CHAPTER 16: An Academic Awakening

In the records of my school days, the narrative of academic excellence was not one I was naturally inclined to claim. My position in the ranks of the academically gifted was modest at best. After completing my sixth-grade endeavours, I found myself in the thirteenth position, far from the top, and my trial examination resulted in only two A grades. However, Mathematics was an exception, a subject where I had some mastery amidst a sea of mediocrity.

The blessing of all A grades during the UPSR examinations held significant importance for me, as it allowed me to continue my education within the esteemed walls of the Asrama, an opportunity I highly valued.

The awakening of my academic potential became evident during the initial monthly assessments. I had, as was customary, approached my preparations diligently, studying reference materials and revisiting my notes. Yet, when the results were revealed, they exceeded my expectations. While I didn't achieve a perfect eight A grades, I found myself in the upper echelons. My classmate, Bel, had a similar performance, sharing in the accolades of success. I was overjoyed, as this marked the first time I had achieved such a milestone.

Following this academic ascent, I began to contemplate the origins of this newfound success. The self-image I had developed had rarely aligned with that of an exceptional student, making this transformation deeply perplexing. If I were to recount this transformation to my elementary school friends, they would likely find it unbelievable.

With this academic resurgence, I noticed an improvement in my overall scholastic abilities, both within the school and in supplementary tuition. Except for my persistent struggle with English, I experienced a noticeable upward trend. English continued to be a challenging subject, seeming insurmountable. Yet, many of my peers within the Asrama shared my difficulties, as only a few of us could claim proficiency in the English language.

Much like my experiences in elementary school, I took great pride in my proficiency in mathematics. From Form 1 onwards, I remained committed, maintaining a flawless record of A grades. I began to see divine benevolence in my mathematical prowess, recognizing that it wasn't just a standalone achievement but a harbinger of success in other areas.

Alongside my academic ascension, I noticed a subtle change in how my peers perceived me. Despite this, I remained steadfast in my principles and resolute in my path, immune to the influence of popular opinion.

Among the many acquaintances I made in the Asrama, a select few left indelible impressions on my soul. These individuals, with their unwavering camaraderie, provided crucial support during a time when I had no remarkable attributes. Their authenticity was evident in their constant presence, a topic I will explore in future chapters.

Despite the fluctuating opinions and pressures related to academic success, I paid little attention to the perceptions of others. My focus was solely on continuing my journey within the Asrama.

My interactions with Encik Hussin, though infrequent, were marked by a modicum of respect. My personal record remained impeccable, free from homework negligence, locker disorder, or disciplinary issues. Additionally, my academic achievements shielded me from many of the challenges that befell my peers. In the grand tapestry of my life in the Asrama, I navigated the turbulent waters with poise and grace.

However, there was an instance when I found myself on the receiving end of Encik Hussin's reprimand. It occurred on a weekend evening, during prep class, a time dedicated to academic work. As per my routine, I settled into a desk at the back of the classroom, adjacent to the waiting room.

While revising my lessons, I idly engaged in a skill I had mastered - twirling my pen - a talent that had garnered admiration from my peers. Little did I know that this seemingly innocuous act had captured the attention of none other than Encik Hussin himself.

Suddenly, his voice broke the silence, instructing me to stop my activity and focus on reading a book. I was astonished because this marked the first time Encik Hussin had personally reprimanded me. My heart raced, knowing well the notorious reputation that preceded him. Fortunately, his reprimand did not escalate further, as he simply directed me to cease.

While I felt relief for avoiding more severe punishments like caning or extended scolding, this incident served as a stark reminder of the unpredictability of life within the Asrama.

Through determination and grit, I managed to navigate the complex aspects of Asrama life. I had grown accustomed to its strict rules and had emerged undaunted. Despite Encik Hussin's exacting standards, I remained composed, and reprimands and chastisements, even in front of my peers, no longer fazed me. My academic diligence and hard-earned achievements served as my armor in times of trouble.

CHAPTER 15: A Profound Shift in the Social Fabric

Up until this point, the bonds within our batch were marked by effortless camaraderie, characterized by pure interactions without hidden motives or personal agendas.

But during our second year, a subtle transformation began to take hold as we entered adolescence, a transitional phase toward adulthood. It was during this time that a shift, initially imperceptible, gradually became clear. Fault lines began to emerge among students in our batch, creating a nuanced social divide.

