At the end of my shift I run away to lock myself in the house, hoping to leave everything outside the door. Instead, the suffering faces of my patients are there to stare at me, the voices of their relatives resonate in my head. I knew I had chosen a job that throws pain at you, but I was not prepared for this, for an illness that devastates the heart more than the face. I think back at the hands of the patients who, while I intubate them, squeeze mine. They seek courage in order to face the fear. Without them knowing just how much courage I find in their gesture. I grit my teeth; I look at my colleagues. And I tell myself that everything will be fine, because I am strong.