Doctor blues and the lure of the mountain

“You are too late. Registration is closed. We cannot accept any more patients”.

I looked at her with befuddled astonishment. “But it is only 10.30am and your clinic closes after 12 noon does it not? How could I be too late for registration?” The youngish lady seated behind the clinic counter, who could be no more than 20 years of age, held her ground and with a straight-faced icy look explained without a hint of apology that registration time is never fixed and depended on the number of patients they receive each day. So too bad, I came too late and they could not accept me.

I looked around the tiny clinic reception. True, the clinic was packed. There were at least a dozen patients, mostly foreign workers, probably Bangladeshis or Indian, some still in work attire with their high plastic boots, all seated shoulder to shoulder against each other. I had naively expected the clinic to be relatively empty even as the clinic would be opened for half a day. After all it is Saturday. Not many locals are working and would be in need of an MC. But I forgot about the legions of foreign workers who have swarmed our island and in no small numbers and whose gruelling and sometimes dehumanising work regimes would mean they have to grind out their weekends like any weekday.  Which explains the profile of clientele now competing with me for the doctor’s limited attention. And Saturday mornings like this one, would attract many of these workers in search of doctor’s certification to accord them the rare luxury of a restful break over the weekend to repair their battered bodies and recuperate from afflictions real, imagined or feigned.

But I was not about to give up.  After all it was another two hours to closing time.

“Please be flexible on this. I have been sick for some time. Your records would show that I came twice to your clinic over the last two weeks. I need the doctor to certify that I am unfit for travel so going to another clinic will not help as they would not have my records”. I put on my most pitiful look and pleaded to be accepted. In truth, I did not need to try too hard to look pathetic. My face is pale and gaunt and my voice was barely audible, hoarse and frail from weeks of ferocious coughing.  But she shook her head, without making much eye contact as if to assuage her guilt of shooing me away. I wondered quietly if it would destroy the clinic’s good standing if she had said ok and accepted me as the last patient for the day. I went on to explain that seeing another doctor will not do as they would not have my past medical records.  And I needed the certification before tomorrow morning which was the travel date.

My date with a mountain to climb.

It was one of the things I had longed place in my bucket list of thing to do before I die. A date to scale up the 4095m of rock that makes up Mount Kinabalu, the highest mountain in our part of the world and located in the neighbouring island of Borneo. A mountain which preteen school kids to geriatric grand-mothers alike have conquered with enough regularity to make me feel ashamed that in my lifetime, whilst I am still alive, able-bodied and fit as to why I am still not registered amongst the mountain’s roll of honour.

 So for some months, with a few close friends, we conspired to accomplish this physical endeavour and Sunday 8^th of May was marked for departure to fly off for the expedition.

But blame it on fate or my own rotten luck, as it turned out, two weeks ago I caught a virus that near ripped out my chest and respiratory system.  Fighting back with antibiotics and countless bottles of cough syrup and other flu medicine had left me weak and wasted. All the months of physical conditioning put in to prepare for the mountain was cruelly undone as my body sought for the respite and rest it needed for repair. I could hardly climb up two flights of stairs without my pulse rate racing away and raspy breath breaking into another coughing bout.

But if there are any merits of being bugged by a persistent virus, it is to be equally persistent. I was not about to give up myself.  I could not see myself being defeated by some wide-eyed under-aged “counter aunty” who thinks that it is a noble work ethic to be rigidly sticking to the rules even if it means turning down a customer in need.

“Surely you can be flexible. I am only one more patient and I would not take long. I do not have a choice as all my medical records are here”. I leaned even closer against the counter, my thin frame looming close above her. She turned to look at her other two colleagues, both equally youthful looking as her.  One of them gave a slight nod and perhaps that was the signal needed to bring her down from her high and mighty perch.

“Alright, next time when you come on a Saturday make sure you come early enough. We are always very crowded on Saturdays as you can see”. With that she took the identity card from my hand and registered me for an appointment.  “You may have to wait up to 1 or 2 hours”.

I was relieved. I needed to consult the doctor for him to certify me unfit for the trip and for physical activities. That will allow me a chance to recover the flight and travel expenses spent on the trip from the travel insurance.  Foregoing the opportunity to climb this mountain is painful enough. Not being able to recover the expenses paid for in advance would be salt in the wound. It is the least I could do to salvage this trip.

In truth, on the eve of the trip I am still toying the idea of embarking on the hike regardless of the doctor certifying me unfit and my actual withering physical condition. But I would be subjecting myself to tremendous risks. What would I do if after two hours of physical toiling, my weakened body could labour no more? I would be stuck in the wilderness, in the middle of nowhere.  Nature and flora all around, with a beaten track stretching upwards before. The sounds and smells of the forest, freshest of air that one can breathe in and perhaps even with butterflies fluttering around.  Nature that embodies harmony and balance in no better way.  But I do not plan to die under such perfect circumstances. Not yet when my kids still need me.

Anyway the doctor, an elderly man with a portly pleasant disposition heard my case and promptly scribbled a note for me that I can use to recover my travel expenses should I need to make a claim.

So should I stay at home and put up the claim?

Unfortunately the lure of the mountain has proven too strong. All that hassle of seeing the doctor and securing the medical note to help me recover my travel expenses. It is a strange day of shifting decisions. My head tells me not to go but my heart said otherwise. I packed up my knap sack to prepare for the flight early tomorrow morning. Jenny would be most displeased. I could almost see her frowning. But truthfully she is not here to stop me.  

Wishing me safe travels, Honey. And a pleasant climb. I will pace myself and be mindful of my age and waning health. You know how much I love being close to nature. I will be thinking of you on the way up the mountain.