Abnormality
By Agnes Chew
This should be quick, she thought to herself as she joined the back of the queue. There were only two travellers in front of her. A woman dressed in a crisp white blouse and tailored pants appeared as though she had just stepped out of a corporate conference. The man directly in front of her looked like the quintessential tourist about to make his virgin trip to the tropics, decked out in a colourful T-shirt, khaki bottoms and sandals.
She suppressed a yawn, feeling the effects of the last weeks of unremitting travel. When she woke up in the hotel room that morning, finally overcoming jet lag on the day she was due to depart, she had to pause for a moment before remembering which part of the world she was in. San Francisco, home to her company’s headquarters. Within a span of three weeks, she had found herself in Ho Chi Minh City, Yangon, Shanghai, Copenhagen, Brussels and Vienna. She felt relieved to be heading back to Singapore. Her first meal upon arrival at Changi Airport? Laksa, without a doubt. She could already taste the comforting blend of spices and coconut milk in her mouth.
She was next in line. As the sandal-clad man stepped through the metal detector, the alarm started beeping. Unperturbed, he began pulling out a document from his backpack as he spoke to the security officers who had swiftly surrounded him. Suddenly, he bent forward to unzip the bottom leg of his khaki trousers, revealing a large scar that ran down the side of his lower limb. The image of metal screws that likely lay hidden beneath his skin—amid the blood, bone and muscle—evoked memories of a different time in her life.
*
She was ten years of age, standing in line outside one of the classrooms that had been temporarily transformed into a space for the health screening to be conducted. With her health booklet in hand, she chatted languidly with her classmates about a new movie that would be showing in the cinemas next week. It was a horror film that didn’t particularly interest her, but she was glad to have an excuse to be out of class. Clearly, the rest of her classmates felt the same. She wondered how long the screening would take, and if it might be possible for the process to drag on for one more period, just in time for recess.
“Register number 24!” That was her. She stepped forward. Her height and weight measurements were taken and her eyesight and colour vision checked. Then, she was asked to raise her shirt and bend forward. She felt the coolness of a ruler against her bare skin as a man in a white coat placed it over different parts of her spine. It didn’t hurt, but the experience wasn’t pleasant. When she was finally allowed to straighten her back, she saw the doctor frowning. He handed her a slip of paper, one she later discovered wasn’t given to her classmates. It was a notification to be read and signed by her parents. Further assessments were required.
That was the day she was diagnosed with scoliosis.
Two weeks later, she was with her parents at the hospital she had been referred to. It was the first time she was in a hospital for a medical condition of her own. She wasn’t sure of what to expect. She sensed that her parents were nervous, and their anxiety seeped into her. But it couldn’t be so bad, could it? From what she gathered, she simply had a curved spine. In school, she saw so many of her schoolmates hunched over from their oversized, heavy schoolbags. Some often looked like they were on the brink of toppling over. Their postures seemed so much worse than hers. She just needed to remember to sit and stand straight instead of slouching from now on.
Five hours passed before she left the hospital. There had been a lot of waiting—for the registration, for the measurements and X-rays to be taken, and eventually for the doctor’s review and recommendations. The diagnosis was reconfirmed. She had a curved spine. But not just any ordinary curved spine. Hers formed three curves, the most severe of which measured eighty-seven degrees. Eighty-seven. Nearly the full ninety degrees of a right angle. As the doctor hung up the X-ray film to expose her serpentine spine, her father cupped his hand around her mother’s elbow.
In one afternoon, her life changed. She learned that hers was a form of congenital scoliosis, the signs of which had already been present at birth. The doctor used words such as ‘deformity’, ‘defect’ and ‘abnormality’. There was no known cure. Typical treatment options included observation, customised back braces or spinal surgery, depending on the severity of the curve. She had three, including an almost right angle hidden in the lower half of her back, so surgery was apparently the only option. Urgent surgery.
