In Simple Terms
Eye doctors sometimes treat terrible injuries in the middle of the night, then have to keep working as if the experience has not affected them. But hiding sadness does not make it disappear. Taking a moment to notice and understand those feelings can help doctors care for patients without losing sight of their own needs.
A Night on Call Is More Than a Long Shift
In the operating room, a doctor may not have the chance to pause and think about what they are feeling. When someone arrives with a severe eye injury, time, precision, and teamwork can all be critical, and surgery may continue until morning. But when the operation is over, the scene may not be over in the surgeon’s mind. That gap between doing the job and taking in what has happened is at the heart of an experience described by ophthalmologist Robert M. Kinnaird. He works at Legacy Devers Eye Institute and Legacy Research Institute and is a clinical instructor at Casey Eye Institute at Oregon Health & Science University in Portland.
What an All-Nighter Can Bring Back
Kinnaird reflected on what it means to stay awake all night during a meditation retreat in the Santa Cruz Mountains. He attended the retreat in the fall before his article was published on November 3, 2026. He had hoped to step away for a while from the pace of his busy clinic, but instead found himself confronting memories from his work that had stayed with him without his ever having much time or attention to give them. One night, participants were asked to keep meditating until dawn. For Kinnaird, that invitation carried a very different meaning from staying up to study or have fun.
For him, an all-nighter brought to mind patients he had treated, not a passing night without sleep. He remembered a man who survived a gunshot wound to the head and underwent brain surgery and the removal of one eye. He recalled a woman waiting quietly in her car near a street festival who was struck by a stray bullet amid gang violence. Other memories came too: eyes injured in many different ways, by knives, fireworks, car windshields, bottles, sticks, stones, and fishing hooks.
The circumstances vary, but any one of these injuries can turn a person’s life upside down in an instant. Some people are caught up in a tragedy through no fault of their own, simply while going about their day. The doctor who meets them is not just looking at a clinical case or an organ to repair. He is facing a person who may have suffered a profound loss, a family waiting for news, and a future that has suddenly become uncertain.
Precision Surgery Under the Strain of Exhaustion
Ophthalmologists are sometimes called in the middle of the night to treat severe injuries that have torn apart the structures of the eye. The chances of preserving sight may be limited, but the team still works to repair the eye as much as possible. The task calls for delicate surgery, coordinated movements, and the ability to stay focused through long hours. The surgeon is not working alone, either: the operating-room team is tired, and everyone knows the day’s work does not simply end when morning arrives.
In these circumstances, staying awake is about more than physical endurance. The surgeon must choose each step carefully, lead the team calmly, and maintain the quality of care under difficult conditions. Two seemingly opposing demands may come together in the same moment: act quickly to save what can be saved, while recognizing that the injury may leave losses surgery cannot undo. Technical success does not necessarily erase the pain or the possibility of lasting effects.
The role is harder still because the doctor must support the patient while feeling depleted himself. He has to explain what can be done, respond to the patient’s fears, and take part in difficult decisions, all while keeping his attention on the fine details of surgery. The pressure of an on-call shift does not always leave room to stop and think about the emotional weight of what is happening. Feelings may surface later or be pushed aside so the team can keep working.
The Steadiness That Protects—and Can Isolate—a Doctor
Kinnaird describes times when the injuries he treated affected him so deeply that he cried. He would often retreat to a private place, such as a locker room or bathroom, to regain his composure away from the patient. If his eyes began to well up in front of someone he was treating, he would tense his body and face, afraid the patient might see his surgeon falling apart at a moment when they needed reassurance and confidence.
Holding back an emotional reaction can make sense in some situations. A patient preparing for delicate surgery may not want to feel that their doctor has lost control before the operation even begins. The problem arises when this temporary restraint becomes a permanent wall. Tensing the body and hiding feelings may help a doctor get through the immediate task, but it can also keep him from recognizing how the experience has affected him. Grief may be postponed instead of being given a safe way to be acknowledged and addressed.
In Kinnaird’s experience, being moved by what he saw was not evidence of professional weakness or an inability to make decisions. It was a reminder that a doctor remains human when confronted with real suffering. The challenge is not to be swallowed up by the patient’s pain or to give up the steadiness the work requires. It is to remain emotionally present without losing focus, while maintaining professional boundaries that allow the doctor to treat the patient without denying his own feelings.
