I stayed nine nights in a hospital in Kaohsiung when I was fifteen. The guy in the next bed was sixty, had cancer, and had been there for four months. He never once asked what was wrong with me. (11) He would tell me which nurse worked at night and when the light in the yard came on against the evening sky. I was afraid of the shots, (12) he always looked at the ceiling at that moment and started a long story about his brother. He left before I did. (13) I understand that he was doing the only thing he could. A hospital takes away almost everything a person can give, (14) attention is still free.
Most people in this country see a doctor within a day of feeling ill. That sounds good, and for a broken arm it is. (15) A doctor who has six minutes for each patient cannot ask what else is going on in a life. A cough may be a cough, (16) it may also be a room with no air and a job that never stops. Some hospitals in the region now give each new patient twenty minutes with a nurse first. The nurse asks about sleep, food, and home. (17), the doctor gets a fuller picture before the door even opens. The waiting room is not shorter, (18) fewer people come back three times with the same problem.