I am awash in emotions and empathy.

More than usual.

I tend to be an emotional person. I cry at movies, or if I see a really good play, or if something really wonderful happens. I get attached to my patients, and when they die, I feel grateful to have known them, and sad that they are gone. And I constantly feel my heart brimming over with love for my husband and my animals, and I can�t fathom a day when they are no longer with me.

But what I am experiencing now makes all of that seem inconsequential.

For some reason, my brain can no longer separate other people�s pain, or joy, or suffering (real people or fictional) from my own.

When I watch a movie, even a bad one, and there is a scene where someone�s spouse dies, I am torn to shreds. I cry big sobby tears of sadness for the fictional characters, and I project their loss onto my life, with a �what if Blue dies� thrown in for good measure.

I got an email from a good friend the other day. He�s been married to his wife for about nine years. They have a three year old daughter. And he�s been in love with his wife for about 25 years (they were high school sweethearts). In his email, he said, �I don�t think that Lisa is in love with me anymore.� He went on to say that he�s staying with her and their daughter in the hopes that she changes her mind � and that he tries very much to enjoy the times they spend together while he waits. I wept, right then and there.

Today took the cake. As we were leaving the OB�s office, we watched a Life Flight EMS helicopter coming in to land at the hospital next door. (I am fascinated by helicopters � I love them, and I always drop what I�m doing to watch them. Don�t ask me why.) But as it approached, I realized something: the only reason a helicopter approaches a hospital is to deliver someone. Someone who is really hurt, to the point of not being likely to survive.

I started to cry. In the parking lot. Watching the helicopter land. Grieving for whomever was inside.

It�s getting worse every day. And when I say worse, I guess what I mean is more intense. Every little thing is a trigger. My heart is open to everything and everyone and I am an emotional sponge.

I have to work tomorrow, for the first time in about two weeks. I have no earthly clue how I�m going to survive to do my job. Maybe I will be able to get my nurse-detachment back. Maybe I will be able to do my job, stay focused on the good that I�m doing, and compartmentalize the sadness of my cancer patients.

I have a fear that I�m going to fall apart. That I�m not going to be able to do my job.

My mom was a nurse for many years. One day, as we were talking about the profession, she confessed to me that she could never have been a pediatric nurse. �I tried it for a few weeks,� she said. �But every child I took care of, in my mind, was you and your sister. I simply couldn�t handle the emotion.�

I never quite understood that � until right now.