In the past, our batch had a carefree approach to their relationships with each other. They engaged in activities like playing ball, going to the grocery store, sharing meals, doing laundry, or simply chatting without any ulterior motives or personal gain.

However, in Form 2, a change started to become apparent. With the onset of adolescence, some students began to be more selective about their social circles, while others maintained a stance of impartiality, avoiding factional alliances.

As an observer, I noticed this shift, but it didn't personally affect me as I had a close group of friends, particularly among my schoolmates. However, it was unsettling for those caught within this transformation. I saw their unwavering loyalty to their chosen cliques, waiting for all members to gather before initiating any activity.

Their unity extended to every aspect of their lives, from sharing meals in the dining hall to waiting for the bus, playing games, going on excursions, grocery shopping, or just chatting. This loyalty was on full display for everyone to see, and it seemed unusual to those on the outside.

The easy-going nature of inter-student relationships began to fade, replaced by a tendency to spend most of one's time exclusively with their chosen group, regardless of the circumstances. As a result, interactions with other batchmates outside of their immediate circle became infrequent, and the camaraderie that had once thrived began to wither.

Inside the Asrama, tensions became palpable as the once mutual respect between students diminished. The more vulnerable individuals became collateral damage in the struggle for social networks.

As a neutral observer, my narrative often uses 'they.' I remained unaffected by this phenomenon, with no inclination to form, name, or brand a group. It simply wasn't my inclination. I navigated relationships with my peers smoothly, not through ceaseless interactions but by avoiding causing discomfort to anyone. My path remained clear, and life within the Asrama was already complex enough.

Others found themselves entangled in the web of indecision, pressured by 'peer pressure' to gravitate toward specific cliques, enticed by the allure of being 'in.' It was a disheartening and somewhat comical sight to behold.

I had no interest in group affiliations. I preferred independent thought and avoided tethering myself to any collective identity or individual when charting my life's course. Social boundaries allowed me to form relationships with individuals from various circles. I remained independent in perspective and resolute in my avoidance of group dynamics, guided solely by my own principles.

CHAPTER 14: The Unending Contemplations

As I made my way to the Asrama on the first day of the new school term, a sense of emptiness enveloped me. I had no grand expectations for what lay ahead, just the awareness that it was a continuation of my life, albeit under stricter rules.

Upon arrival, I noticed the new Form 1 students. Their arrival had been quiet, and their numbers were still relatively small compared to our batch. At this point, only the front dormitories showed signs of their occupancy; the rear ones remained empty.

Inside the school, I found myself in the same class as my classmates from the previous year. Few significant changes had occurred, except for the addition of non-Asrama Malay students. While the class was stimulating, it was predominantly composed of Chinese and FELDA students.

Over the course of the year, the RK class Asrama mates from the morning session last year also joined us in the afternoon session. Their classroom was next to ours, resulting in a constant gathering of nearly thirty Asrama students in that area.

The limited seating on the Asrama bus often led to the practice of seat reservation before departure, occasionally leading to disputes among students. Some even marked their seats with books, a practice that now seems amusing but sometimes led to heated arguments.

For the first time, the Asrama introduced a segregation system based on students' performance in the final Form 1 exams. The top achievers were placed in 2L1, the most elite class with around sixteen students.

During this period, I didn't consider myself an exceptional student. Even in the previous year's exams, I had barely managed to get more than five 'A's. Many of my male classmates outperformed me academically.

For instance, Bel, a student from my school, was considered among the top student in the Asrama. Beyond our school, another student named Maro (a pseudonym) from a different school consistently outshone everyone. I lagged behind them in terms of academic performance.

Nevertheless, I was unfazed by this disparity. My primary concern was the constant scrutiny of the enigmatic warden. All other considerations seemed less significant.

Gradually, Dorm 6 became more organized, with diligent cleaning banishing the once-present dust. I settled into the rhythms of Asrama life. The dorm's proximity to the laundry line was a significant advantage, making it easier to hang laundry, especially before the obligatory card-punching ritual at the office.

As I reminisce, memories of my Dorm 6 companions resurface. This group had a mix of students from my school and Tasek school. My interactions with my schoolmates fostered camaraderie, while my limited interactions with those from Tasek remained friendly.

Over time, a new group of Form 1 students joined Dorm 6, all of them second-call students. It was clear that these newcomers faced the same rigorous challenges, including encounters with the enigmatic warden and the intimidating seniors.

