I wake up.
It’s 11:30 AM. I overslept. My body feels uneasy and clammy. Ugh, not another fever.
Regardless, I head downstairs to check my temperature: 103.5F. I do it as if I need to confirm my ailment. I take two aspirins from the cabinet and prepare a mug with hot water to warm myself. I add two lemon slices and one teaspoon of honey for my sick-day remedy.
I wonder, why do I feel cold when I’m supposedly hot?
I am sick. No, not of a fever. That is only a symptom. I am stuck, mentally or physically I don’t know. There are so many questions floating in my head. Lately, I’ve struggled with school and my future. I find it puzzling how I spend all of school trying to answer questions yet I can’t answer my own. How a projectile flies in the air. Why Harper Lee included this detail. What will happen when two solutions are mixed. So many questions. But when it comes to myself, there is no answer to be found. I have questions too, about life, why this is happening to me, what will become of me… I’m told it is part of growing up, a case of teen angst. A passing storm. I’m told that instead of asking I should start doing. I’m told many things but never the answer I’m searching for.
Three hours later, I feel no better. I think that the aspirins should have kicked in by now so I move to take another one. My dad stops me and I am in no state to resist. Because of my apparent sluggishness, I already knew that he would want to take me to the doctor. He grabs the car keys and walks straight out the door. I get up and drag my feet to the car.
After a short drive, we arrive at a run-down Chinese plaza. The patrons don’t seem to notice the age of the establishment and neither do I. I smile weakly. The plaza’s ambiance brings back distant memories of simpler times. Back when it seemed like the most tiresome things in life was to do the house laundry. Though I am struggling right now, I pause to reminisce. It’s the charm of this place, the people, the culture—it brings me warmth.
We park the car and walk into the central mall. The doctor we’re seeing shares the lease with a photo printing store. He keeps his practice in the back half of the store, secluded by a wooden screen. He has also hung a provincial certificate on the wall; it’s supposed to accredit him as a licensed practitioner. Finally, I sit down at a little table, face to face with the doctor.
“Fever, 103.5 degrees,” I declare.
He leans over and reads my pulse, first holding the left wrist and then from the right one, feeling the chi flow through me.
Next, the doctor asks me to stick out my tongue, he takes a good look at it.
“How are you doing?”
“Are you sleeping well?”
“How’s school?”
He barrages me with questions and I answer “poorly” to all of them.
“Your chi is out of balance,” the doctor tells me.
There’s just too much happening in my life: too many sleepless nights, rushed assignments, and internal conflicts. I am out of balance. Even though I’m usually skeptical of the existence of chi, at this moment, I find it hard to disagree. Could he be right? Can you doubt a doctor’s word?
Like any other experienced doctor, he’s studied and apprenticed for long hours before reaching this level. His returning clientele proves his mastery. He quickly jots down a prescription that should restore a semblance of balance to my body, resolving the fever along the way. My dad hands him $30 before we walk to the Traditional Chinese Medicine dispensary in the same plaza. Of course, this isn’t covered by OHIP.
The dispensary is much like an apothecary, and the woman behind the counter is the bygone pharmacist. As we step in, I sense an intense rush of aromas from the countless dried specimens lining the shelves. I’d be quick to judge this form of medicine if I didn’t know the aspirin I took earlier was derived from willow bark.
I hand over the prescription, and her hands immediately fly over the shelves; first gathering the containers of the numerous herbs required. I counted twelve items on the prescription, each with specific weights. Next, she moves to one of the many handheld scales to measure the prescribed amounts, producing three sachets in total. They sit neatly in a clear plastic bag, along with a handful of Haw Flakes. My dad hands her $30.
Is this any different from a pharmacist compounding antibiotics?
During the drive home I reflect on the lady behind the counter. The image of the teetering scales the lady at the dispensary used. She was remarkably skilled in balancing the handheld scales. They remind me of what the doctor said, how my chi is out of balance. Seeing that she balances these scales every day makes me wonder if her life is in balance. Unlike her steady hands, I am a wobbly person. I’m glad though, there are people here that will help me through my hardships. People who can help me find my own balance.
We arrive home and my dad gets to work, emptying one sachet into a Pyrex pot before filling it with four cups of water. He boils it on the stovetop, carefully monitoring the slow process. The smells of the dried herbs penetrate the house and will linger for a few days. After forty-five minutes there is only one cup remaining. Dad removes the pot from the heat and swiftly pours the contents into a ceramic bowl.
I sit down at the dinner table and he places it in front of me.
I stare into the deep black soup. My reflection stares back at me. I’m not pleased by my swollen face.
I take a sip. "Ah! So bitter," I grit under my teeth. After all, what sweetness could be expected from a concentrated brew of herbs? Thankfully, the sweet Haw Flakes help with the bitterness, as does my fever-impaired sense of taste.
As I slowly sip the medicine, I feel a sensation flowing inside of me, something good.
About the Author
Ian is a 17-year-old high schooler who loves telling stories. He is a Canadian born Chinese and explores his heritage in this short story. In his free time, he likes to relax by playing video games, running, and taking care of his pet rabbit.
