CHAPTER 6
FUTURE MEI
TWO FLIMSY ROBES IN ONE week.
“Dr. C. will be right in to see you,” the nurse said, flashing me a smile before she closed the door. Well, this appointment was already looking better. As was my rash, though it hadn’t totally disappeared yet.
There was a timid knock at the door, so quiet I barely heard it.
My eyes widened when I saw the gynecologist, who pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose, then stuck a limp hand out. I was still frozen as she said, “Chang. Dr. Chang. Tina Chang. No, just Dr. Chang. But, um, I guess you knew that.”
Apparently her posture the other night hadn’t been from humiliation; even now, as the authority figure, she was the epitome of subservience, hunching so much she appeared to be trying to hide herself. Or maybe she was thinking about how I had caught her with her hand in the toilet.
She was all business, no conversation—surprise, surprise—and immediately following the introduction, she pushed my gown aside. My leg muscles tensed instinctively, but the damn stirrups kept them in place even after Dr. Chang wheeled over a giant magnifying glass.
Diagnosis: allergic reaction. Embarrassment level: as high as when my mother talks about her period in public.
But despite the mortification, I relaxed because the Mǎmá Lu in my head had finally stopped chattering. Up until now, it had been a nonstop stream of: Eugene does not want a wife with herpes. How will I ever marry you off now? I told you not to sit on public toilet seats.
As Dr. Chang rattled off a list of potential sources—new lotion, perfume, body wash—I shook my head repeatedly while trying to puzzle out the answer myself. After running through a mental list of yesterday’s events, it hit me. “I never washed my new jeans before wearing them,” I told her.
Dr. Chang delivered a monotone rundown of the treatment—apply over-the-counter hydrocortisone cream and wash the contaminated pants—followed by, “Questions?” in a tone that implied no questions allowed.
Ignoring her obvious desire to wrap up, I asked, “Do you like it? Being a doctor? I’m premed.”
“Yes. Being a doctor is a great job. Respectable. Stable.”
I examined her in a new light, the future version of myself. “But how do you like it?”
“It’s great.” Her tone remained flat, same as all her other sentences, making it impossible for me to interpret her true feelings. She could’ve been ecstatic or miserable or anywhere in between.
She stuck a palm out, signaling an end to the conversation.
Desperate for answers, I extended the handshake longer than allowed by societal norms. “Did your parents pressure you to be a doctor?” She tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip, crossing into freak territory. “Are you happy? Is there something else you wanted to do more? Please. Just those questions.”
She sighed, giving in. “I liked math, but there are no job prospects with that.” Mustering all her oomph, she yanked her hand free in one aggressive swoop, then left, again with no good-bye.
I sat for a minute staring at my sweaty palm, now empty. My body shuddered even though the room was perfectly warm. I know you’ll get into the best medical school and become the best doctor, I heard my mother say in my head.
I dressed in a haze, and then, because I couldn’t get her sad aura or hollow eyes out of my head, I tracked down Dr. Chang’s office. One meek knock later, I was in her cramped, cluttered space.
She looked up from her paperwork briefly, then lowered her head again. No words. Not even an eyebrow raise or muscle twitch or frown.
I swallowed. “I was wondering if I could shadow you today for your last few patients.”
She remained bent over her work, and I felt the need to fill the silence. “It’s just . . . I’m desperate for some answers, and I thought you might understand.” I took a breath. “I’m worried I don’t have what it takes to be a doctor. I, um, don’t really like germs.”
Her eyes finally met mine through her thick glasses. “You’re too young to be worrying so much. Just enjoy college, and by the time medical school comes around, you’ll be ready. If I can do it, you can too.”
“I want to know what I’m getting into,” I said, when I really meant, I’m terrified I won’t be able to get over my squeamishness. “Please. You won’t even know I’m here.”
With a sigh, she snapped her folder closed and walked out of the room—still no words. I followed behind, not sure if I was supposed to until we stopped at the front desk for me to sign a privacy agreement.
As I followed her to the next patient, I wondered if the lack of conversation would turn out to be a blessing or a curse. After the knock, I came face-to-face with Valerie, the junior from my floor who had laughed during my BB-8 fiasco.
“I’m Dr. Chang. Tina. Dr. Tina Chang. The nurse tells me you think you have a yeast infection, which you described as white and flaky, like cottage cheese?” She tapped the stirrups and rolled a massive light over.
