Behind the Curtain of the Clinic.

Keep his head cool! Lets go! My mother jolt her voice above the cries of the son and his parents as they prepared to fork over for the hospital. Sitting uncomfortably on the bed, I peered through the pocket-sized holes on the white curtain at the aging farmers with panicked eyes. A cold wind rushed in as my mother opened the door and ushered tahem out of the Hanoi tidy sum Clinic, where she received cases during her nightshifts. An only child of a divorced doctor, I accompanied her four nights a month to the clinic, a aboriginal feet by ten feet room with the acrid smells of alcohol and antibiotic. A white curtain divided the room in halves. On one side, the doctors private wooden bed cluttered up with piles of fading medical records. A big table, collar chairs and a sink occupied the rest of the space, where my mother met patients. The talk of their talks always triumphed over my curiosity, as I run my sleepy eyes against the tattered holes. With an eleven year-old imagination, I ofttimes fancied the white curtain as the Great hem in separating my mother from me, and the emergency clinic as a resting assure for stock(a) travelers. Many patients came and left happily, with only grateful handshakes and austere smiles as the doctors fees.

My mother was their healer. But that night, I saw her urgent face. She did non get until the next morning and, as I insisted, told me that the boy had flown forth with the incense on his altar. It was the first time she had bemused a child. After that, she left me at home. I knew she was afraid for my one-year-old thinker in the heavy environment of the clinic, but I could not ! help feeling deserted. It... If you want to get a liberal essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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