Studies have shown it takes a physician about 18 seconds to interrupt a patient after he begins talking.

It was Sunday. I had one last patient to see. I approached her room in a hurry and stood at the doorway. She was an old woman, sitting at the edge of the bed, struggling to put socks on her swollen feet. I entered the room, spoke quickly to the nurse, and scanned her chart, noting she was in stable condition. I was almost in the clear.

I stood by the bed looking down at her. She asked if I could help put on her socks. Instead, I started a monologue (独白) that went something like this: “How are you feeling? Your sugars and blood pressure were high but they’re better today. The nurse mentioned you’re anxious to see your son who’s visiting you today. It’s nice to have a family visit from far away. I bet you really look forward to seeing him.”

She stopped me with a firm, authoritative voice. “Sit down, doctor. This is my story, not your story.”

I felt all my blood was rushing to my head. I sat down. I helped her with the socks. She began to tell me that her only son lived around the comer from her, but she had not seen him in five years. She believed that the stress of this contributed greatly to her health problems. After hearing her story, I asked if there was anything else I could do for her. She shook her head and smiled. All she wanted me to do was to listen.

Each story is different. Some are detailed; others are uncertain. Some have a beginning, middle and end; others wander without a clear conclusion. Some are true; others not. Yet all those things do not really matter. What matters to the storyteller is that the story is heard—without interruption, assumption or judgment. Listening to someone’s story costs less than expensive medical tests but is a key to recovery.

Hot long after, lost a leg in an accident. Now, 20 years later, I sit all the time—in a wheelchair. For as long as I can, I continue to see patients from my chair and teach medical students and other health care professionals, but now from the viewpoint of a physician and patient.

Although many years have passed, I still remember the last year of my junior school. I had to prepare for the entrance test, which made me stressed (有压力的). I cried several nights.

When we are feeling very stressed, many of us may feel like crying. Shedding tears is a good way to deal with our “dark” emotions (情绪). When we cry, we are letting go of our stress, I certainly felt better after I had cried. After I had calmed myself down, I reached out to some friends and teachers who encouraged me. I managed to get an offer from a qualified senior school.

With increased competition, it isn’t surprising that many students today are feeling stressed out. Many of us think of our “dark” emotions to be our enemies (敌人). It appears silly for us to be so easily beaten by them. That’s why we might feel too shy to cry. When we are feeling sad, we may also have difficulty asking for help or talking to others.

“Dark” emotions are not in themselves a bad thing. Just like happiness, they are common. But you should certainly find ways to manage them. Try to take part in social events. Eat healthy, balanced meals. Find people who can support you. Exercise regularly. These things can all help. The most important thing, though, is to accept your feelings. They are nothing to be ashamed of.

I began to grow up that winter night when my parents and I were returning from my aunt’s house, and my mother said that we might soon be leaving for America. We were on the bus then. I was crying, and some people on the bus were turning around to look at me. I remember that I could not bear the thought of never hearing again the radio program for school children to which I listened every morning.

I do not remember myself crying for this reason again. In fact, I think I cried very little when I was saying goodbye to my friends and relatives. When we were leaving I thought about all the places I was going to see—the strange and magical places I had known only from books and pictures. The country I was leaving and never to come back was hardly in my head then.

The four years that followed taught me the importance of optimism(乐观), but the idea did not come to me at once. For the first two years in New York I was really lost—having to study in three schools as a result of family moves. I did not quite know what I was or what I should be. Mother remarried, and things became even more complex for me. Some time passed before my stepfather(继父)and I got used to each other. I was often sad, and saw no end to “the hard times.”

My responsibilities in the family increased a lot since I knew English better than everyone else at home. I wrote letters, filled out forms, translated at interviews with immigration officers(移民局官员), took my grandparents to the doctor and translated there, and even discussed telephone bills with company representatives.

From my experiences I have learned one important rule: Almost all common troubles go away at last! Something good is certain to happen in the end when you do not give up, and just wait a little! I believe that my life will turn out all right, even though it will not be that easy.