If I hadn’t been so disgusted, I might have reveled in witnessing my bully under such compromising circumstances.
Valerie pointed a rigid finger at me. “She goes.”
I held my hands up in submission. “Fine with me.”
After darting out of the room, I tried (and failed) to quell my turning stomach. It’ll get better with experience, I lied to myself as the nausea turned into fear. But what if it doesn’t? What if I can never eat cheese again? I love cheese! My stomach cartwheeled. What if one day I vomit into my patient’s vagina?
Dr. Chang emerged, walked across the hall to the microscope, and placed a slide on the stage. She looked for a second, then waved me over.
Holding my breath—I did not want to taste that through my nose—I forced myself to peer into the lens. The stringy rods and circles were innocuous enough, but knowing where they came from made me dry heave. I nodded quickly to Dr. Chang, then retreated.
“Candida albicans. Yeast infection. We’ll give her an antifungal for two weeks. The medicine can be oral or vaginal. We’ll use vaginal in this case since it’s not that severe and topical treatments have fewer side effects.”
Not wanting to picture Valerie treating her yeast infection, I just nodded.
We made our way down the bleak, deserted hall to the next patient. As soon as we entered, the middle-aged woman said, “Hey, Doc, there are floating chunks in my pee. Is that bad?”
Dr. Chang picked the sample up with only a flimsy paper towel between her and the cup. “When was your last period?”
“Honey, I haven’t had my period in years. I’m fifty-six!”
I held my fist over my mouth and suppressed a gag as Dr. Chang announced she would be running some tests to diagnose the swirling mystery flakes. For once I was thankful for my terrible eyesight, which prevented me from seeing the chunks. I inched over to the hand sanitizer in the corner while trying not to breathe too deeply—the sterility of the cleaning chemicals was worsening my headache. I barely heard the woman’s answers to Dr. Chang’s questions about diet, recent changes in behavior, and medical history.
I did manage to smile at the patient before leaving, but it promptly fell when she said, “I don’t know how you guys do this. The smell that’s been coming from down under—whoo! P-U!” She waved a hand in front of her face. As if I needed more clarification.
Outside the door, Dr. Chang fumbled in her pocket with her free hand. Unable to locate a pen, she jiggled the urine sample toward me, still only protected by a flimsy paper towel. “Can you hold this for a sec?”
With a few fingers, I grabbed the cup so gingerly I almost dropped it. Instinctively, my other hand whipped forward, and now I was grasping the specimen like a warm mug of tea. I adjusted my grip so only the pads of four fingers touched.
Dr. Chang arched an eyebrow. “It’s pee, not a bomb.”
“Contaminated pee with chunks in it. And it’s slightly wet.” I swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“I’ll say. You know you’re going to have to do much worse in med school, right? Dissect a cadaver, rectal exams, abscess drainage, central lines—” Her voice cut off when I leaned against the wall for leverage. She cleared her throat. “You’ll get used to it. We all do.” But her voice was reedy with doubt.
I know you’ll get into the best medical school and become the best doctor. I saw the pride in her eyes, the pink MIT MOM shirt, and I bent over, supporting myself on my knees. I was going to be sick.
That night I shampooed three times and scrubbed my skin raw. As soon as I was clean on the outside, I fled to the Porter Room to cleanse the inside. It’s going to be okay, I told myself. Dance would save me; I would detox at night, recovering from the day, and make it work.
The dimness of the room cloaked me, making me feel safe, hidden, and alone, free to express myself in the only way I knew how. It was just me, the linoleum floor, and emptiness for what felt like miles.
My heebie-jeebies from the day—and the chunky pee—manifested as full-body shudders and jerky limbs, hitting before the music even started.
The bass pulsed within me, and I nodded to the beat, eyes closed. Okay, this was it. This always drained me, helped me work through anything.
The air whistled through the vents, then brushed my cheeks. I embraced the frustration within and kicked, punched, and leaped, stretching every muscle until it could stretch no further, a rubber band about to snap. The fear traveled down my arms, the sinew serving as tracks, and exited through my extended fingertips.
But with each burst of energy, I didn’t feel release. Something was different. My feet slipped on the tile that should have caressed my toes and allowed me to turn endlessly. My limbs didn’t feel like extensions of my body—they were burdens, weighing me down and dragging me around. The wind through my hair wasn’t refreshing—it made my head pound with bursts of pain.
Before, there had never been anything dance couldn’t resolve. But I never did find my calm that night.