In my Form 1 year, an inexplicable and severe bout of fever became a significant chapter in my life. Although I had experienced fevers before, this particular illness surpassed anything I had previously encountered. As a child, I believed that I would be bedridden for at least three days when struck by fever.
Back at home, sickness meant being pampered and cared for, akin to being treated like royalty. Every comfort and need would be met without hesitation. However, within the strict and disciplined environment of the Asrama, illness took on a different character. Here, I had to fend for myself.
The abrupt transition from the comforts of home to the regimented life of the Asrama had already taken a toll on my immune system. On top of that, adolescence brought its own set of changes, and I felt myself growing taller while my peers appeared to shrink.
Returning to the fever, it was customary for any sick student to be sent to the hospital, where treatment and rest were provided. I was no exception to this rule. On a day when my body temperature had soared to dangerous levels, and my head throbbed relentlessly, I had no choice but to make the journey to the hospital.
The anticipation of what awaited me at the hospital was daunting. As I arrived at the government-owned hospital, a place of free healthcare, I quickly realized that getting treatment was not straightforward. Most of my time was spent waiting patiently, my temperature showing no signs of dropping. At times, I felt like I might throw up, and the discomfort became nearly unbearable.
Eventually, my name was called, and I was given a queue number. Once again, I settled in for the long wait. In the waiting area, I couldn't help but fixate on a small screen displaying queue numbers for the treatment room. After what felt like an eternity, my number finally appeared, signalling my turn.
Inside the treatment room, the doctor attended to me with few words, his demeanour devoid of unnecessary conversation. To him, it was just another routine examination, nothing out of the ordinary.
Upon diagnosing my dangerously high temperature, he instructed me to undergo a blood test, suspecting dengue fever. I shuddered at the thought, dreading the possibility. Nevertheless, I accepted the necessary paperwork and made my way to the designated room for the blood test.
Navigating the hospital's labyrinthine corridors was a challenge in itself. In my weakened state, I struggled to find the way, uttering curses against the doctor's cryptic instructions. After getting lost several times and asking numerous staff members for directions, I finally stumbled upon the blood test room. Once again, I waited, my body exhausted and frail, my face pallid from fatigue.
When it was finally my turn, I braced myself for the inevitable pain of the needle. I gritted my teeth as the lancet pricked my skin, hoping for a favourable outcome. Anxiety gnawed at me as I awaited the results. If it confirmed dengue fever, I knew I would be confined to the hospital ward, a prospect I dreaded.
Fortunately, the results showed no signs of the dengue virus in my blood. The doctor promptly provided me with a prescription and granted me three days off from school. Even so, the waiting wasn't over. I had to endure more waiting to collect the prescribed medications. Physically drained and weak from the fever, I mustered the last of my energy to complete this final step.
During this wait, an elderly woman noticed my frail appearance and inquired about my condition. In my weakened state, I could only provide feeble responses. She seemed to have misunderstood my situation, thinking I was a needy child sent to the hospital alone. I didn't have the strength to correct her and accepted her mistaken assumption.
To my surprise, she reached into her purse and handed me a substantial amount of money. I was left speechless, unsure of how to react. I wanted to express my gratitude and decline her generous offer, but she insisted, and I eventually accepted, given the urgency of collecting my medication.
I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and emotion. The elderly woman's kindness had touched me deeply, and I wished her all the best in life, forever grateful for her noble gesture.
Time seemed to stand still as I waited in the hospital lobby, surrounded by other ailing students. By the time I returned to the Asrama, I was too exhausted to do anything. I collapsed onto my bed, succumbing to a profound exhaustion.
That marked the end of my fever ordeal, a recurring affliction during my Form 1 year. However, as Form 2 came around, the fevers became less frequent. Surprisingly, in Form 3, I visited the hospital only once, a single encounter with illness and its treatment.
No comments:
Post a Comment