An Ordinary Epidemic Read Free Page B

today? Have you returned from overseas in the last two months? Have you developed a cough in the last week? Have you had a fever in the last week?’ She ticked them off.
    Inside, the normally spacious foyer was cut in half by a dotted barrier of white desks. They demarcated the normal soup of life and germs she had left outside from an unaccustomedly empty and sterile world of illness. She handed her filled-in form to the woman at the nearest desk. The woman addressed herself to the form, as if Hannah were a bystander. ‘Have you been away in the last few weeks?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Have you been unwell in any way this week?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Is this your signature?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    The woman gestured to a pump pack of hand sanitiser on the desk, ‘You have to clean your hands before you go through.’
    Hannah hesitated. ‘Has something happened at the hospital? Is that why all the extra fuss?’
    The woman looked up. ‘We should be doing this all the time, if you ask me, not just when there’s some crisis overseas.’
    Past the desks, it was suddenly quiet. In the long corridor through the main building to the clinic wing, she passed only purposeful staff and others like her, late for appointments.
    The waiting room was as full as always but eerily silent. Even in normal times, she had noticed, people spoke to each other in whispers. Most came with a companion but they rarely chatted, as if they couldn’t find words up to the task of conveying any more than what had to be said. The dominantsounds were usually the crash of trolleys and nurses calling or laughing, but today even those were muted.
    The volunteer was missing from the hot drinks trolley. In her place was a piece of printer paper with a hand-written sign, ‘Help yourself ’. Hannah never felt comfortable accepting a drink, especially in recent years. She thought the other patients looked at her, with her head of hair and the spring in her step, questioning whether she qualified for the club. She’d spent so much time waiting in this room that she was no longer a guest—she could make her own coffee. The doctors here gave people great chunks of life, and tithed it back in many small appointments.
    The woman sitting opposite wore a bright scarf elegantly. Her fingers were thin and their skin was dry. The man next to her held her hand gently. He looked worried. She just looked tired. Hannah hoped they got called before she did.
    The scarf was vibrant, the way Hannah noticed cancer patients’ scarves often were. A small act of defiance, a stoic badge of bravery that said, ‘I may look like I’m suffering, but inside I celebrate life’. That was not for her, she hadn’t wanted to wear her illness with pride. She had hidden from it instead, trying to pass as one of the ordinary. She hadn’t known what to do with strangers’ looks of sympathy.
    â€˜Hannah?’ A mix of question and exclamation. The doctor was looking around myopically, as they often did if they didn’t know you.
    As she stood, he half stuck out his hand. She looked at it for a second, confused, considering the relay of germs, one handshake to another. What about his patients on chemo, did he shake their hands? Did he shake hands with other doctors, and did they shake hands with their patients? He morphed it into a gesture for her to go ahead.
    A new doctor always meant having to recount every detail of her diagnosis and treatment, almost justify her presence.The first time, she felt like a friend had stood her up for coffee, that she wasn’t important. It was at least reassuring that she was routine enough to be handed off to the trainees. She knew nothing good came from that kind of importance.
    He browsed through her notes while she looked around. The same combination of people—patient and doctor—sat in rooms with exactly the same furniture up and down the corridor, and in