Recently I almost cried in front of a patient and her family. The scene was a basic one: a dying woman, her concerned husband and her startled, kind-hearted sons. Standing at the bedside, we talked awhile about what a long haul it had been, how hard she had fought.

Their eyes misted over, and I, too, felt a sob rise. But rather than weep then and there, I quickly shook their hands and left.

And then I went to the stairwell, where I had myself a little cry. Nothing dramatic, no howling or barking, just a brief shiver of sadness, a tear, and I was done. The hospital stairwell, once the provenance of smokers, now plays host to those who need to sneak away when the going gets tough.

Given the intensity and high-voltage anxiety of serious illness, public crying in hospitals — by patients or family or staff — is less common than one might expect. Sure, it goes on more frequently than, say, at a department store or a restaurant. But more often, people remain buttoned up, dry-eyed, determined to maintain composure.