The Ankle that Wasn't There
The Ankle That Wasn’t There
Two Ankles, One Story
During my school years, I spent most of my time away at boarding school, but when the month-long holidays came around, I would return home, slipping back into the rhythm of family life as if I had never left. Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, my father would take me to the water well for our nightly bathing ritual. He would draw bucket after bucket of cool, clear water, the creak of the rope against the pulley blending with the evening chorus of crickets.
There was something almost methodical in the way he bathed me, his hands firm yet gentle as he scrubbed with soap, his eyes carefully scanning our bodies as if ensuring every inch was thoroughly cleaned. During one of these moments, as he wrapped me in the family towel — its familiar scent of sun and wind — he noticed something unusual. His sharp eyes caught the subtle difference: my left ankle wasn’t quite the same as my right. He paused, his brow furrowing slightly, and asked, “Have you noticed anything different about your ankle?” I shook my head, unsure. He tilted his head, studying it closer. “It looks a little swollen,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “We’ll have to get it checked.”
My father could never overlook even the slightest hint of a health concern. For him, treatment always came first when it came to his children. So began his determined journey to address the issue, ensuring my left ankle would be as strong and healthy as my right. “We’ll see the doctor tomorrow,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The next day, we visited the family doctor. The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic, and with his bespectacled eyes and stethoscope draped over his white coat, the doctor exuded an air of quiet authority. “Let’s take a look,” he said, gesturing for me to sit on the examination table. He examined me from the waist down, his fingers pressing firmly around my ankles. “Does this hurt?” he asked, poking at the left one. I shook my head, but my heart raced as I noticed, for the first time, that my left ankle did seem slightly swollen to the naked eye. The doctor’s focused expression and the sterile environment made me feel hot and flushed. By the time he finished, I was convinced my ankle had swollen even more.
The doctor straightened up and turned to my father. “It’s likely nothing serious, but we’ll keep an eye on it. Some rest and observation should do for now.” My father nodded, his face a mix of relief and determination. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “We’ll take care of it.”
I knew that when my father said “taking care,” it signaled the start of a remedy that would inevitably become a journey. He was never one for quick fixes; his approach was thorough and deliberate. And so, the journey began — a journey that involved trips to the general hospital, specifically to the outpatient department.
Visiting the outpatient department meant early mornings and traveling by bus to Town Hall. It meant standing in long queues, waiting for numbers, and bracing myself for the hours of waiting that followed. Each step was part of a process, a testament to my father’s unwavering commitment to ensuring I received the care I needed.
The outpatient department at Colombo General Hospital was like stepping into another world — surreal, like an out-of-body experience. The air was thick with a weird mix of smells that hit me the second I walked in. It wasn’t just one smell; it was a whole cocktail of sterility — chlorine, antiseptic cleaners, bleach — all swirling together in a clinical, almost suffocating cloud. It felt like the hospital was trying too hard to be clean, as if screaming, “We’re germ-free!” But the overbearing sterility only made me feel uneasy. I pulled at the collar of my shirt, trying to distract myself, but even that smelled like the hospital now. It was like the place had marked me, clinging to me. I couldn’t shake it. It was gross, but also weirdly fascinating, like I’d stepped into some strange, sterile world.
I was taken to a room where a specialist doctor sat, with several nurses standing nearby. Behind a green curtain, my left ankle was examined and poked as my father looked on. The doctor wrote a prescription and handed it to my father. At the hospital pharmacy, I noticed the pharmacist behind the counter, her saree neatly draped over her shoulder as she carefully measured the medication. After paying twenty-five cents, we got our prescription filled. It was midday when we returned home, taking the 193 route bus.
Every night before bed, I was to take two tablets with a glass of water. This ritual continued for about two weeks, and it was my mother who took on the responsibility of reminding me to take my medicine.
My ankle was examined daily, but the “swelling” never seemed to go down. After two weeks, my father grew increasingly dissatisfied, though now, both ankles looked the same to me. Which fourteen-year-old cares about his ankles? They are just there, waiting to grow up. I wished my right ankle would swell up and match my left ankle. Then this whole thing would come to a stop — no more nightly medicines and pokings at hospitals. On the third week, another visit to the outpatient department was arranged by my dissatisfied father. This time, he was more assertive when he talked to the specialist in white robes. It was the same specialist who enjoyed poking my ankle while his nurses looked on. But this time, he called out a nurse who went out and, within minutes, returned with another specialist, wearing a black coat. While I lay on the examination table, this new specialist poked my ankle and wrote a note, handing it over to the first specialist.
“It’s time to X-ray the boy’s ankle,” the specialist told my father. The nurse asked me to follow her, and I was taken to another room resembling a steel factory. Inside were these giant machines, which I later learned were X-ray machines. A bald man X-rayed my ankle, asking me to steady my feet. That’s the last thing a boy can do — stand steady for more than a few minutes. I tried hard to remain still as he operated the X-ray machines, the lights flickering on and off with the flick of a switch.
A week later, we returned to the outpatient department. By this time, I remembered every bus stop and every shop along the bus route to the hospital. The specialists had the X-ray on their table. Scribbling notes, they said there was nothing wrong with my left ankle. “This boy was born with his left ankle slightly different from the right ankle. Nothing is wrong. You can now go home.”
I was bewildered. All this drama for nothing — I hadn’t even noticed the slight difference in my left ankle. However, my father seemed relieved; I could tell from how he smiled. As we returned home, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of frustration and amusement. From that day on, I never compared my left ankle to the right one. It has always remained the same, a quiet reminder of that strange chapter in my childhood.
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