Well, the brown file has refused to close anymore; it is now sitting on top of the shelf somewhere in the file office of the hospital. The file can now be compared to a civil servant who has worked for the government and has now retired. Because there was a time that the file traveled, entered, and visited places much more than I did.
The very first day the file was handed over was the first and last time I will hold it myself. And then, it was flat; just a piece of paper was in it. And on its outside, my name, hospital number, and the like were written in the available space. It was later that we went to meet the doctor for consultation, and he explained something to us while writing in the file that I understand, and I learned that even a paper can carry fear.
And that was how it kept going. I was admitted and began doing different tests, X-rays, scans, and the like, and that was how the file kept adding up. And each time my name was called for a new test or for the outcome of a result, I did hear the sound of the stapler, signaling that there was another addition to the file.
It was even as if my file was more important and popular than I am; countless times have I heard them referring to me while using my file. And during my stay in the hospital, I was attended to by various doctors that are specialized in different things, as my case isn't one that can be handled by just a branch of the hospital; they all had to work together. There was a day one of the doctors came to check in on me; they had been told that I was also their patient, so they came by.
"This is unusual. Are you sure this is for one person." The doctor said, looking at my file before even looking at me.
I looked at him as he tried balancing the big file on the nearby table and flipping through its pages, trying to make sense of a story that didn't make sense. At a point, he left the file, came to me, and was looking at me as if he was studying me. He sighed, grabbed a chair, and went back to sit with the file.
That file knew me better than most people; it consisted of a lot of things, even I lost count of. I was always in and out of the hospital. Can be admitted for a month or two and get discharged again, get admitted again for another month, get operated on and then discharged to heal again, and then taken in again to be admitted. That file knew the dates of all of my surgeries, it knew how my body felt every day, it knew how I was coping, and it knew the changes that even I couldn't see or notice. It knew the drugs, pills, and injections I was on; it knew how much my parents had spent that even they can't calculate.
I remember a time when even I knew I was in for it; it was when another file was added to my file. The first one couldn't contain anything again; they had to staple both together. I remember my dad tucking it under his arm and adjusting it occasionally as he was busy running a few errands. But then, with time, that too began to grow.
Anytime I go for a checkup and consultation with my consultant, I am in the wheelchair while my dad or brother pushes me. With the file resting on my legs as I sit. I'm sure the file would weigh more than myself then. And while waiting in the waiting room with other patients, the focus of everyone around would be that swollen file. Thin files obviously have very little to them, but big, swollen files definitely contain stories no one wanted.
That file has become very popular. I was waiting to be called into the theater one day for another operation. My file had already gone in while I was still outside, but I heard the doctors and nurses discussing it. Immediately the file was taken in. What I heard was, "This file again..." And what can I do? I just thought within me, outside where I was, "Yes, the file again. Me again."
I was later called in, and it was seen that I found out the person that talked earlier was the man in charge of anesthesia; I've come to know him too. I can say I and my file have always gone through him each time I'm to undergo an operation. Likewise, I looked to the other side of the room to find about 3 doctors standing around a table with my file open in front of them.
"I heard it's the first of its kind." One of the doctors said, looking at the others.
They kept on discussing, but I wasn't paying attention anymore; that one sentence I heard made me feel some way. Doesn't that mean nothing is guaranteed, like nothing is certain? And it also means that more pages might be added to the file.
The file got so big that it began to tear by the side. And I think you will permit me to say that even the file got sick, because it was later being held together by a thread. It was as if the file was wounded too and needed to be stitched. There are times I look at the file and wonder if it will ever stop growing, like, can there be a final report, like one last page that will put an end to everything?
I got better, and the files stopped growing at the rate at which they used to. I was discharged and had to go once in a while for checkups and such. At times, I had to explain myself to the nurses, as some no longer recognized me.
The last time I carried the file was some years ago. And it felt heavier than usual then, not because more pages were added, but because of what it carried. That day, I laughed a lot with my doctor as he handed over the file back to me without adding any other page to it. He asked me to take it back to the file office as another appointment was fixed.
And I began to go for checkups at intervals, but no new paper was added to my file again. I would pass by the file office to steal a glance at my files, as there are times I go for a checkup without making use of my file. I was doing very well, and there was no need for it anymore. It was just sitting quietly on the shelf, no longer growing. I noticed how the edges are getting worn, and even my name has begun to fade. And it stopped feeling like a threat but as evidence, as proof that I was here, as proof that I endured, and as proof that I survived.
It (the file) is proof that a paper can carry ones past and still close gently one day. That brown file has stopped going up and down; it is now resting. And so am I.
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First and last images are AI-generated; all others are my own.
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