sheet cake in the breakroom.

But for five decades, I was the last face people saw before they left this world, and the first face they saw when they came back to it. I was an ER nurse in a city that doesn't sleep, where the sirens never stop.

I remember the day I realized the world had gotten its priorities backwards.

It was Career Day at a local high school about five years ago. The gymnasium was packed. The air smelled of floor wax and teenage anxiety. I looked around at the other presenters. It was intimidating.

To my left was a tech entrepreneur, wearing a hoodie that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage, talking about "disrupting the market" and "scaling synergy." To my right was a corporate lawyer in a sharp Italian suit, handing out glossy brochures about intern programs. There was a financial planner flashing a laser pointer at a graph showing compound interest.

The kids were mesmerized. They were terrified of debt, hungry for status, and desperate to know the formula for being "Someone."

Then there was me.

I walked in wearing my old comfortable scrubs and my stethoscope around my neck. I didn't have a PowerPoint. I didn't have a "brand." I just had a badge that was scratched from years of use and hands that were dry from a thousand washings.

When it was my turn, the room went quiet. I didn't stand behind the podium. I walked right up to the bleachers.

"I’m not here to tell you how to make your first million," I said. My voice shook a little, then steadied. "I’m here to tell you what it feels like to be the only person awake in a terrifyingly quiet hallway, listening to the rhythm of a ventilator, praying for a stranger’s lungs to expand just one more time."

The kids stopped scrolling on their phones.

"I’m here to tell you about the smell of fear," I continued. "And I’m here to tell you about the specific, holy silence that falls over a room when a doctor calls the time of death. I want to tell you what it’s like to hold a mother as she screams, and what it’s like to wash the body of a homeless veteran with the same tenderness you’d give a king, simply because he was a human being and he deserved dignity."

I looked them in the eyes.

"It isn't glamorous. You won’t get a corner office with a view of the skyline. You will come home with aching feet and a broken heart more often than you’d like. But I promise you this: You will never, ever wonder if your work mattered."

The shift in the room was palpable. The questions they asked the tech guy were about stocks and salaries. The questions they asked me were different.

"Do you ever get scared?" a boy in a varsity jacket asked. "Every single shift," I said.

"Do you cry?" a girl in the front row asked. "I cry in the car. I cry in the shower. I cry because I care," I answered.

After the bell rang and the gym cleared out, a skinny boy with messy hair lingered behind. He looked down at his worn-out sneakers, kicking at a scuff mark on the floor.

"My dad is a janitor," he whispered, almost like it was a secret he was ashamed of. "At a big office building downtown. People walk past him like he’s invisible. Like he’s part of the furniture."

He looked up at me, his eyes wet. "He comes home so tired. But he says he keeps the place safe. He says he stops the germs so the business people don't get sick."

I reached out and took that young man’s hand. "Son, listen to me. Your dad is a hero. The world stops spinning without people like your dad. We have enough 'visionaries' in corner offices. We don't have enough people willing to do the hard, invisible work that actually keeps civilization running. Taking care of people? Cleaning up the messes? That is everything."

We live in a culture that is obsessed with titles. We teach our children that success looks like a verified checkmark next to their name or a salary that creates envy. We praise the disruptors and the influencers.

But let me tell you something about the real world.

When the power grid fails in a winter storm, a résumé won’t save you. An electrician will. When the pipe bursts and floods your basement, a diploma won’t save you. A plumber will. When your child burns up with a fever at midnight, your stock portfolio won’t save you. A nurse will.

We have forgotten the nobility of service. We have forgotten the sacredness of the "essential."

Last winter, I received a letter. It was from that boy with the messy hair. He’s not a boy anymore.

“Dear Martha,” it read. “I almost dropped out. I thought I wasn't smart enough for college, and I didn't want to be invisible like I thought my dad was. But I remembered what you said about dignity. I’m an EMT now. Last week, I saved a guy who had a heart attack on the subway platform. Nobody asked me for my business card. I just did the work. Thank you for telling me it mattered.”

I sat at my kitchen table, reading that letter over a cup of lukewarm coffee, and I wept.

I wept because he got it. He understood the secret that so many chasing the "American Dream" miss completely.

Success isn't about how many people serve you. Success is about how many people you serve.

So, here is my plea to you.

The next time you talk to a teenager, please, for the love of God, stop asking them, "Where are you going to college?" or "What do you want to be?"

Ask them: "Who do you want to help?"

Change the metric.

And if they say, "I want to be a welder," or "I want to work with the elderly," or "I want to drive a truck," don’t just give them a polite, pitying nod.

Look them in the eye. Tell them you are proud. Tell them that their hands are going to build the world and heal the broken. Tell them that when the night gets dark—and it always does—we aren't looking for a CEO. We are looking for someone who decided to show up.

We need them. We need them more than they will ever know.

