I was on another overnight duty in the OB/GYN emergency department. The atmosphere was heavy with anxiety, as it typically is when the night is filled with contractions, cries, and emergencies. A woman arrived in active labor — her first child, eyes wide with fear, and no family accompanying her.

Everyone hurried to get ready for the delivery. Monitors beeped. Gloves snapped. Orders zipped around the room. The emphasis was on the baby. Obtain the fetal heart tones. Assess cervical dilation. Get the warmer ready.

But no one met her gaze.

She shook, silent. I noticed her lips moving, hardly forming a prayer. The pain was intense, but her fear was even more overwhelming. And in that instant, it hit me: We were focused on her baby, yet no one was caring for her.

I knelt next to her. I took her hand. I said, “You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’m here.”

She looked at me — truly looked — and the tears began to flow. I held her hand as she pushed. Together, we welcomed her baby into the world.

She didn’t express gratitude for the stitches or the IV or the monitoring. She expressed thanks for holding her hand.

At times, in medicine, we become so engrossed in saving lives that we forget the individuals living them. Sometimes, they don’t require more technology. They simply need more compassion.

Loubana Ahmad is an obstetrics-gynecology resident.