The doctor flipped through his agenda offhandedly to spot his next available surgery slot. Next Thursday at two in the afternoon. She should book it as soon as possible, he advised. These slots were hard to come by. Some of his patients had waited months for one. She was very lucky, it seemed. He had another spinal surgery scheduled that same morning, but he was used to doing several surgeries a day, so everything would be fine. On the bright side, she would be at least ten centimetres taller after the surgery, he added.
Only things were not as simple as snatching up the next available appointment and scoring a bonus of ten centimetres in height, was it? She was terrified. She, her mother and her father. They had so many questions. They didn’t know what they didn’t know. They were also conscious of the briskness of the doctor’s manner. Her father ventured to ask what the surgery would entail. The doctor proceeded to answer, his response littered with medical jargon, speaking so quickly she could barely catch his words.
This was what she managed to hear but could not yet process:
Two major surgeries needed.
The first from the front, through the stomach.
The second from the back.
A mandatory six-month rest period between both surgeries.
Two titanium rods to be inserted in the back, fixed with screws.
To straighten out the crooked spine.
Will require a year of absence from school.
“What about the risks? And potential complications?” her mother pressed on.
A look passed over the doctor’s face, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. “Well, every surgery has its complications. Especially one as major as this. Of course, I can’t promise you that it’ll be one hundred percent successful. But we always do our best.” He glanced at his watch. “So? Shall I pencil you in for the slot next Thursday?”
The three of them seated on the other side of the table looked at each other with apprehension. Her father cleared his throat nervously. She realised that the doctor had yet to mention the costs involved.
“I’ll leave you all to decide for yourselves. I need to rush to my next consultation now. Busy, busy day. Anyway, when you’ve decided, just inform the nurse at the counter. She’ll make all the necessary arrangements.”
Gathering his things, he was about to walk out of the door when he said, almost as an afterthought: “You know, your daughter’s case is very serious. I wouldn’t advise deliberating for too long. We usually recommend surgery for scoliosis patients whose curves are above forty degrees. Hers is almost ninety.”
He then shifted his eyes to look directly at her. “If you don’t proceed with surgery, I can tell you now that you won’t be able to walk by the time you’re thirty.”
Then the door closed and they were alone.
The weeks that followed flew by in a blur. Her parents took her to see other specialists, in other hospitals, hoping to seek a second—different—opinion. Views, suggestions and recommendations streamed in from relatives and friends. Suddenly, everyone was a scoliosis expert. Every weekend became filled with medical appointments. She lost count of the number of chiropractors, physiotherapists and Chinese sinsehs she saw.
Swimming became part of her new routine, because it’s said to be beneficial for those with scoliosis. Her father installed a monkey bar in the living room for her to hang from thrice a day, because it’s said to help release tension in the spine. She went for weekly acupuncture sessions despite having a fear of needles, because it’s said to be able to eliminate back aches.
She complied with all these because she was at a loss as to what she should actually do. They served as a useful distraction; they offered an illusion of hope. Deep down, she knew that these efforts might eventually be futile. But she was afraid. She didn’t want to let herself be sliced open on an operating table, not once but twice, from the front and then the back, only to emerge from the ordeal a year later with two extensive scars and long rods of metal lodged permanently in her back.
Over the next three months, what used to be a mild, occasional discomfort became frequent bouts of agonising pain. She tried to hide it from her parents. She didn’t tell any of her friends at school. She wanted to lead a life that was as normal as it could possibly be, in a bid to dispel the abnormalities that lay beyond her control. But the pain intensified—until one day, she couldn’t conceal it any longer. Her parents found out.
*
The first surgery didn’t go well. Complications arose. A wound infection developed. She was mostly drowsy, she mostly lay in bed, and in the absence of morphine lay insufferable pain. Before the surgery, she had mentally prepared herself for the year away from school. She thought of ways she would keep up with the syllabus while hospitalised and how she might still catch up with her friends at school. But what was to be one year of absence stretched into two, and what was to be two surgeries multiplied to four.
