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(肿胀的)feet. I entered, spoke quickly to the nurse and examined her chart. She was getting better. I looked down at her. She asked if I could help put on her socks. Instead, I said something like this:“ How are you feeling? Your sugars and blood pressure were high but they’re better today. The nurse mentioned you were anxious to see your son who’s visiting you today. I bet you really look forward to seeing him.” She stopped me with a serious voice, as if she was giving an order. “ Sit down，Doctor．This is my story，not your story. ” I was surprised and embarrassed. I sat down. I helped her with the socks. She began to tell me that her only son lived around the corner from her, but she had not seen him in five years. She believed that her health problems really had something to do with it. After hearing her story and putting on her socks, 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． Later on, I often thought of what that woman taught me. Everyone has a story and each story is different. Some have a beginning, middle and end. Others wander without a clear conclusion. Yet all those things do not really matter. What matters to the storyteller is that the story is heard—without interruption or judgment． 小题1: The writer went to visit the older woman to .
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