A Lonely Walk

I stalk back to my room and pull on a pair of sweats. Most of my clothes are dirty. Rooting through the pile on the bottom of my closet, I find a reasonably clean sweatshirt. No time for a shower -- at least some sense of urgency, now. I wedge on a battered pair of Keds with no socks because I can't find any. I brush my teeth and spit out blood.

The walk across campus is a lonely one. Pendle College is at the far south end of campus, the infirmary at the far north, off the Spine. On weekends, Lancaster University is deserted. Most of the students go home. There are only a few people walking along the Spine, mostly around the library, and even fewer after I branch off north, heading to the outskirts of the campus. The wind has picked up again, blowing hard from the northwest. It tears across the top of the hill. It cuts through my thin denim jacket. Rain-soaked grass numbs my feet. I am cold and wet and more than a little frightened. I am not prepared.

The sign at the infirmary says that they are closed on Saturdays:

In case of emergency, ring the bell. There will be a sister on duty.

I hesitate for a moment, thinking that it can wait until Monday. The image of twice-bloody urine convinces me to stay. I ring the bell a few times before the door makes unlocking sounds. A short woman pulls it open. She smiles and invites me inside.

"What can I do for you?" she asks.

I'm thinking about how best to summarize the past couple of weeks, but I don't have a chance to say anything before she interrupts.

"One moment," she says, closing the door behind me, "let us talk in here."

She leads me through the dark and empty waiting room to an expansive, high-ceilinged examining room. There are charts on the walls. Two soft tables jut out into the center of the room, crisp paper stretched across the tops. Counters line the walls. At the far end of the room is a good-sized wooden desk. It is bathed in a mute light from the tall window behind it. Cotton swabs, Kleenex boxes, tongue depressors, and several loose manila folders decorate the desk. The sister sits down in an oversized leather chair behind the desk.

"Sit down," she says, rearranging some of the folders before looking up at me. "Please do continue."

I start to explain some of my general symptoms. Just a few things, off the top of my head: tired, feverish, sick and tired for days.

"More than anything else," I tell her, "it has been the intense fatigue. I just can't shake it. But there are other things. See these?" I say, lifting my upper lip. "A bunch of sores. I don't know why."

She removes a tongue depressor from a bluish jar.

"Hmm," she says.

"And I guess the really important one happened earlier this morning. My urine was all bloody."

"Bloody? Was it painful? Did it burn?"

"No. It wasn't -- it didn't. I thought it was kind of strange, so I thought I should get it checked out."

She nods her head. "Yes, yes. I'm glad you came in. Do you think I can get a urine sample?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe. I've already gone twice this morning."

She gives me a glass of water to drink, and a plastic cup to pee in.

"The bathroom is just over there," she says. "Take your time. Please try."

"Hmm," she says, almost to herself. "The fevers and such I can understand. There has been a bug going around, and I can understand that. I'd prescribe plenty of rest and Vitamin C (she pronounces it vit-uh-men, which is one thing I love about England). But those sores on your mouth. And the urine. I am afraid that I don't know what's going on, either. I am going to ring the doctor on call. He lives just a few minutes away. I hope I can reach him. He should have a much better idea of what is wrong."