By the time she returned to school, standing twelve centimetres taller than before, her peers who had been in the line with her that fateful morning of the health screening had already graduated and moved on to their respective secondary schools—starting fresh chapters of their adolescent lives. Over time, she lost touch with them. There was less and less she had in common with them, and at some point, there was nothing to say to each other anymore. How could she have imagined otherwise? Here she was, towering over a roomful of schoolchildren a whole head shorter than herself, starting all over at Primary 4.
Three years later, she received her Primary School Leaving Examination certificate, graduating bottom of the class. It wasn’t a matter of not being able to catch up. She simply gave up. She didn’t see the point in putting in her best anymore. Whatever for? To obtain excellent grades so she could reunite with her former classmates, for whom PSLE was a thing of the distant past, who would already be preparing for their GCE O-Level examinations? No, she didn’t want to meet any of them. It would be best if their paths never crossed again.
Much to the chagrin of her parents, she went to a neighbourhood secondary school under the Normal (Technical) track. She knew that all her former friends were either in the Express or Special stream. Some had even been placed in the Gifted Education Programme, specially catered for the intellectually gifted. But these things no longer mattered to her. She went ahead even though it was common knowledge that those who were assigned to the Normal (Technical) track would end up at the Institute of Technical Education. Everyone knew what its acronym stood for. ITE. It’s the end. Did she have a choice?
Before long, she dropped out of secondary school. Nothing anyone did or said could assuage the sinking feeling in her chest. She proceeded to work in a series of odd jobs, before landing a somewhat permanent one at a small youth hostel in Chinatown as a receptionist. She went in six days a week and worked eight-hour shifts daily. The pay wasn’t much, but it helped her gain some form of financial independence. Besides, the owners of the hostel were decent people—two fresh university graduates who had deviated from the conventional career path to jointly set up a hostel business, fuelled by their passion for travel.
The hostel was only a year old and the owners were still trying to find their feet in the industry. Most days, only half of the twenty beds available were occupied. She was the only employee there. Finances were tight and the rest of the shifts were taken on by the owners themselves, including the overnight ones. Someone had to be there round the clock to ensure that things were in order and to address any issues faced by the guests.
Sometimes, she lingered in the modest common area of the hostel after her shift was over, browsing through travel magazines or chatting with the people who were around. The owners didn’t mind; it added a sense of liveliness to the place. She liked it there. She enjoyed watching the travellers come and go. She found comfort in the simple administrative tasks—helping guests check in and out, pointing out places of interest on pocket maps of Singapore and sometimes offering her own suggestions, too.
She felt a curious sort of liberation and purpose, being in that space. She almost felt like a traveller herself. The people she met each day came from all over the world, places that she had only heard about before, each with their own histories and stories to tell. They didn’t know or care that she was a secondary school dropout. They didn’t question her life choices. They didn’t impose their ideas of what was right or wrong on her. For the first time in a long time, she might even say that she was content.
One day, she met a traveller. The traveller’s name was Pablo. Pablo came from Spain. Pablo the traveller from Spain was charming and empathetic. She knew this because she sat with him in the common area of the hostel the first evening he arrived, talking about everything and nothing until she realised that she had missed the last bus home. Pablo also had a surgical scar—close to his hairline, on the left side of his forehead, visible only from certain angles. It was the first thing she noticed about him. She was intrigued by it, but didn’t want to pry. She was too familiar with the feeling of having freshly-formed scabs ripped off from raw wounds.
Pablo was on a gap year to travel around the world, and Singapore was his first stop. He had booked a bed in the hostel for a week, before he would spontaneously decide on his next destination. He spent every single day of that week with her, waiting until she got off from her shifts to go exploring together. They went cycling around Pulau Ubin, discovered their favourite thrill ride at Escape Theme Park, spotted animals at the Night Safari. They listened to records at HMV, wandered around the galleries of the Singapore Art Museum, took the cable car to Sentosa where they spent an afternoon observing marine life at the Underwater World. She brought him to hawker centres and watched as he chomped on rojak, satay and sambal stingray, before washing it all down with sugarcane juice.
