I stare down at the ground below me, closing my eyes tight, trying to hold back the tears. “Push it down. Deep breath in. Breathe it out … slowly … again …” The mantra I say in my head whenever it suddenly becomes too much.

I open my eyes to the view of the ground, unwillingly taking a snapshot of the view that surrounds me. Like the slow click of a Polaroid. The familiar comfort of my brown leather Birkenstocks, the chosen shoe of the northwest trauma center, as the blood splatter is easy to wipe off. Plastic wrappers strewn over the floor. Wires, caps, a partial shoe print, smeared with a bright, red, bloody outline.

The sights and sounds searing into the part of my memory that will require extra substances to quiet tonight. The rhythmic squeak of the LUCAS device. The recorder’s strong, unwavering voice: “Thirty seconds until pulse check.” The unwrapping of plastic. The constant beeping of monitors. The sounds of the PEEP valve exhaling: ten breaths a minute.

It will take years to know the extent of the damage that has been done to my soul bearing witness to other people’s suffering. The familiar scene of the teenage victim’s brother collapsing in the hallway after he was told, “We are so sorry, we did everything we could,” will flash in my mind over my next days off.

The look of defeat on the trauma surgeon’s face when he realizes he cannot save this one. The next time I see him in line in the cafeteria, I will wonder why I recognize him.

The depletion of energy that is collectively sucked out of a room after a pediatric code blue time of death is called at 8:19 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Everyone dropping their hands at their sides. Pulling off the plastic gowns at their waist. Wiping the sweat from their brow. Taking in the massacre that has unfolded around them. The chaos left behind after the orchestrated group effort of trying to save a young life.

Admitting a gunshot wound victim is now a daily occurrence at a trauma center. Usually my prayer is not that it does not happen on my shift, but more that it will not be a child. At least give me that gift, Universe. Not another teenager. Not another young one. Not another mother’s scream. A father’s silent sobs. Another brother’s painful, wail.

The effects of gun violence run deep. Deeper and with more complexity than most will ever comprehend.

• The blood products.
• The resources.
• The souls.
• The sweat.
• The therapy.
• The trauma.
• The noise.

It is not just the victims and their families. It is not just the police that respond to the scene. It is not just the medics that bring them to the hospital. Not even the hundreds, even thousands of people, it takes to attempt to clean up the aftermath.

The millions of dollars spent to desperately try and save the life of a young boy on the cusp of his future. A young boy who should be going to prom, and graduation, and to parties. Instead, he is going to the morgue.

How much more suffering can I digest? How many more children can I watch die at the hands of gun violence? How much sadness can one person consume before it is all too much?

Before we burn out.

What is it going to take for this country to do something about this senseless, cowardly epidemic.

The sounds of distant sirens wake me in the middle of the night. Causing a tightness in my chest. A shortness in my breath. The uncontrollable tensing of all my senses.

• Picturing the victim.
• The blood products.
• The bullet holes.
• The sadness.
• The fear.
• The hopelessness.

It is not a virus causing the mass destruction. Crippling the health care system in America, scarring the lives of millions of people, across all walks of life in this country.

It is not a virus this time. It is us.

Michelle Weiss is a respiratory therapist.