For my part, I didn't have the time or inclination to subject the juniors to harassment. I was dealing with my own trials and tribulations. However, there was one junior in my dorm to whom I gave a nickname, one that carried dignity and avoided embarrassment. Surprisingly, the lad took pride in this moniker.

I couldn't help but feel sympathy for those burdened with derogatory or humiliating nicknames that they couldn't escape. The Asrama had a habit of replacing given names with such monikers, perpetuating a unique naming tradition.

But the Asrama's atmosphere remained unchanged. The autocratic Encik Hussin continued to impose his "educational" methods with unwavering determination. I had grown accustomed to the routines and could predict his actions. This had become my normal.

I could predict which homeworks he would inspect each morning, and detention following the jemaah prayer to attend his sermons no longer bothered me. I was always prepared to be summoned to his office to endure his scolding. Resistance was futile, so I persevered to avoid further discord.

Due to this Asrama's tumultuous atmosphere, I cherished my time in school. Attending regular school provided a break from the oppressive rules of the Asrama, a brief escape into an environment where I could express my emotions more freely and find inner peace. The pressures that were suffocating in the Asrama didn't hold as much power here.

The contrast with regular school students was stark. The strict regulations during school hours couldn't compare to the suffocating rules of the Asrama. For me, the rules of school had no impact on my emotional well-being. I couldn't say if others felt the same way.

CHAPTER 13: An Unnoticed Shift in Perspective

With the beginning of the school holidays, I enjoyed the tranquillity of home, a haven where the daily routines of early Subuh prayer and floor sweeping no longer held sway over my life. It felt liberating to be free from the stern authority figures who governed every aspect of my existence.

During this time, I sometimes reflected on my experiences in the Asrama. It often left me feeling a sense of isolation and sadness. Although still a child, the boundaries of my life had already been set with unforgiving strictness.

I had doubts that any other boarding school could rival the level of rigidity I experienced in the Asrama. The warden, who ruled with strict control, subjected us to a relentless routine that fuelled my unease. If I had not chosen to enter the Asrama at the beginning of the year, I pondered whether my life would have taken a different course.

I realized that I rarely delved into memories of my primary school years during this period of reflection. Those years seemed to have faded from my memory, buried deep within me. Even now, remembering the significant events from those years is a challenging task. Meeting former classmates from that time is like a role reversal, as they often recall events that I struggle to remember.

What happened during those years? It seemed that the pressures of life in Form 1 and Form 2 had overshadowed other aspects of my life. My focus was solely on surviving, as it presented many challenges that weighed heavily on my young mind.

I'm not sure how my fellow residents of the Asrama felt, but for me, the experience was daunting and unsettling. If given the choice, I might have wanted to free myself from its strict embrace. But I had developed resilience, and so I persevered.

The pressures imposed by the warden don't warrant revisiting. Some may argue that his actions were solely for our nurturing, but I believe that truth of getting nurtured requires a humane approach. It should avoid negative emotions like excessive anger and disdain, which often characterized our interactions with him.

One incident from my Form 1 days stands out in my memory. We, the students of the afternoon session, shared a close bond as residents of the Asrama. As carefree adolescents, we indulged in childlike games with our friends, one of which involved a spirited contest to set up mosquito nets. The winner, who managed to assemble their net before Maghrib prayers, enjoyed recognition from peers as their reward.

To some, this might have seemed like a frivolous endeavour, but I refrained from participating, trying to maintain a sense of maturity. One day, a bold friend suggested a new strategy: setting up the mosquito net right before going to the school to secure an unbeatable lead. Several students, including myself, hesitated, aware of the warden's strict rules and fearing the consequences of breaking them.

To our surprise, when we returned from school that late afternoon, the warden was furious. We felt a sense of dread and uncertainty as we gathered in the dining hall after Maghrib prayers. His face contorted with anger, and he unleashed a torrent of indignation and fury upon us, a group of thirteen-year-old children who had engaged in a harmless and very childish competition. It was a harrowing experience that highlighted the warden's absolute authority over our lives.

I often wondered if the warden ever considered treating us with the same courtesy he demanded. We were just children, adolescents in the early stages of self-discovery, while he, a grown man, was an experienced authority figure. Why did he not choose to maintain civility instead of unleashing his anger over a minor incident like hanging mosquito nets early? I found it perplexing that he treated us with such disdain when we were not criminals in need of intimidation.

