Agony

artwork by th lisa

A week later, and I'm in the shower. My hand feels my left breast. It's still there. The mysterious lump. I resolve to see the doctor ASAP. I continue rinsing the suds of exfoliating aloe vera soap, which is supposed to be good for my blotchy back. I continue singing about being a girl for all the seasons, while fashioning a mini-snowman on my head.

Cleo and Cosmo beckon as I wait for my turn. I decide to ignore the anorexic girls with airbrushed skins and supersized bustlines. Give me Gerald Durrell any day. Durrell is in the midst of capturing some wild animal or other for his zoo when I hear my name. I hastily stuff my book into my backpack then follow the guy into the doctor's sterile room. My heart beats faster.

'What seems to be the problem, Nadia?' the guide asks, seating himself in front of a grungy PC. Shit. He IS the doctor.

'Erm.. I..err.. kinda... asked for a FEMALE doctor,' I say.

He understands and immediately ushers me out of the room, back into the magazine infested waiting area. He tsk tsks the receptionist, before calling out another name. I resume my torrid affair with Durrell, while the receptionist spends her time fussing over her French manicure and giving me the evil eye.

Finally, a woman greets me, and takes me to her room. I find it hard to believe she is a doctor--her carrot coloured hair is bunned up, but still resembles the aftermath of a tornado. I contemplate running back into the male doctor's room and begging him to take me back.

Dr Cleary makes me lie down. She presses her fingertips gently onto me. I flinch the minute she touches the lump.

She feels the area for awhile. Squishing it from left to right. Up and down.

I bite my vanilla flavoured lip.

'Hmm.. looks like you have a lump there,' she very brainily concludes.

She moves away from me, signalling me to get dressed. When I finally sit upright again, she is staring at her computer, furiously tapping away at the keyboard. Have you had your period yet? Tap tap tap. Do you have them regularly? Clickaty… clack clack clack. Does your family have a history of cancer? Click click… tappity tap.

After much more clicking, clacking and tippity tapittings, she turns to me. I discover that I have to go for an FNA, whatever that is, to determine the nature of the lump. She assures me that it is routine, and goes on to explain the procedure. At my age, it would be unlikely that the lump is malignant, she adds. Also, the lump is very 'mobile', she claims. Hmm… I didn't know I could move my lump around--perhaps I should wear it more to the right next time? If my lump is so bloody mobile and I'm too bloody young, then why the hell do I have to go for the check up?!

But I allow myself to get booked for an appointment at the hospital anyway.

The bus ride gives me a headache; I am certain that there is a bottle of vodka next to the driver. The green hut and its inhabitants come into view, and I hastily leap off the bus. I narrowly avoid falling flat on my face, much to the disappointment of a buck-toothed schoolboy.

The hospital is a good walk away from the bus stop. Yet, from where I stand, the sight of the elephant gray building is as daunting as attempting to mount the mammal for a ride. At least an elephant ride is more enjoyable than a visit to the hospital.

The nearer I walk to the building, the bigger it gets and the more jellied my knees become. At one stage, my nerves get the better of me and I retreat. Rationality and curiosity deny me from leaving though, and I soon find myself in yet another waiting room.

My eyes refuse to focus on the blurred words. The smell of disinfectant is driving me insane, prompting my hands to clap a fly in the middle of another Gerald Durrell expedition. Unable to deal with the thought of having to face a pancaked insect, I am left with no choice but to people watch.

The room is overflowing with activity. The youngest inhabitants of the room are adolescents, save for a few children noisy children. Nearby, a teenager has her head on her facially-vacant boyfriend's lap. Their lips reveal nothing but their faces say all. She shields her abdomen with her arm. I wonder if my dread compares to theirs.

A nurse calls out my name, with a neutral intonation.

Her voice reminds me of a duck. I half expect her to quack and ask me where the nearest pond is. She repeats my name, so I get up, and follow her as she waddles to a storeroom. She ransacks the piles of clothes, then hands me a pretty wine red gown. If it wasn't a dressing gown, I would have been tempted to sneak it home.

She leaves me in a cubicle to change. I change my mind about sneaking the gown home. As I slip it on, the paper-towel texture grazes my skin. Goosebumps make their mark on my arms when I tighten the sash around my waist.

Arms folded over my chest, I exit the changing room. The duck leads me down a silent corridor to another room, and makes me lie down on a black leather bed. She leaves me alone with my thoughts.

How much I miss my aunt.