Making Room to Reflect on Injury and Loss
As he stayed awake in the meditation hall, Kinnaird began to realize that he had never given himself enough time to take in what injured patients had lost—their eyes, sometimes parts of their lives—and the harm their injuries had left behind. As dawn approached, most of the people at the retreat joined in a joyful meditation chant. Kinnaird chose to remain at the back of the room, listening to his grief. He was not trying to fix what could not be changed. He was acknowledging that some experiences need to be seen and felt before they can be carried differently.
That night gave him a deeper appreciation for doctors who respond to traumatic injuries, including his colleagues in ophthalmology. People may think of eye doctors in terms of routine exams, modern equipment, and short procedures that improve vision—and that is a real part of the profession. But there is a less visible side, where ophthalmologists work alongside emergency physicians and trauma surgeons to treat cases that can be difficult even for medical professionals to witness.
This does not mean every doctor needs a meditation retreat, or that meditation alone can answer the pressures of health care work. The point Kinnaird drew from his experience is narrower and more personal: when there is room, time, and attention, a doctor may be able to notice fear and sadness rather than bury them beneath stress. That awareness may soften the kind of emotional armor that blocks connection, without undermining the discipline good care demands.
Returning to the Present in the Clinic
After returning from the retreat, Kinnaird tried to bring a greater sense of presence into his clinic. When he sits in his swivel chair in the exam room, he now reminds himself of the feeling of his feet on the floor. It is a simple cue that helps him notice when his mind has drifted toward the pressure of a packed schedule or a long wait, and then bring his attention back to the patient in front of him.
In this approach, mindfulness does not mean staying in a state of calm all the time. Attention wanders; a person notices that it has wandered and brings it back to the present moment. That act of returning is the heart of the practice. In a clinic, it might mean a doctor realizing that he is working on autopilot or beginning to feel worn out, then refocusing on what the patient is saying and what they need right now.
This exercise does not make a busy clinic less crowded, shorten the waiting list, or turn every day into an easy one. But it can give a doctor a chance to catch his breath before pressure creates distance between him and the patient. Someone coming in may be injured or afraid of losing their sight; another person may have a less serious problem or simply be having a difficult day. In every case, listening closely helps the doctor see the person behind the reason for the visit, rather than simply moving through the usual steps.
A Human Burden That Calls for Support
Kinnaird says emergency trauma calls are among the least appealing parts of medicine for him, yet they are often among the most meaningful. He sees devastating eye injuries only a few times a year, while doctors in other specialties face similar suffering every day. The difference in how often they encounter it does not make the experience easy. Instead, it points to the emotional burden carried by a wide range of health care workers.
A doctor treats more than the injury itself; he supports the patient and family as they face news that may change their lives. In some cases, no matter how skilled the surgeon is, there is little he can do to restore sight. He may then feel helpless or sad, especially if he has had to set aside his feelings in order to keep working. Professionalism should not be reduced to silence or an appearance of composure. Health care workers need support that helps them process the psychological impact of what they witness, rather than leaving each person to handle it alone.
When there is time and space for grief, it can carry meaning as well as weight. It may reflect an understanding of what the patient has endured, a willingness to stay close to their suffering, and a sense of responsibility toward them. These feelings cannot give a doctor the power to change every outcome, but they may help him see the injured person as more than a surgical procedure. That kind of humanity does not conflict with skill; the two can go hand in hand.
The Bottom Line
Ophthalmologist Robert M. Kinnaird’s experience shows that treating severe injuries requires both medical precision and the ability to live with the emotional impact of the work. Composure can protect a surgeon from becoming overwhelmed in the operating room, but if it turns into a lasting denial of emotion, it may widen the distance between the doctor and his patients, as well as from his own feelings. Through meditation and attention to the present, Kinnaird found a way to return to the moment after his mind wandered, whether in the clinic or while facing painful memories. This practice cannot undo tragedy or replace professional support, but it is a reminder that caring for injured people also means caring for the people who treat them.