During this period, I underwent a noticeable physical transformation. My childhood appearance gave way to a lanky, pubescent form that set me apart from my peers. I remember a poignant moment when my neighbour, upon seeing me, failed to recognize the changed face before her and had to ask who I was. It was a melancholic moment, a reminder that I had not chosen this transformation; circumstances had dictated it.

As Ramadan approached, a week before the new school term, I enjoyed the festivities and warmth of family gatherings. These were moments of pure joy, spent with loved ones. However, the looming return to the Asrama cast a shadow over these cherished moments. I was filled with apprehension, knowing the pressures and anxieties that awaited me. I couldn't help but question the need for such intense stress in the Asrama. Was it too much to ask for a life without these troubles, marked by peace and balance? These questions plagued my mind, leaving me feeling despondent

CHAPTER 12: The Long-Awaited Closure

As the year 1997 graciously released its hold on the stage of time, it carried with it a sense of temporal slipping away. After our year-end examinations, I found myself somewhat uncertain about my performance. The results, when eventually revealed, fell within the realm of mediocrity. However, they were enough to promote me to Form 2 in the upcoming year.

Many events left their marks on that year, but one unforgettable memory is the haze catastrophe that befell our nation. Johor Bahru, a bustling urban enclave, found itself engulfed in this environmental disaster, leaving a lasting impression on my memory.

During the haze's oppressive grip, even architectural marvels and the Singapore Customs complex across the causeway disappeared behind an impenetrable shroud. Fortunately, we were spared from any catastrophic consequences.

Life within the Asrama remained highly regimented. Order prevailed from Dorm 1 to Dorm 4, and the grip of control continued to tighten around every student's existence. Nevertheless, I underwent a subtle transformation as I navigated the turbulent waters of adolescence.

I grappled with the complex emotions brought on by this new phase in my life and chose to go along with its unfolding. One noticeable change was in my voice; even my friends noticed it. This shift in my vocal tone left me momentarily puzzled, as though I were wrestling with the incongruity of my own auditory experience.

In the case of my peers, they, too, experienced similar changes. The physical transformations were especially evident. Once pleasant voices now gave way to hoarse, grating tones that resembled the mournful croaks of monitor lizards suffering from throat ailments.

One lethargic afternoon found me reclined on my bed, partially conscious, dreading Encik Hussin's summons. Suddenly, a stampede of adolescents thundered down the staircase, disrupting my fragile tranquillity. Intrigued, I decided to investigate the source of the commotion.

I followed the noisy crowd to the notice board outside the lower-level lavatory, where several sheets of paper had just been posted. Curiosity piqued, I joined the group of curious students, eager to decipher the contents of these new notices.

To my surprise, these papers contained information about our dormitory placements for the upcoming year. Each student was assigned to new quarters, as the rules decreed that no one should stay in their current dorm. The news was met with palpable excitement.

I, too, awaited with bated breath to learn my new dormitory assignment. However, I couldn't help but feel a pang of discontent, as it was evident that our lives in the hostel were entirely controlled by Encik Hussin. His authority was supreme, and we had no say in these matters.

As I read the list, I was disappointed to discover that I had been assigned to Dorm 6, the most remote and least desirable dormitory in the hostel. It had a reputation for being both squalid and isolated. Unfortunately, I had no say in the matter.

But there was a silver lining—I would be sharing the dorm with Bel, a trusted friend and fellow inmate of Dorm 6. His presence provided some emotional relief, as I could confide in him about my concerns. Surprisingly, Bel seemed unfazed by our new living arrangements.

Encik Hussin didn't just dictate which dorm we would be in; he also orchestrated the spatial arrangement of our sleeping quarters. This level of control extended even to our sleeping berths, a disconcerting intrusion into our personal lives that left no room for protest.

With precise instructions, Encik Hussin assigned beds to each student, leaving no room for choice. Fate determined that Bel would have the bunk right above mine, a source of unexpected comfort.

However, my fleeting contentment was overshadowed by the absence of a fan in my designated sleeping area. Dorm 6 had only one fan, located at area near to Dorm 7. The sultry nights that followed, without proper ventilation, left me vulnerable to relentless mosquito attacks.

As the end of the school year approached, Encik Hussin directed us to move to our newly assigned dormitories, a ritualistic transition that prepared us for the year ahead. Reluctantly, I bid farewell to my former dorm and settled into the far corners of Dorm 6.