By the end of the first week, Pablo decided to extend his stay by a month. They accumulated more adventures together. On the last Friday of that month, they went to East Coast Park. She had prepared a simple picnic and got his favourite popiah too. For a while, they lay on the beach, shoulders grazing, watching the ebb and flow of the waves. A week ago, Pablo had decided to further prolong his time in Singapore by another month. “I absolutely love it here,” he said. “The energy, the sights, the food. And the people.” he added, looking at her.
It was the last day of July, and National Day was approaching. It wasn’t easy to forget, for the reminders were everywhere. The national flag hung from nearly every window and gate. Even from the somewhat secluded spot where they were, she could hear the upbeat melodies of National Day songs wafting out from the barbecue pits where meat was being grilled. As the familiar chorus of one of these songs started playing in the background, the breeze carried over the singing voices of her countrymen:
This is home, truly
Where I know I must be
Where my dreams wait for me
Where that river always flows
This is home, surely
As my senses tell me
This is where I won't be alone
For this is where I know it's home…
She had originally made plans with Pablo to catch the fireworks display on National Day. He had been intrigued by the hype surrounding the National Day Parade. But two days ago, he received a call from home. His mother was ill and he was to return. His flight would depart tomorrow, just before midnight.
In the distance, where the water met the sky, the sun was sinking.
“I really wish I could stay…” he began.
“I know,” she whispered, her fingers absently tracing the scar on his forehead. “So much of life remains beyond our grasp.”
“When will we meet again?”
“When the stars are aligned,” she answered half-jokingly. She didn’t know, and she wasn’t in the habit of making promises she couldn’t keep. Besides, she wasn’t sure if he wanted to make such promises. He had his whole life ahead of him, glittering with possibility.
He turned towards her and kissed her on the lips.
Day became night. Night became day.
By Sunday, he was gone.
She missed her period a month later.
After much deliberation, she decided to contact Pablo. She called. She sent text messages, emails, letters—all of which remained unanswered. She didn’t know if something serious had happened to him, or if his non-response was a response in itself.
The familiar sense of helplessness stung.
*
“Madam, madam! Please come forward.”
A sharp tap on her shoulder abruptly hit pause on the unrolling reel of her thoughts. She glanced up and realised that the man with the scar on his leg was no longer there. Colour rising to her cheeks, she apologised and made her way to the front. She hastily went through the motions of security clearance and proceeded to board the plane. It was only after she got seated that she released the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
One month ago, she had gone to see a renowned spine specialist at a private hospital. As she stood in the chilly radiology room, donning a thin hospital gown, she felt the same sense of trepidation as that schoolgirl of ten. Relentless questions kept her at bay. Would she have to go for surgery? Should she have already gone, all those years ago, before her spine became irrevocably twisted beyond treatment? How different would her life be now, had she gone back then?
She would never forget the look on the specialist’s face when he compared her X-ray films taken two decades apart. She still had three curves, but her condition has unexpectedly remained stable. That near-right angle had not buckled under the weight of time and strain. Staring at the white meandering spaces illuminated against the darkness of the film, she remembered answering the specialist’s questions mechanically. Yes, she still felt occasional back pain. They often came from sitting too long at her desk. No, her physical activities have not been significantly hindered. Clearly, she was still walking. Over the years, she had even gone mountain hiking, scuba-diving and parasailing.
She swallowed a sip of water, lost in thought.
Before long, the wheels of the plane lifted from the tarmac. She looked out of the window, watching as the city became smaller and smaller as the aircraft soared higher and higher into the cloudless skies.
*
Agnes Chew is the author of The Desire for Elsewhere, first published by Math Paper Press in 2016. Her writing has been published in Southeast Asia, the UK, the US and Canada. She holds a MSc in Development Management (Mayling Birney Prize for Best Overall Performance) from the London School of Economics and a double degree in Economics and Business (Magna Cum Laude) from Singapore Management University. Born and raised in Singapore, Agnes has spent time in Vienna, London and Germany, where she is currently based.
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