Second, they wonder if their family will ever forgive them if they get sick. l worked in the HIV lab while my wife was pregnant with our first son and would stare out the window imagining my wife explaining to my fatherless boy about what happened to Daddy. Would she say I was a hero, someone who bravely tried to move science forward? Or that I was a selfish imprudent slob who thought that the chance at a small slice of glory was worth gambling with the happiness of loved ones?

Third, they are mad at the situation, the hospital, the patient, the world. There is something infuriating about being in such a situation, one where you realize the massive power and heartlessness of brute fate and your own puniness as history itself grinds forward.

But last, I suspect they will have a sense of pride that they are the ones, the ones entrusted with this scary task. ICU sorts of rooms, such as I imagine the Emory facility has, always are a bit disorienting, full of machines and futuristic sounds and strange angles. Plus wearing gowns, gloves, goggles and masks imparts an eerie moonwalk sensation as one enters the facility.