On a cancer ward all the patients are men. One complains that his nose is too large. Another declares without his doctor he would have died but has lived an extra two years. The ward is home-like. The doctors are friendly. Each has his own cure; some succeed, others do not. My doctor is female. She is dedicated and loving. A staff member and I reach a doctor's office at the same time. I push the door open. It is immediately slammed shut, catching my finger. The staff member knocks and is let in. I leave, aware that protocol must be obeyed. I become frustrated and rebel. For punishment I am sent to a large forest to gather pine needles in long neat rows. After several hours on my hands and knees, I try to escape. Using a dog, my doctor captures me. I quit the ward. In her presence I get dressed. I will be traveling heavy since there are my two traveler's backpacks. I have a toothbrush too small for my mouth. My doctor tries to discourage me, but I am angry and sad. On the wall hangs a photograph of a male doctor at war. His pants are torn and dirty. His knees are wounded; he is running for help. I say, "What does he know? I was the medic. They all came to me." I begin weeping.