Chapter Four: I Got Sick
"Acquaintances" and "friends" are always around in this world; you never know when they might come in clutch. Hospitals are no different. So, even though James was breaking some hospital rules, neither David nor William felt like stopping him. It was like a buddy dropping by and using your bathroom without asking.
James grabbed a straw, drew some blood, and carefully dripped it onto a slide. He added some diluent, mixed it up, and slid it under an electron microscope. Twisting the knobs, a whole new microscopic world popped up in front of his eyes.
Among the oval-shaped red blood cells, there were some big, rash-like white blood cells floating around like water bugs. Besides these two usual suspects, there was another weird thing that looked like a sea urchin, covered in sharp spikes. It was a bit bigger than a white blood cell, oval-shaped, and moved slowly. Whenever a red blood cell got close, its spikes would shoot out and stab it.
These freaky cells seemed to be bloodsuckers. Under James's watch, in just five seconds, three red blood cells got pierced and gobbled up. It was like a wolf tearing through a flock of sheep.
Seeing this, James's heart skipped a beat. He shivered, pulled his eyes away from the microscope like he got shocked, leaned back in his chair, and stared blankly at the slide with red blood spots under the lens.
David had already put on a mask and was carefully taking out a box of freshly cleaned petri dishes from the sterilization box. William, sitting at the desk, picked up a lab report, shook his head at a urine sample, and wrote "positive" in the blank space at the bottom right corner, sliding it out of the rounded receiving window with his fingers.
David was always cautious and rarely pissed anyone off. On the other hand, William was a bit of an oddball, especially with his weird coldness towards women. Rumor had it he got a kick out of hearing about women getting unexpectedly pregnant. Plus, his "positive" on lab reports was always written with extra flair.
Neither of them noticed the weird look on James's face or when he left the lab. Especially William, who was busy ogling the slender woman in a miniskirt sitting across the lab window, like his small eyes had X-ray vision.
A beauty.
Men, you get it.
Hospital office.
To match the weather forecast that called for a daytime high of 84 degrees Fahrenheit, the sun was blazing, cranking out heat like a furnace, baking the earth, and glaring down at the poor, tiny creatures below.
James twisted open a bottle of "Amoxicillin" like he was opening a soda, shook out six red and white capsules, and downed them all with some hot water from the dispenser.
No doubt about it, he was sick. James was sure of it.
The cause? Not your run-of-the-mill cold, but the blood he got on him during that car rescue the other night.
A beam of sunlight sneaked through the window, making his face look a bit pale.
Thanks to his morning runs and college training, James had broad shoulders and a build like a brick wall, with a well-proportioned and powerful physique. His face almost always had a smile, and his gentle vibe made people feel like they were basking in warm sunlight.
But lately, James couldn't shake the image of that corpse-like patient. It gave him the chills. Those vicious cells under the microscope seemed to be gnawing at his heart.
Most of the lab report data was normal, except for his low hemoglobin levels. For a guy his age, it should be 130-180g/L, but his results were only 60-70g/L, less than half.
Anemia, and not just any anemia—severe anemia.
James couldn't believe it. To make sure there were no mistakes, he drew two more blood samples from himself, using other people's names, and had David and another staff member check them. All three reports came back with the same numbers, exactly the same.
Today was Thursday, and according to the schedule, he could take a day off tomorrow.
The quartz clock on the wall showed it was already 4:25 PM. Compared to the morning chaos, the internal medicine clinic on the third floor was pretty empty, with just one patient getting an IV on the green bench in the hallway.
The specialists had left half an hour ago. Today, an old man named Robert Davis was on duty. Word was the vice president had spent a lot to bring him in, and he was a whiz at treating liver diseases. As a newbie, James had once looked up to him like a god. But he later found out Robert treated all patients the same, with prescriptions that were just a few simple ingredients Robert called "special secret formulas."
Whenever Robert was on duty, there were always one or two recovering patients who'd show up at the busiest times. They'd say a bunch of grateful stuff, treating him like family, and offer cash or expensive gifts. Robert would always sternly refuse, often with a line like "A doctor's duty is to save lives." So, the cash and gifts would get pushed back and forth, eventually being replaced by banners of gratitude, covering the walls.
