I’m only quite rarely worried about death. Most of the time, I find myself preoccupied with the monotony of living; the percussive rustling of leaves across my window, the low drone of the refrigerator, the familiar sag of a sofa. Come to think of it, it’s a shame I didn’t appreciate those small comforts when I could–now that we’re hurtling along the freeway at three A.M. towards the hospital, I sit, shivering, hunched over, and generally regretting the life decisions I’ve made up to this point. Painfully aware of the fragility of existence, I find myself preoccupied. My mind is set adrift as I ponder the habits of the passerby, although it is questionable whether those wandering the streets at such an hour can be considered live and sane beings. Three A.M. is an odd time of night–or is it morning? The streets are awash in an eerie, fluorescent glow, and the wavering reflections cast on the car window reveal how the light transforms our faces into pallid, leperous visages, as we hurry through the night.

I blink, and time diffracts. What happens next blurs together into a photobook of hazy motion shots: first, I smell the metallic scent of old blood mixed with an astringent antiseptic, then the questioning lilt of a nurse, followed by the unfamiliar prick of a needle once reserved for yearly physicals, but as I soon will learn, many more are yet to come. A hand cards through my unruly hair, and another one firmly lifts me up. I barely have the time to process that I am now seated in a wheelchair–am I really that weak? And then the stage shifts. I am wheeled past the inquisitive eyes, the anxious eyes, and the sunken, bloodshot eyes of the hospital waiting room. I still don’t understand entirely why I’m here, and even though I should know myself the best, a young medical technician rattles off a lengthy diagnosis as I am wheeled into a private waiting room. He explains that I am running a dangerously high fever as well as displaying symptoms of something called haematemesis. Something has gone terribly wrong, but the hospital has to run a few tests to confirm their suspicions. I am not privy to their suspicions, but judging from the grave tone of the technician’s voice, it's evident that nothing good will arise from the diagnostics.

As I sit under the harsh, artificial lights, I revel in the wonders of modern medicine. Dressed in the ubiquitous blue hospital gown and sporting an intravenous infusion in the crook of my right arm, I have never felt so invisible. Whatever serendipitous mixture of chemicals which was injected into me not half an hour ago has already begun to metabolise in my body, bringing blessed nausea relief and slight mental clarity. With my newfound clear-headedness, my lack of faith in God is reaffirmed–how is it possible that a higher power, some grandiose, heavenly being exists and is capable of dictating the molecular interactions within my body? No, he cannot exist in this unimaginably diverse world teeming with life, where each person lives an existence just as vibrant and real as yours, where they have their own social circles, their own dreams, their own fears and routines, where you are just a single stanza in an ancient epic that contains the history of billions of other lives that you’ll never know of, in which you might only appear once, as another being in an endless queue for the metro, as a quick tip of a hat, as just another hospital patient–or not at all. I suppose, to the eyes of the hospital staff, I’m nothing extraordinary or particularly unique–at the end of the day, the medical field’s purpose is to win the war against the inevitable master of all: death.

The nurse returns, and this time, he’s brought along another interesting transportation apparatus, a hospital gurney that I gingerly clamber onto; apparently, I am scheduled to have an ultrasound. It is supposedly the least intrusive of medical imaging techniques, and will allow the doctors to confirm that it is my appendix which is in the process of rupturing, not some other unruly organ. The barrage of medical jargon bewilders my already compromised processing abilities, so I blearily question one of the solemn blue-clad technicians surrounding my hospital bed, and he slowly explains the newest developments in my body. Ironic, isn’t it, that we will never know anything besides ourselves, but that we rarely know what’s the best for ourselves? The nurse explains to me in hushed tones what disaster exactly is transpiring inside my body as he wheels me through the labyrinthine halls of the hospital, until I am wholly convinced that we’ve gone in circles at least twice. We pass by some long-term stay corridors, where I crane my neck to peer into the occupied rooms. There, the walls are painted a placating blue, and even at this godforsaken hour, televisions murmur, and the air is perfumed with a saccharine blend of pine cleaner, wilting flowers, and saline solution. I am glad when we move on, as for a moment I too was drowning in the terrible stagnance of the hospital rooms, in the bareness of the walls, in the yellowed “feel better soon” cards, and in the yawning abyss left by friends and family that never visit–at least not for long.

Eventually, we make it to the darkened room where the ultrasound is to take place. I’m afraid that I don’t remember much except for the excruciating pain that accompanied the press of the transducer over my lower abdomen, and the result, delicately delivered to me by yet another anonymous technician. The scans were inconclusive. As such, my next step in the process is a CAT scan, which involves a massive, circular machine and lots of x-rays. Afterwards, I am left to my own devices as the technicians busied themselves with analyzing the new data on the inner workings of my body.

An elderly, yet commanding doctor enters the room, and engages in a heated conversation with the gaggle of technicians that have accompanied me throughout this rollicking journey in the underbelly of the hospital. His face is lined, deep furrows that score across his face from decades of concentration–conducting surgeries, directing hospital staff, and placating distressed patients and family members have left their mark. He draws close, and delivers my ultimate diagnosis. He will see me in the operating theatre in thirty minutes, at noon.