I had never ventured into this forsaken dormitory before, and my initial impression was far from favourable. Dorm 6 appeared neglected and marred by the absence of former occupants. Its grim appearance, coupled with its isolated location, left me disconcerted.

The ominous atmosphere of daylight gave way to the malevolent intrusion of nightfall, as swarms of voracious mosquitoes infiltrated my inadequate mosquito net. I felt vulnerable, as the relentless mosquito attacks marked my first night in Dorm 6. The prospect of enduring an entire year within its confines loomed menacingly.

On the very day I was set to return home, a fever struck me, perhaps a result of recent indignations or the ceaseless mosquito attacks that weakened my immune system. Upon arriving home, I collapsed onto the family sofa, overcome with profound vulnerability.

My mother, her eyes filled with concern, gently touched my fevered forehead and whispered, "My poor child." Despite my transition into adolescence, remnants of my childhood behaviour lingered, and I made modest requests with childlike innocence. I tried to downplay my illness as a common fever, but my mother's vigilance persisted. She noticed my emaciated appearance and questioned if I had been eating enough. I remained silent, tacitly acknowledging the truth of her observation.

CHAPTER 11: The Mysterious Technological Frontier

In the year 1997, the realm of information technology, far from its current sophistication, was a mystery to my young and rural sensibilities. I had never encountered computers or ventured into the world of information technology, making me a complete novice in this digital age. Computers were like enigmatic devices, their inner workings hidden from my understanding during my primary school years.

So, the prospect of computer classes at the Asrama filled me with apprehension. My ignorance of this new technological landscape, coupled with the fear of falling behind my peers who already had computer experience, made me anxious.

The initial computer classes were introduced with the arrival of a male teacher, whose qualifications seemed questionable. As far as I knew, he was a student from UTM who commuted to the hostel on a motorcycle, an unusual choice of transport for someone tasked with teaching computer skills. Nonetheless, I assumed he was adequately compensated for his role.

Our first lessons in the world of computing focused on the mysterious DOS software. Unfortunately, the class proved to be uninspiring and bewildering. I struggled to understand the teacher's instructions, and the computer screen, with its monochromatic interface of white text on a black background, only added to my confusion. The teacher used technical jargon that further mystified me.

As a result, I often found myself unable to participate in these classes. The teacher's lessons remained incomprehensible to me, and I had to rely on my peers who had prior computer experience whenever I encountered difficulties.

Many of my classmates were also perplexed by the DOS software, and we all struggled to comprehend its intricacies. The Asrama's rules mandated that we become familiar with it, but I felt like I was deciphering gibberish.

Our computer classes were divided into three groups, and I was assigned to the third group with lessons from 10 am to 11 am. This arrangement seemed unfair because it followed the morning prep class. While I endured two consecutive hours of prep class, my peers in the 8-9 am and 9-10 am groups enjoyed a break during the 10-11 am slot. Protesting was futile, as the Asrama's routine allowed no room for complaints, and the fear of punishment, whether by a palm or back caning, deterred any objections.

One particular incident during a computer class stands out, although the details escape me. I remember the atmosphere on that fateful morning, charged with an unusual cruelty. The day began like any other, with our obligatory prep class. The hour dragged on slowly as I flipped through reference materials, struggling to absorb their contents.

Suddenly, our routine was disrupted by a furious outburst from Encik Hussin. He ordered us to assemble in the badminton court for an unplanned gathering, and a sense of dread filled me. What transgression had led to this summons? Had we failed in maintaining the cleanliness of our dormitory again? To my dismay, the issue was the hygiene of the restroom facilities.

A wave of anxiety washed over me. I knew Encik Hussin had high standards of cleanliness, and his inspection had revealed an unflushed toilet in the upstairs restroom. He demanded that the culprit step forward and confess, but as expected, no one admitted to it. The punishment was swift and severe—we were tasked with cleaning the restroom after our prep time. Fortunately, I had a computer class during this period, which provided me with an excuse to avoid this unpleasant task.

However, Encik Hussin had a unique form of punishment, befitting his high standards. He instructed us not to flush the toilet even after cleaning it. I was baffled by this peculiar decree. As we took turns exposing ourselves to the unpleasantness of an unflushed toilet, my disappointment and confusion deepened. It felt profoundly unfair to be subjected to such an unorthodox penalty for a misdeed I had not committed. I couldn't help but wonder who the true culprit was. Could it have been you?

CHAPTER 10: The Painful Affliction

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.