Saturation 82
when caring becomes too much
9 MIN READ
march, 2026
The phone alarm hadn't yet pierced the morning's silence.
Evelyn reaches out & fumbles on the nightstand to silence that irritating ringtone before her husband is disturbed. He looks so peaceful in his sleep.
In fact, Evelyn only remembers that the ringtone is irritating, not what it actually sounds like. It's probably been more than six months since she wakes up before it goes off.
She leaves the house like a frail shadow, slipping between leafless trees along a dimly lit alley.
Shivering, slightly unsettled by the wind stirring up litter, her stomach restless with hunger, she stops in the parking lot in front of the car door to breath deeply: three times, consciously.
Once inside the car, she feels she has crossed an invisible border, between the warmth of home & the responsibilities waiting for her.
She anticipates the decisions she'll have to make, minutes apart, in back-to-back consultations, facing the worried expressions of parents, the pained faces of children.
But she doesn't anticipate that today would be more than that.
It's 7:30. After a traffic-free drive during which she ate a sandwich her husband had prepared the night before and savored a coffee, Evelyn is now taking over the on-call shift.
She receives the report on cases, emergencies, admitted children. It's the largest emergency hospital for children in the capital.
The day is never quiet, unfortunately.
Thirty minutes pass. By 9:00 AM she has checked on the admitted patients, spoken with nurses & residents.
A cigarette follows, smoked at the corner of the building. A hospital, her as a pediatrician, a cigarette - just one of the contradictions of her life.
She seems so calm & her eyes carry a shade of thoughts that gives here gaze a particular depth. Another contradictions: a living one, because the fire of her thoughts is a silent restlessness that only her husband can detect before it spirals toward resignation.
A metallic clank of a door interrupts her thoughts.
- Shall we start the consultation room? a senior nurse asks, peering at her with sympathy through the crack of the door held firmly against the wind. The nurse seemed to recognize something in Evelyn she had seen in other doctors before, something she had long given up trying to change, or to heal.
It's 9:00 AM now. The first consultation of the day came with a smile she offered a 5 years old girl, even as questions were already gathering inside her. A child with fever-flushed cheeks, a mother emptying her bag onto the table searching for prescriptions & medication, many more patients to see.
And still she smiles at the little girl once more & feels it wasn't for nothing.
But the day had already begun preparing its assault.
- Shall I bring you a sandwich?
But she doesn’t hear the question & besides, she hadn’t been eating lunch for many months.I’ll eat at 7:30, when the shift ends. She only thought it, no words were spoken. But her lips moved.
Patient no. 51 is a three-year-old boy, brought in with a fever of 39.5°C, rapid breathing.
- Doctor, my child is dying and no one is doing anything! We’ve been up with him all night!
- I understand, it’s hard to watch him like this. Let’s get him on the table so I can examine him.
- He wouldn’t eat at all… but I thought maybe it was just a cold. The mother was crying.
- He’s breathing fast & his saturation is slightly low, we need to put him on oxygen & place an IV so we can start treatment.
- Why wasn’t he given anything earlier? He’s had a fever for a day and no one does anything in this country!
The father begins to gesture, pacing the room.
- We didn’t give him anything at home… not even syrup, because I heard it’s dangerous at his age. Did I do something wrong?
The mother tries to take the father by the arm.
- Doctor, since he’s been here he’s the hospital’s responsibility. I’ll file a criminal complaint if you ruin my boy, only I know how much his mother has suffered with him.
- Next time, if he has a fever above 38.5°C & is breathing hard, it’s good to give him a fever reducer & then come in directly.
- I’m not a doctor! I brought him here for you to make him well.
- This isn’t just a virus. It’s a lung infection that’s compromising his oxygen levels.
We’ll put him on a drip & oxygen, then admit him so we can give IV antibiotics & monitor him.
- God, don’t kill my boy! He’s only got a cold! He caught it from his brothers!
The father was sweating through his clothes, a sharp smell.
He suddenly struck the wall and the boy flinched, startled as if by a painful memory.
- I feel sick, the mother whispered.
- She’s not well, she has a heart condition! These people are killing my family in this hospital, the father yells!
Evelyn takes the boy in her arms while the nurse places the IV. It felt like a cold embrace, not because of the little boy, who had clung tightly to her neck, but because her own emotionality made her tremble when patients, especially the large & aggressive ones, shouted or accused her.
Because mechanically, she knew what to do, but she didn’t know how to be. What to say to calm the boy, what to say to calm the frightened mother, or the father contorted by fear & rage.
When she became a doctor she hadn’t thought this was what she’d be managing.
She had thought about small souls in need of care & her own skill. She had thought she would be useful, that her life would have meaning.
But perhaps she had only been naive and being a doctor is so much more than knowing how to heal & how to hold.
So much more than she is.
4:00 PM, patient 74. Her phone buzzes constantly in her pocket. Evelyn finishes the consultation & steps out for a cigarette.
Outside, the wind blew so cold that only the embrace of the senior nurse allowed her to breathe deeply at all.
- How many shifts this month? the nurse asked, rubbing her shoulders to warm her.
- The seventh. I love children so much. I don’t even feel the time passing.
- Parents are harder, aren’t they?
- You heard?
- The whole ward heard. It’s not their first time here. They always come in with that little boy when it’s already serious, without giving him anything at home.
I get scared too when he starts shouting, I don’t know what to do either.
She looked at the nurse as if wondering whether it was normal that even she, an experienced nurse, didn’t know. But she’s not a doctor, a doctor must be prepared for anything, she thinks.
- I’m going back in to check on him.
- The boy? He’s a sweetheart, he breaks my heart every time I see him.
The way he clings to my neck. I saw he did the same with you. But don’t you want to rest? Eat something?
When she enters the ward, the father stands up immediately.
His fist was clenched and his face was red.
- What happened?
- He’s shaking, he won’t sleep, you haven’t done anything!
She looks at the child: sunken cheeks, lips faintly blue. She listens to his breathing. A short cough, then a sigh that doesn’t continue.
- A nurse! Quickly! Saturation 82!
Pulse oximeter, oxygen!
The father takes a step back, eyes wide, wet. He unclenches his fist, in his palm is a crumpled piece of paper.
- This is what you gave us then… that’s your handwriting, isn’t it?
Evelyn takes the paper. It’s a prescription for a fever reducer. In the bottom corner, the date: three days ago. The signature: hers.
- No… I don’t remember. I wasn’t on call that day…
- Maybe you don’t remember. But this child…
The nurse, gloved, stops abruptly.
Evelyn stands frozen, watching the child who barely breathes and in his face she sees the same outline, the same vacant gaze. The air grows dense. She drops her stethoscope.
- What’s his name?
On the chart at the edge of the bed, the trembling handwriting is hers too.
- Impossible… I filled out this chart… a month ago.
The father stares at her.
The child stops trembling.
The fluorescent light flickers for a second.
— Evelyn! Evelyn! Evelyn