I Remember The Little Boy

I was basking in the Russian River in Northern California on a camping trip, and a little boy, maybe 9 years old, came to the shore. It was odd, because he was bald. There was no one with him. So I asked how he was doing, and he said "I have brain cancer."

At the time I didn't particularly like kids, but I felt like crying. He said it so matter-of-factly.

I never saw him again.

Another time, I took Tai-chan, who was about 3 at the time, to ER in Oakland, California because he was vomiting. He had Norovirus. But we stayed there only about seven hours. But during that time I saw a little boy in the corridor with his parents; he was screaming in pain, relentlessly, but there seemed to be nothing broken, as he could walk fine and wasn't holding, say, a broken arm.

I was horrified, because he wouldn't stop screaming.

I get so traumatised by kids in distress that I could never be a pediatrician.

But I remember that little boy at the river's edge. I wonder if he survived.