Behind the Curtain of the Clinic.

Keep his head cool! Lets go! My mother labor her voice above the cries of the son and his parents as they prepared to ply for the hospital. Sitting uncomfortably on the bed, I peered through the low holes on the white curtain at the aging farmers with frightened eyes. A cold wind rushed in as my mother opened the door and ushered tahem out of the Hanoi exigency 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 cardinal grosbeak 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, triple chairs and a sink occupied the rest of the space, where my mother met patients. The heart murmur of their talks always triumphed over my curiosity, as I pack 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 break-dance 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 diminish until the next morning and, as I insisted, told me that the boy had flown onward 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 sagac iousness in the heavy environment of the cli! nic, but I could not help feeling deserted. It... If you want to get a rise essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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