I met my doctor this afternoon. After a brief inspection of my body, where she confirmed that the two white pustules on my upper left tonsil were merely infections and not some vile strain of cancer, we talked. I have not seen her in some time; she only works in the mornings now, when I usually am asleep or at work.

Dr Chang has practically watched me grow up. She has seen me move through three houses, three schools, eighteen years.

Our meetings were always brief, and I was usually suffering when they occurred. I was, and still am, a rather sickly child, falling sick every three months or so, so when I meet her I’d either be sniffling away my flu, or shivering from the cold of my fever. She never said much about the sickness, except to elaborate briefly to my parents about the medical aspect of it. None of that excessive cloying concern that I get from some acquaintances at camp, just a simple “take care” and “get well soon.”

After diagnosing my illness, she’d talk to my parents about issues of the day. I remember that I’d get restless in the brown chair, the same plastic brown chair with metal legs they use in classrooms nowadays, and start asking for sweets. She always smiled at these childish requests, and offered me orange-flavoured fruit-tella that she kept in a small container. She knew I loved orange indiscriminately, whether it was on clothes, shoes, or my sweets. Once she gave me two to take home too, one lemon and the other strawberry, telling me that I should try new things and that I might like them.

On the door to her office she frames up pictures painted by her other patients. Often hand-drawn with crayon on a piece of drawing bloc, they carried messages like “I like Dr. Chang”, and “Thank You for making me well.” The boys often drew dinosaurs, while the girls were a bit more sensible, drawing her flowers or a portrait. One boy sent in a mess of red circles. Not the most aesthetic pieces, but they carried a whole lot of heart.

I don’t know why but I’m always comforted by her presence. She exudes such wisdom and knowledge, such a motherly aura that she’s almost like a grandmother to me. I talked to her today as an adult, no longer asking for orange flavoured fruit-tellas. She asked how school was, and I reminded her that I was doing my National Service now. Bemused, she remarked how quickly time flies. She asked what I was in the army and I whined. Smiling, she said her sons had mouthed the same phrases too. In that instant I felt comforted, I felt the same kind of understanding and concern that I’d felt years ago when I took her sweets home.

It seemed as though she had not aged one bit.

On a wall above the weighing scale was a clock that she must have made herself. It was a piece of cross-stitch, with the clock handles placed in the center. A flock of ducks flew around the dial, and at the top left was a short bible quote from Matthew. There were always simple paintings of scenery hung around her clinic, and once there was a great massive patchwork quilt that kept me enthralled with its interlocking patterns and motifs. They were not polished to perfection; if one looked closely one could still see spots where the paint clumped together, where a bit of red ran down just a little more than it should, where the patchwork was a bit loose; but nevertheless they were beautiful. I never saw her working on any of these pieces, but I knew they were hers. I just knew.

Here I am at home, on an MC, away from work. I’m settling on my applications for university, and reading The Glass Menagerie.

Two years. What Spartan endurance Tom must have had to work in that warehouse for as long as he did, when I, only at the ten-month mark, feel like I cannot bear it anymore. My superior (I hate that word, in what aspect are these insipid bosses superior to me?) reacted quite grumpily to my decision to report sick, and now I feel torn, torn between the knowledge that such an impression will not sit well for the next two years, and the burning desire to have no need for that impression at all.

What an exciting life an AWOL fugitive must lead. To defy the institution that has locked up robust young men at the peak of their years, and transformed them into nothing but MC haggling desperados.

I am angry that no one believes my MCs, and have to weave a web of lies, deceit, and false sympathy before they do not question its integrity. We all fall sick, how is it that the big dumb blokes get away with it? Is it because, in being bigger, they invoke more respect? More faith in their diligence? So is it such that I, skinny and not quite well-built, of an agile mind and glib tongue, am unable to be actually productive in the workshop, and hence am undeserving of my MC?

They value lumbering obedience over wit and intelligence. A tank is after all, more important than a soldier.

All I talk about now is the army, and the psychological impact this foul conscription has caused. I take myself far too seriously, which is a bad sign. I devoured The Glass Menagerie in a day – I confess that I am rather deprived of such material in camp.

All this while I sit here and create my future, plan for it, pay attention to every detail, delighting in the fantasy. It is no different from Silas Marner, counting his gold, for I too am paying attention to the hard outlines of letters, emails, and petty applications. I count them, go through them again and again, and vet my emails twice over. These little things are the light at the end of the tunnel, they sustain hope, yet all I seem to be doing is sustaining hope for the sake of sustaining hope. I try desperately to evade the truth, that I actually get to go home everyday, that I have the whole weekend to myself, that Cambridge is not the only place where I can live out my dreams.

There is time now yet. Time now to create things in the present. I need only summon the strength and focus to do so –

But I am such a lazy fellow.