But I have realized that I am not as immune to them as I thought.
I am only immune to some of them. The kind that are manipulative. You know the kind. The kind that flows like a never-ending river when a child is not getting his or her way. The ones that go along with the sad, puppy-dog eyes that beg for you to give in. These kinds of tears I can handle. I can laugh at them because I will not be manipulated like that. I refuse.
But then there are the other kinds of tears. The tears that flow due to deep, heart-breaking pain. I realized this for the first time when I stood in a patient’s room. The patient lay in the bed, sedated by medications. The attending stood in front of me, trying to explain the circumstances to the family members.
I remember seeing the tears. I also remember hearing the guttural, almost-primal screams of agony and despair. The words they cried out weren’t even in English. But pain needs no translating. Theirs was a pain borne from unexpected outcome. The patient had been discharged home just days before. That night I had worked on the admission and, with the help a translator, been able to communicate with the patient. But over the course of 10 hours the patient had deteriorated and pain and anguish was what was left in the room.
I physically removed myself from the room. I had seen sad situations many times before but this one got to me. I could feel my eyes start to water. My throat got tight. The air was thick and heavy. I needed to take a few breaths.
I used to say that I am immune to tears. I cannot anymore.