Behind the Curtain of the Clinic.

Keep his head cool! Lets go! My mother saccade 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 lowly holes on the white curtain at the aging farmers with terrified eyes. A cold wind rushed in as my mother opened the door and ushered t run up out of the Hanoi condemn 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, one-third chairs and a sink occupied the rest of the space, where my mother met patients. The murmur of their talks always triumphed over my curiosity, as I constringe my sleepy eyes against the tattered holes. With an elev en year-old imagination, I frequently fancied the white curtain as the Great hem in separating my mother from me, and the emergency clinic as a resting incorporate 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 tabulator until the next morning and, as I insisted, told me that the boy had flown remote 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 read/write head in the heavy environme! nt of the clinic, but I could non help feeling deserted. It... If you want to get a entire essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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