Today is exactly two years and one week since I first watched someone die. Actually, I watched two people die within and hour. It was in the cavernous and crowded Emergency Room at Viet Duc University Hospital, Hanoi.

The second man was less than twenty; he was jaundiced, cachexic and was becoming septic. He had metastatic cancer and was a waif. His breathing labored. His family kept vigil as he slowly, steadily slipped away. His eyes darted about the room, fearful, anxious. He looked at the three caucasians in the room and begged his mother and brother to ask us to help. The consultant watchfully guided us to the other side of the room. The man's breathing labored more, then began to slow and ease. His eyes flicked and rolled back and away; an hour later, he died.

Meantime, the first man had been hit by a moto. His trolley rolled into the room's fundus, pushed eerily, airily by a porter unseen. The whole world seemed to stand still. Then the consultant sprang to action, cleared out the myriad of Medical Students and ran the show. I stood next to the column in the centre of the room, out of the way. I couldn't understand any of the rapid, intense Vietnamese orders bouncing off the dirty, sterile walls. The student I'd been helping practice his English was now pressing on the man's chest, sweating in the Hanoi autumn heat. The girls hovered around in their white coats, eager to help. The senior resident again shooed everyone away. I stood there, gaping and dumbfounded as the man's mouth greyed, eyes glazed and froze forever.

The consultant turned to me and said firmly "Chết"; an unblinking stare, a quick shake of the head.

"He is dead."