The Moment I Understood

Back in the late 1980s, after my youngest daughter Hilary was born, life required a kind of rearranging that only new parents truly understand. We didn’t want to put her in day care — not because there was anything wrong with it, but because we wanted her to have a parent at home, someone steady and familiar. So I switched to nights at the hospital, trading daylight for fluorescent lights and the unpredictable rhythm of the Emergency Room.

Boston's Beth Israel’s ER was never quiet. The city itself pulsed with constant motion — sirens, traffic, late‑night chaos, and the endless churn of humanity. The ER mirrored all of it. You never knew what was coming through those doors: trauma, fear, relief, heartbreak, or the strange humor medical staff use to survive the intensity. Working in X‑ray meant you were part of every story, even if only for a few minutes. You learned to move quickly, think clearly, and read people in seconds. You also learned that compassion wasn’t optional — it was the difference between treating a body and caring for a human being.

One night, they brought in a young woman who was quadriplegic. She had fallen down a flight of stairs and needed imaging. She was crying — not loudly, but with that quiet, panicked tremor that tells you something is deeply wrong. When we moved her toward the X‑ray room, she begged for someone to stay with her.

I stepped closer and asked what she needed. Her voice shook as she explained that she was nauseous and terrified because every time she was moved, she became a “floating head.” Her only sensation was in her head, and when her body shifted, she felt like a loose ball being tossed around — disembodied, unstable, helpless.

The moment she said it, I understood. Not intellectually — viscerally. I could imagine the disorientation, the vulnerability, the sheer terror of feeling your head suspended in space with no body to anchor it. It wasn’t complicated. It wasn’t mysterious. It was human.

So I stayed with her. I held her head gently, keeping it steady and trying to comfort her while the tech positioned her. I stayed even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to be in the room during the exposure. And yes, I got in trouble for it. But I would do it again without hesitation.

Because that night taught me something essential:

It is not enough to listen. You have to feel.

You have to let yourself enter someone else’s experience long enough to understand what kindness actually requires. The minute she told me her head felt like a ball being tossed around, everything became clear. It wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t heroic. It was simply the obvious, human thing to do.

And it changed me. It taught me that compassion isn’t theoretical — it’s embodied. It’s practical. It’s immediate. It’s the willingness to pause the rules long enough to honor the person in front of you.

This isn’t just sentimentality. Research confirms what I learned that night. A 2025 review in the American Journal of Emergency Medicine found that compassion from emergency staff significantly reduces patient anxiety, improves cooperation, and increases perceived safety during high‑stress procedures. Another study published in BMC Emergency Medicine in 2024 found that compassion was the strongest predictor of patient‑perceived quality of care — stronger than speed, stronger than technical skill, stronger even than pain control. In other words, what patients remember most is not what we did, but how we made them feel while doing it.

That young woman didn’t need a miracle. She didn’t need a cure. She needed someone to understand her fear well enough to act on it. She needed someone to slow down long enough to see her.

Most people don’t slow down long enough to do it.

Emergency medicine is full of rules — some necessary, some bureaucratic, some designed more for liability than humanity. But rules cannot anticipate every situation. They cannot account for the nuance of human fear. They cannot replace the moral responsibility of the person standing at the bedside.

And that brings me to the question I’m really asking:

Would you risk your job to help another person?

Not in a dramatic, movie‑worthy way. Not in a life‑or‑death standoff. But in the quiet, ordinary moments where compassion and policy collide. Where doing the right thing might mean bending a rule. Where protecting someone’s dignity might mean accepting a reprimand. Where being human might cost you something.

Because here’s the truth:

Compassion always costs something.

Sometimes it costs time.

Sometimes it costs convenience.

Sometimes it costs approval.

And sometimes — like that night — it costs you a write‑up.

But the cost of not acting is far greater.

Studies show that when healthcare workers suppress empathy to “stay professional,” burnout increases dramatically. A 2024 analysis in Emergency Medicine Reports found that clinicians who allowed themselves to connect emotionally with patients had lower burnout rates and higher job satisfaction than those who tried to remain detached. Compassion isn’t just good for patients — it protects the caregiver, too.

That night, holding her head steady, I wasn’t thinking about policy. I wasn’t thinking about consequences. I was thinking about what it must feel like to be trapped in a body that no longer obeyed you, terrified that one wrong movement would send your world spinning. I was thinking about how helpless she must have felt, how vulnerable, how dependent on strangers who didn’t know her story.

I was thinking about how I would want someone to treat my daughter if she were in that bed.

Compassion is not complicated.

It is not abstract.

It is not theoretical.

It is not a philosophy.

It is a choice.

A choice to see.

A choice to feel.

A choice to act.

And sometimes, a choice to risk something.

I am not writing this for egoistic reasons. I am writing it to put forth the idea that compassion is not passive. It is not soft. It is not sentimental. It is courageous. It is disruptive. It is costly. And it is necessary.

The question is not whether we can be compassionate.

The question is whether we are willing to pay the price of being compassionate.

That night, I learned that I was.

And I would do it again.

Sources

American Journal of Emergency Medicine (2025). Review on compassion and patient outcomes in emergency departments.

BMC Emergency Medicine (2024). Study on compassion as the strongest predictor of patient‑perceived quality of care.

Emergency Medicine Reports (2024). Analysis of emotional connection and burnout rates among emergency clinicians.