A Secret Shame

Denzil Jayasinghe

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A Secret Shame

“A Secret Shame,” a short story by Denzil Jayasinghe, follows a young man’s experience with shame and discomfort when seeking medical attention for a urinary tract infection. The story highlights the protagonist’s anxiety, fear of judgment, and the awkwardness he feels during his interactions with medical professionals. The story occurs in a medical office setting and captures the protagonist’s internal struggles. The author uses vivid imagery and sensory details to convey the protagonist’s emotional state, emphasising his vulnerability and difficulty confronting a personal health issue.

The young lad, typically a picture of health who rarely visited a doctor’s doorway, shuffled towards Jayne’s desk with uncharacteristic hesitance. His voice, usually precise, held a hesitant tremor.

“Jayne,” he began, clearing his throat, his tone barely above a whisper “Can I please have a letter to the doctor?”

His eyes darted nervously, silently willing Jayne not to inquire about the nature of his ailment as a matter of care. The thought of explaining his predicament made his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Jayne glanced up, her experienced eyes noting the lad’s unusual demeanour. Though she had a soft spot for his typically cheerful disposition, she recognised the need for discretion. Years of handling sensitive employee matters as the staff controller had honed her professional instincts.

With a small nod, she reached for the appropriate form, her fingers flying over the typewriter’s keyboard as she prepared the standard doctor’s referral letter. “Of course,” she replied, her tone neutral and reassuring. “I’ll have that ready for you in just a moment.”

The lad’s shoulders relaxed slightly, relief washing over him as Jayne focused on her task without prying. He silently thanked whatever bureaucratic deity had blessed him with such a tactful administrator.

As Jayne handed out the letter in an envelope, she couldn’t help but notice his subtle fidgeting and averted gaze. However, respecting his privacy, she offered it with a professional smile. “Here you are. I hope you feel better soon.”

He accepted the letter with a grateful nod, clutching it like a lifeline. “Thank you, Jayne,” he murmured, already turning to escape from the office.

As he went down a bustling street, his mind raced with anxious thoughts. How would Dr. Peter react? Would disapproval etch itself into the doctor’s features? His usually confident stride had become an awkward limp, each step a battle between physical discomfort and wounded pride. Paranoia nipped at his heels, convincing him every passerby could sense his predicament.

The imposing Mohebi Centre rose before him, its reflective windows sending back an image of his hunched form. The electronics shops lining the street continued their lively trade, oblivious to his inner turmoil. At last, the medical centre came into view, its sign simultaneously promising relief and threatening judgment. Dr. Peter’s name loomed large, and as he began his ascent, each stair felt like another step towards an uncomfortable reckoning.

DR. PETER VARGHESE, MBBS, PD, 

GENERAL PHYSICIAN HEALTH CARE, VACCINATIONS AND CHILDREN’S HEALTH

The sight of the doctor’s credentials did little to ease his nerves. His stomach roiled, a physical manifestation of his guilt and apprehension. He paused before the clinic door, viewing it as a threshold between his secret shame and potential redemption. Drawing a deep breath, he steeled himself for the uncomfortable conversation ahead.

The waiting room seemed to stretch into eternity as he sat, each tick of the clock amplifying his discomfort and anxiety. The impending confession weighed heavily on him, making these moments of anticipation feel like a lifetime compressed into mere minutes. Next to him sat other patients — a mother with a sick and a middle-aged man — their presence only intensifying his sense of isolation and unease.

He waited about fifteen minutes before it was his turn to see the doctor. While waiting, he observed a middle-aged woman with a bindi on her forehead entering and exiting the doctor’s office. Each time she emerged, she glanced at the young man without offering a smile.

Finally, it was his turn to enter the doctor’s room. He was greeted by Dr Peter Varghese, a large man with jet-black dyed hair dressed in a white shirt, black pants, and a blue tie. The doctor smiled warmly and gestured for the young man to sit in the patient’s chair. “What seems to be the problem, young man?” he inquired genially, examining the letter from the bank authorising treatment for the lad, one of its’ youngest clerks.

The young man hesitated before responding, “Sir, I’m experiencing pain when I urinate, and I think I might have some kind of infection.”

“All right, Let me see. I’ll need to examine you. Please remove your pants,” the doctor instructed without batting an eyelid.

The young man glanced around nervously. Noticing his discomfort, the doctor stood up and closed the door to ensure privacy. With hesitation, the lad slowly unbuckled his belt, lowered his trousers to his knees, and lowered his Rocky underwear.

While the doctor examined, the young man remained tense and embarrassed, lying on the doctor’s examination table. The doctor who took his time, which felt like an eternity to the young man, made occasional thoughtful “hmm”s as he worked, poking the lad, doing little to ease his self-consciousness. The lad, acutely aware of his exposed state, tried to remain still despite his discomfort.

After about five minutes, the doctor said, “I’ve determined the treatment for your condition. You’ll need a course of penicillin injections over the next few days to address the infection. In the future, I advise you to be more careful about your intimate interactions.”

As he lay there, the young man reflected on his recent choices. He regretted his encounter with Anita, wishing he had shown better judgment when faced with her persuasions. The weight of the consequences settled heavily on his mind. Bad choice, he thought to himself.

After the examination, the doctor instructed the lad to get dressed. He stepped out, presumably to consult with the saree-d nurse next door. Shortly after, the nurse emerged from her room with a stern look. Without saying a word, she gestured for the young man to follow her. Her expression remained neutral as she led him to her room.

The nurse prepared the medication in her room, which had a sterile scent. She efficiently filled a syringe, maintaining a stern demeanour. The young man, visibly anxious, took deep breaths to steady himself. The sound of the air conditioner in the room was the only soothing thing he heard.

The nurse gestured for him to lower his trousers and lie on her examination table.

Despite his initial discomfort, the boy’s shyness previously faded in the doctor’s room. He complied again, reminding himself that this treatment was essential for his recovery.

Without a smile and no warning, the nurse administered the injection. The lad winced in surprise.

Before the boy could put his pants back on, the doctor entered and instructed him to return every day at 11 AM for the next five days for a repeat injection. For the next five days, the boy endured the doctor’s examinations and injections administered by the unsmiling nurse who remained silent throughout the process. It was an ordeal for the young man.