We Call It Compassion Fatigue Like It Is a Weather Pattern

lost it a little today. not on a patient — on the break room microwave. someone left fish in there again and i just stood there staring at it like it was the reason everything is hard. it's not the fish. i know it's not the fish. but when you're running on four hours of sleep and you've been smiling at people who are scared for ten straight hours, sometimes the microwave is where the feeling lands. my charge nurse asked if i'm ok. i said fine. we both knew that was a lie we've agreed to use.

I did not cry in front of a patient today. I cried in front of the break room microwave.

Someone had reheated fish again, and I stood there staring at the lid like it was responsible for the last six months. It was not the fish. I knew it was not the fish. But when you have been smiling at frightened people for ten hours on four hours of sleep, feelings need a door, and sometimes the door is a appliance.

My charge nurse asked if I was okay. I said fine. We have an agreement about that word. Fine means I am still standing. Fine means the patients are safe. Fine means we will not turn my breakdown into another staffing problem to solve before shift change.

We call this compassion fatigue, as though it is a season you wait out. As though the cure is a webinar and a gratitude journal. The system uses gentle language for violent math: too many patients, too few hands, too much exposure to other people's worst days without space to metabolize any of it.

The microwave incident was funny, in retrospect. It was also honest. Nurses are not running out of compassion. We are running out of places to put what compassion costs.

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