These folks showed up so often that James couldn't help but recognize them. Once, after work, he overheard a young patient call Robert "Uncle" at the bus stop outside the hospital.
That kid's medical record showed he had severe hepatitis B and was a regular at the clinic, even giving Robert a banner.
Honestly, instead of trusting these so-called experts, it might be better to just hit up the pharmacy and follow the instructions on the meds.
On the computer, the red Angry Birds were flying around like crazy, while the green pigs hid in their shabby houses, laughing more and more lewdly. The bright colors gradually turned into speckled particles in James's eyes, slowly overlapping with familiar penicillin, streptomycin, and cephalosporin, morphing into non-substantial pills.
Taking a bunch of antibiotics and iron supplements was all he could do for now.
James didn't want to become a carrier of some "weird disease." Whether in med school or during his internship, he'd seen too many cases of severely ill patients being shunned. Nurses would keep their distance, doctors would treat them like prime clinical trial subjects, and family members would just ignore them. As for phrases like "the treatment is going well," "have confidence in the doctors and yourself," and "fight the disease bravely," even the people saying them probably didn't believe it.
He'd take the meds for a few days and see how things went. If the cells in his body stayed weird, James would have to go to another hospital and get treated under a fake name.
After work in Auroravale, the place was packed and chaotic.
James managed to squeeze onto the bus, and just as the person next to him stood up, he quickly snagged the seat, feeling relieved to finally relax and maybe catch a nap during the long ride home.
His eyelids grew heavier, and with the last bit of clarity, he strained to listen to the station announcements, while his brain, desperate for sleep, fought fiercely like mortal enemies. James's head drooped low, swaying with the rhythm of the bus. His neck, like a fragile branch under heavy strain, struggled to keep his heavy head from falling off.
A sensation of being struck by something hard spread from the area near his left cheek and eye. It wasn't super painful, but James still tried to lift his sore eyelids to see what he had bumped into.
At that moment, the bus wheels hit a pothole, causing the bus to bounce up with great force and then fall heavily, swaying from side to side. The passengers inside screamed in unison but were just shaken a few times before the bus returned to its usual, boring state.
The unexpected jolt caused James's cheek to smack into the hard object again. This time, the impact was brutal, making his left cheekbone feel like it had shattered into a million pieces.
It was a thick wooden cane—the top part, held by a hand, was the horizontally connected part of the cane, which looked like it was made in someone's garage.
The cane was just an object, but its handle was gripped by a hand wrapped in countless wrinkles, as old as dead tree roots. Looking up, he saw a short, stout old woman with protruding cheekbones and a hunched back.
She had half of her body wedged in the gap in front of the seat, almost completely filling the space between James and the seat in front of him. Especially the cane in her right hand, which was slanted on the ground, with the hard protruding handle swaying back and forth in front of James's face with the bus's movements. The distance was no more than an inch.
James instinctively sat up straight and turned his head, looking around the old woman.
The bus was crowded, but not packed like sardines. There was at least five square feet of space behind the old woman. The reason she maintained her current stance was pretty obvious: she wanted to use this seemingly reasonable method to forcibly wake him up.
The cane was deliberately placed there. A sleeping person's head would sway and automatically hit it. With just a little movement of the bus, James's head would hit it hard.
"Young people these days have no manners. Seeing an old person and not offering a seat, I feel ashamed for your parents!"
The wrinkles on the old woman's face were as deep as knife cuts. She blinked her eyes and kept moving her thin, toothless lips inward. Her voice was loud, attracting the attention of the people around. The old woman, becoming the center of attention, grew more pleased, stomping her cane forcefully and staring at James with cold, sharp, commanding eyes.
Give up my seat?
You want me to give up my seat using this method?
The left side of his face, still aching from the cane's impact, made James not want to argue. If he could, he would rather tear off the old woman's head and bite into her neck, drinking her blood.
Why am I having such thoughts?
He twisted his neck forcefully, trying to regain his senses. Just then, the bus arrived at a stop. James quickly stood up, and before the impatient old woman could sit down, he spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the green seat and then strode out the back door.
If you're bullied, you have to fight back.
It didn't matter if others disapproved; as long as he understood the situation, that was enough.
From the bus behind him, the old woman's sharp, venomous, and furious curses filled with endless resentment and rage echoed.