THURSDAY, JANUARY 13

BEFORE, MY DAILY ROUTINE was to wake up at eight for a long run in the park, then have my coffee while rushing off to class. Now I wake up with a cough, and I’m lucky if I can run half the distance in double the time. Lately I need three coffees just to get going, and I’m still late to class every day.

Visiting the hospital is a thrilling part of my new routine. After numerous appointments with multiple doctors in various hospitals and two visits to the emergency room, I now find myself in yet another antiseptic hospital lounge with stale magazines, waiting to see a new doctor with a new diagnosis and a new file.

At this point, I know this hospital like the back of my hand. I’ve spent the past two months wandering from one department to the next, from the top floor to the bottom, from the front to the back. Over and over and over again. I’ve seen eight interns, two gynecologists—why do doctors always assume you’re pregnant when they can’t figure out what’s wrong?—a pulmonary specialist, and two ER teams, and have been prescribed three courses of antibiotics. All to no avail. Between all these doctors, no diagnosis but plenty of symptoms and a lost tampon. Ick. It gave the doctors and my father, who was waiting in the hallway, a big laugh but left me mortified.

My symptoms—a strange jabbing here and there, shortness of breath, the loss of a few kilos (which I’m definitely not complaining about), and a pale face that no amount of blush can mask—don’t seem to bring me to a diagnosis. So here I am in the waiting room. Again. A door opens and I see him—the one hundredth white coat to examine me and try to figure out what is causing all these seemingly unrelated symptoms. He approaches the reception desk, picks up my file, and calls out “Miss van der Stap” while randomly scanning the waiting room to see which of the rumpled contestants has just won a spot in his examination room. He calmly acknowledges me as I stand up. A teenager. I can practically see the thought forming in his mind as he looks at me. But to me he looks like a dream: handsome face, nice hands, fortysomething. Finally, my Grey’s Anatomy fantasy is becoming a reality. Who knew that a hospital would turn out to be a great place for a single girl like me? I abandon my mom in the waiting room and follow him, gingerly, down the hall.

As my details are taken down for what feels like the hundredth time—amid all these technologically advanced supermachines, they still can’t keep track of my records—I take advantage of this time and study Dr. McDreamy more closely. His nametag says DR. K, PULMONARY SPECIALIST. I’m guessing early forties. Charming, handsome, and smart: a playboy or happily married in the suburbs? Or maybe both? Better Google him later. A white coat can be misleading, but shoes never lie. Brogues, black leather. Hmm.… Not bad, not great either. Not much to go on, but given his age I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He tells me to take a seat and asks me to lift up my top. I’m allowed to keep on my bra. He places a cold metal stethoscope against my chest, and then on my back.

He listens, I sigh.

I sigh, he listens.

I listen, he sighs.

“Something isn’t quite right,” he says. His words don’t scare me. In fact, I’m even a bit relieved. It’s been blatantly clear for a long time that something’s wrong; finally, someone else is catching on. Handsome and smart. Dr. K might be the answer to this Kafkaesque hospital. At last I’ll get a diagnosis, some pills in a jar, and back to normal life.

He finishes examining me but wants me to get my lungs X-rayed on the first floor and then come back and see him. Later, when I get back to Dr. K, pictures of my lungs in hand, he leads me to a different room, where I sit perched on an exam table, the words ENDOSCOPY AND PULMONARY RESEARCH hanging above my head.

“These X-rays don’t look good,” he says. “There’s fluid in your right lung that we need to drain.”

“Drain?”

“Yes, via a tube in your back.”

I swallow. I’m not sure what this tube means, but it doesn’t sound like something I want stuck in my back.

This time the bra doesn’t stay on. I feel exposed. I’m uncomfortable, and I’m suddenly starting to feel scared and out of place. Why are there all these people fussing over me all of a sudden? I feel outnumbered and wish I hadn’t told my mom to wait outside, but I’m too proud to change my mind now. So I sit there shivering as Dr. K, his assistant, whose choice of footwear clearly states that she’s more into me than into my doctor, and a clean-shaven intern named Floris prepare a monstrous needle. Three sets of eyes are directed at my two little mounds. Or maybe they’re too busy looking at the horrible needle that is about to be stuck into my back and straight through to my lung? Floris seems just as uncomfortable as I am and avoids looking at me directly, which makes the awkwardness I’m feeling grow even more palpable in the small room.

Dr. K’s assistant begins to explain to me what is about to happen and why they think it’s necessary to puncture my insides: “The X-rays show that there is about three-quarters of a liter of fluid between your lung and your pleura, the sac surrounding your lungs.”

“Oh.”

“If it’s yellow pus, that’s bad news,” she continues. “That means there’s an infection.”

“Oh.”

“It’s better if it’s clear fluid.”

“Oh.”

She gives me a shot of anesthetic to numb my back, but I wish she had given me two. I feel every excruciating inch of that tube as it’s being pushed through my back. Dr. K immediately comes to my rescue with a second shot of anesthetic when he sees me wince with pain. The tube is long enough for me to see the fluid streaming from my back. The fluid isn’t yellow, but, as it turns out, what it is isn’t great either.

Dr. K asks me for my cell phone number. I’m flattered: Everybody knows that cell phone numbers are for dating, not for doctors.

The next evening he calls while I’m having dinner with my parents, but it isn’t to ask me for coffee.

“I can’t figure out exactly what’s going on. I want to admit you for a week so we can run a number of tests. We’ll start with an endoscopy.”

“An endosco-what?”

“We’ll make a small incision about two centimeters long on the side of your back and go inside with a tiny camera to take a closer look at your lungs. While we’re in there we’ll take some tissue samples as well.”

“Oh … sure, if you think it’s necessary.” I hang up the phone as the first tears come. Suddenly it hits me that this might actually be the start of a long-term relationship with Dr. K, only not in the way I’d hoped. I wipe away my tears before returning to the table. “The doctor just likes having me around,” I joke to my parents, who laugh along briefly. We finish the rest of the meal in strained silence.

*   *   *

Dr. K doesn’t waste any time. The next thing I know, instead of staring at the tapestries on the bedroom walls or my souvenirs from far-off places that fill the room, I’m looking at the sterile walls of the hospital.

For a week I lay there in my white room, in my white bed, in my white hospital gown, surrounded by white, white, white. Everywhere I look there are white nurses’ uniforms, white gauze, and white lights shining down that give everyone a chalky pallor. Even the doctors and nurses look sick. I have a tube down my nose, a collapsed lung from the endoscopy, and a respirator hanging above my head. There’s a lot going on and none of it is good; none of it seems to be leading to any answers. The only silver lining is that I’m finally getting around to some heavy reading. You know, those books you always swear you’re going to read but somehow never have time for? Dr. K—whom I’ve cast as a leading role in my fantasies—comes to visit me every day to see how Anna Karenina and I are getting along. Well, at least I’m doing better than she is.

After a week of hospital tests and scans, they release me on Friday night, just in time for the next semester of university to begin.