A VISIT TO THE CLINIC AT SEVEN-MILE

Jason picked up the flu from his baby brother so we enter the night clinic at Seven-Mile. The place is packed with several families, some couples, and a few elderly men who all turn to look at us – a white man and a cute white toddler. We find a seat among the blue cushioned benches that run the length of the clinic. Since there is only one seat, Jason has to sit on my lap and that is fine with him. Sitting beside us is an elderly man, a Bidayuh, I believe, who is also staring at us. He only stops staring after I look at him and smile. A Muslim woman sitting on the other side of us smiles, too.

“Noise,” Jason says, reacting to a toddler wearing squeaky shoes. Each step produces a squeak, and after each step the toddler looks down at her shoes to see where the squeak is coming from.

A baby cries and Jason points and says, “Baby.”

Jason’s nose is running and he wipes it on the long sleeve of his red shirt before I can stop him. Although I’m too late, I hand him a tissue. He hands the tissue back, unused. He picks his nose, finds something and shows me.

Did I mention he’s cute?

“Eck, eck,” he says, one of the few Bidayuh expressions that he knows, which means, dirty or messy.

I use the tissue to wipe it off his finger. He smiles at me, happy that his finger is clean. I smile back at how disgusting and cute children can be at the same time.

As patients get called in, more seats become available. Some are taken by other patients who arrived after us. When a seat opens beside us, Jason squirms off me onto the seat. Three more places open beside us. A couple claims two of them and Jason stretches out his legs to claim the other.

Still he wants more room, so he puts his feet up on the lap of the Bidayuh woman. I try to pull Jason back so his feet are not touching her, but she smiles and says it’s okay. That only encourages Jason, who seems to like her. He scoots even closer and puts more of his legs on her lap.
“How old are you?” she asks, and Jason babbles a reply that even I don’t have a clue as to what he just said. There are times he can talk quite clearly, as he strings English words together. Other times, he uses some Malay that he picked up from the Malay babysitter back in Penang. He also uses some Bidayuh, too. Gibberish, his fourth language, he uses the most, sometimes just to hear himself talk.

“He’s two,” I reply for him.

The door opens and the nurse pokes out her head and calls, “Jason.”

Hearing his name, Jason quickly gets up.

The woman beside us says, “Goodbye” but Jason ignores her. He’s not being rude, although sometimes he can be; he’s merely focused all of his attention on the door, on the nurse who called his name, and what waits for him inside the room. He looks back at me to make sure I’m coming in with him.

I sit him down on my lap as we wait for the doctor. Jason, not one who likes to wait, crawls down from my lap and heads straight for a brightly colored trash can. Seeing the pedal, he steps on it and lid opens.

“Aw, man,” he says when the lid closes before he could have a good look inside. He steps on the pedal again and again, until I call for him to stop, which he finally does after he had a thorough look inside the trash can.

The Chinese doctor comes in and Jason hurries over to me. I help him back onto my lap.
“What’s wrong with you,” he asks.

I think of the t-shirt that his Aunt Judy from America gave him. It says, “Blame it on my Brother.” In this case, it’s the truth, so I enlighten the doctor. He lifts Jason red shirt and places his stethoscope against Jason’s chest and listens. He moves it several times, and then places it on his back.

“Open your mouth wide,” he says, moments later, and Jason opens his mouth wide. The doctor inserts the wooden spatula and Jason bites down on it. The doctor asks Jason to open his mouth wide again. I’m glad that Jason does. Like most toddlers who visit doctors he can be difficult.

Jason has an infected throat and a fever and the doctor sends us on our way. We have to wait for the prescribed medicine, so we sit down. Others look at us. I smile as if to say, look, but please don’t stare. Some of the patients don’t seem to understand my smile and they continue to stare. Before too long, Jason’s name is called and we head for the dispensary and take our medicine.

Since it’s late and neither of us has eaten, we head to the KFC two shops away. A family who had been waiting with us at the clinic just received their food. We exchange smiles. I recognized another family from the clinic, too. Taking your child to KFC after a visit to the clinic must be part of the heeling process at Seven-Mile. I know Jason, once he gets that first French fry in his mouth, he’ll be feeling better already. For me – my first fast food since moving to Sarawak – I’m feeling guilty. We won’t tell Jason’s mother.