When I was little, her goal in life was to stuff my ever-willing face with food. She loved nothing more than to see me tuck into a specially-prepared meal. She always claimed I needed to put some meat on my bones. The last time I saw her alive, she was lying in a hospital bed, whiter than usual. It seemed like she had aged overnight. Cancer filled up her lungs with two litres of fluid daily, and made her apologetically spew out fungus green phlegm. A week later and she was gone.

A woman with a clipboard enters the room. She is professional and distant--from the crisp coat to the neatly parted bob, without a single strand out of place. Yet, her face is a complete mismatch. Eyes which persuade you to tell your life story, and an engaging smile.

Joanne, my sonographer, puts a black foam block under my back, so that I am resting at forty-five degrees on my right side. She delicately unravels my gown, then applies a clear jelly which suspiciously, resembles hair gel. The coolness of the gel makes my skin tingle while Joanne cautiously navigates the device over me. She doesn't say a word and I can't see the screen. I have to rely on her face for clues. Concentrated glances. A sudden furrowing of eyebrows. That can't be good. She takes her ruler out and measures something on the screen twice.

'I'll be right back.'

She leaves me with a mess to clean up.

Anna enters, dressed in the standard white, with only a cardigan to blot out the starkness of her attire. I suspect she's meant to distract. There doesn't seem to be an apparent role for her in the procedure yet. We talk about what I'm doing; she laughs that I have to read Mills and Boon for one of my units.

Another woman comes in with a tray of needles. Somehow, I don't think she's going to use them for cross-stitch. She hands them to Anna, who then goes about digging up some gauze. While she polishes her weapons, Joanne returns with a male accomplice. Behind them is another woman with another tray of clear glass.

'Hi, I'm Dr. Brown,' the man says.

Mmm... mocha chocolata yaya indeed.

'This is Clara, she will be doing the slides,' Joanne adds.

While Joanne does another ultrasound on me, Dr. Brown looks on. Again, I have no idea what is going on. Their fingers point at the screen. In disbelief, Dr. Brown snatches the scanner from Joanne and manhandles my breast. When he is satisfied, he turns to me.

'We've found another lump,' he says, without sympathy.

He rattles on monotonously about how it's unlikely to be cancerous, but I don't listen.

I don't want to hear his theories.
I want accuracy.
I want a clear answer.

Instead, all I hear is rubber being snapped on. Dr. Brown adjusts his gloves before he sticks a needle of local anaesthetic in me. Then it's time for the other needles. Anna is now by my side, her soft hand holding mine. She tells me to feel free to squeeze her hand.

Why do I have a bad feeling about this?

The first needle penetrates my skin, and doesn't feel all too bad. I become confident and think nothing of the future jabbings. I start to daydream of gaudy musical sequences. In particular, a clinical version of Beauty School Dropout. Suddenly a sharp pain enters me, piercing my bravado.

I gasp.

Dr. Brown apologises (insincerely).

He goes on to jiggle my breast. My leg is tempted to shoot up and de-masculinize Dr. Brown, but is unable to elevate more than a centimetre off the leathery surface. I curse my lack of conviction, then glance at the doctor's hands.

No ring. Why am I not surprised?

I look at Anna instead. But looking at her doesn't quell the discomfort.

My cheeks feel warm and my eyes are moist. I feel my hair being pushed away from my face by Anna's crushed hands. One more lump to go. I close my eyes. I take the plunge. Anna is still holding my hand.

I can feel the sweat trickling down my brow, but my hand is too engrossed with Anna's. Did my aunt's face flush in an artificially cooled examination room as well?

Then it's all over.

Everyone streams out but Anna.

While I quickly rewrap my freezing body, she offers me a cup of coffee. I've never had a good experience with hospital beverages--so I decline. Maybe it's the scent of antiseptic infused with diluted ash and synthetic creamer.

My breast feels sore, and I see blackish yellow bruises on it. If I were younger, I would have been tempted to steal my sister's magic pen and convert the bruises into bumble bees.

I stumble out of the changing room and pay my dues. The teenage couple has been reduced to one. He is too preoccupied burying his face in his hands to notice me. I leave the staunch building, tempted to regurgitate my tuna sandwich.

At the bus stop, an old woman notices me as I feel for the seat. She comes up to me, her trolley of vegetables trailing behind her.

'Are you alright dear?' she asks, peering into my eyes.
'I'm fine,' I answer, forcing a smile.
She examines me like a Van Gogh painting before shuffling off.
What is the point of me telling her about my day?
What can she do?
What can I do?

There's nothing I can do.
But wait.

Nadia Vrishiba Haniff is one of Singapore's younger writers.