12/12/2025

Michael R. Quinn’s path to nursing was unconventional, but guided by a deep commitment to family and care. He began his career in the steel mill; a line of work he pursued for years to support his growing family. When layoffs hit, he transitioned to healthcare as a nurse’s aide at McKeesport Hospital, laying the foundation for a new vocation. With the steel mill closing and educational support offered, he and his wife Tina—a registered nurse—were expecting twin sons. It was then decided that nursing would be his path, and he enrolled at Allegheny County Community College, South Campus, completing his studies as the boys were about 2½ years old. He came from a family of nurses; in addition to Tina, his late mother, sister, and aunt were all nurses, a lineage that underscored the calling he embraced.
Michael’s nursing career took him to several organizations. He began at McKeesport Hospital in the Med/Surg Department, later transferring to Jefferson Hospital to work on the Orthopedic Unit. He discovered his true passion in Home Health, where he cared for patients and families with compassion, through Family Home Health in White Oak, Albert Gallatin Home Health in Brownsville, and UPMC Home Health in West Mifflin. Known for his empathy and willingness to teach, he valued the conversations that helped patients feel understood and supported. He retired from United Health Care, where he worked in prior authorization.
A devoted father to his twin sons, Michael prioritized being involved in their lives. One favorite family memory is coaching their Hopwood baseball team to a championship. Though called away for a home health duty during the game, he returned to find the team had won the title—a reminder of his dedication and the joy he found in both family and work.
Michael faced long-standing health challenges for many years, including dialysis and a kidney transplant. Tina participated in the “Chain” program, donating a kidney and enabling Michael to receive a kidney from another donor in the program. He battled COVID-19, remaining nonverbal for a time, responding only to the music he loved as he recovered at St. Anne’s. After several hospital stays and renewed kidney failure, he returned to dialysis and developed cardiac issues. He chose to transition to hospice and passed away peacefully at home, surrounded by his loving family, with home care continuing to support him in his final days.
Michael was a family man, a compassionate, kind, and friendly nurse, and he will be deeply missed by all who had the privilege of knowing him.

12/10/2025

We would like to express gratitude to everyone who attended our Christmas dinner meeting last night, where we enjoyed a wonderful evening filled with camaraderie, entertainment, and exceptional food. Merry Christmas!

12/10/2025

Christy was so kind to share with us the information to get a nurse cape made if you wanted. Thank you!

11/19/2025

Carol Kave graduated from the Westmoreland Hospital School of Nursing in 1967. She earned a Bachelor of Science degree and a Master’s degree from Penn State University, and she continually expanded her expertise through numerous certifications that underscored her dedication as an educator, mentor, and nurse.

She devoted forty-one years to Independence Health System Westmoreland Hospital, serving in various capacities. She began on the medical-surgical units as a staff nurse and advanced to medical-surgical relief head nurse. She founded and led the IV therapy team and served as a director of occupational medicine. Carol trained physicians and employees in CPR, educated new nursing staff, and provided ongoing continuing education for colleagues who worked alongside her.

Beyond her professional achievements, Carol was deeply active in the community. She was a member of the New Neighbors of Greensburg, where she regularly attended luncheons with friends she had made. She established Workers’ Compensation panels for companies in Westmoreland County and served as a docent at the Westmoreland Museum of Art. She was a dedicated member of the Hospital Auxiliary, participating in fundraising events, and sat on the board of the Westmoreland County American Heart Association. Carol also belonged to the Westmoreland Area Nurses Association.

Carol’s immediate family was small, but her connections with fellow nurses, physicians, educators, and peers were wide and meaningful. Her friend Darlene spoke of her with admiration: “She was stylish, put together, and very educated, professional, and an excellent nurse and mentor.” Carol could always be counted on to help with a project or event. Another nurse, Melanie, recalled relying on Carol’s intravenous skills on the dialysis unit—she remembered Carol as never flustered or impatient, always willing to assist with grace and quiet dignity.

Albert, Carol’s husband of twenty-six years, recalled her love of travel, whether to Europe or across the United States. Two treasured adventures were a 1998 trip to Italy and a voyage down the Columbia River. He notes that Carol offered advice only when asked and always knew how to speak with gentleness and discernment, never overstepping.

Carol was a nurse, an educator, a mentor, and a doer. To those entrusted with carrying on her memory, may you remember her compassion, her kindness, and her steadfast devotion to caring for others.

11/15/2025

Once a Nurse, Always a Nurse

Once a nurse,
not just a job, but a fire burned into bone.
A call that whispers in the quietest moments,
long after scrubs are folded away.

Once a nurse,
you carry more than charts and meds
you carry lives, fears, and silent prayers
woven into every breath you take.

Once a nurse,
you learn to hold strength and sorrow in the same hand,
to fight with kindness when the world demands steel,
to rise when your own soul wants to fall.

Once a nurse,
you hear the unspoken stories
in the trembling of a hand,
in the glance that says, “I’m scared.”
You answer with presence, not just protocol.

Once a nurse,
you are marked forever
not by a name tag or a badge,
but by the hearts you’ve mended,
the tears you’ve caught,
the hope you refused to let die.

Once a nurse,
you walk through life wearing invisible scars
and a fierce, unyielding love
that never clocks out,
never fades,
never stops.

Because once a nurse,
you are always a nurse
a guardian of life’s fragile moments,
a keeper of humanity’s light,
a soul forever tethered
to care,
to courage,
to compassion.

Once a nurse
always a nurse.
No matter the years,
no matter the miles,
no matter the quiet nights
when you wonder if it was worth it.

It always is.