There's nothing quite so clarifying as to walk into an emergency room shortly after midnight, twice in two weeks, and sit on a plastic chair waiting for testy, tired medical staff to care for one's spouse.

The world of emergency rooms is a world of desperation — of tired children's cries, of adult moans and groans, of near-death experiences, of police action and of after-effects of the violence police seek to quell. The world of dark streets gives way here to the dull green glare of fluorescent bulbs, scuffed linoleum, scarred doorways, gurgling tubes and beeping, blinking machines. No one here will ask why (though they want to know). They do what they can to help with the pain. But the wounds they see are so often self-inflicted — results of rage, stupidity, naivete, illusions of immortality in the young and those who should act their age.

Here death comes. And here the healthy should beware. For the burden of proof is on the patient to prove she is not a careless, mindless piece of flesh waiting for the next needle, the next numerical mandate. Sickness floats in the air like a vapor. All is sterile, but not clean.

Speak slowly, clearly and with command of medical terminology in this place, or risk long hours of confusing waits for answers you knew before you arrived. Earn respect, and you'll get it; demand it — in loud tones, and with profanity (for the indignities of this place can make one profoundly angry) and you risk longer waits than those who are merely inarticulate.