I’ve been procrastinating my visit to the hospital where my brother took his last breath.

I blamed it on the traffic. Blamed it on the difficulty of getting a decent parking at the crowded Hospital Kuala Lumpur (HKL). Blamed it on the hot weather. Truthfully, I was just afraid of stepping onto the compounds of HKL. Afraid of reliving the memories. Afraid of suffocating from sadness. Afraid that I might have to wait for hours again just to get a signature. But I realised I still gotta get all these administrative paperwork done in order to claim my brother’s insurance. So I braced myself and took a drive there one fine sunny afternoon.

The walk from where my car was parked to the buiding was a good 10-minute walk under the blazing sun. As I entered the building, I saw a few old ladies sitting on the bench by the entrance, in tears. I felt nothing. I entered the elevator and pressed button “3″. I thought I would be overwhelmed with nostalgia. I felt nothing. The door opened, I turned left, and walked past familiar green, blue plastic chairs. I remember looking at an old man. He looked tired. Some kids were seated next to him. They looked tired. Two ladies sat a few seats away. They looked tired. Two other boys were eating their economy rice and two cans of 100 plus took up a seat. I looked at them, and felt nothing. As I arrived at the ICU door, the rude guard looked at me and smiled. She remembers me. I looked at her and noticed her name, and smiled. When my brother was hospitalised, I argued with her, spoke to her, despised her. Yet, I never noticed the tag on the left side of her chest above the pocket or how white her teeth was.

I remember how cold the ICU room was. I stepped into the room but the chilly air was a good welcome from the hot weather outside. I walked past bed “8″. Saw a man in oxygen mask, surrounded by machines and inserted with tubes all over. I felt nothing. As I waited for the nurse to locate the doctor, I scanned the room. All patients looked the same to me. Critically ill. Three ladies rushed to a bed at the far corner. A nurse drew the curtains to give them their privacy. Few moments later, two more came in and rushed to the same bed. They looked sad, the only kind of sadness you see when someone was about to die. I felt nothing.

I was told to come back the following day between 12 – 3pm. I thanked the nurse and left.

As I was leaving, a Malay lady was shouting at the security guard to inform the guards downstairs to allow all relatives of ‘anonymous name’ to come up. I bought myself a 100 plus, took a sip and absorbed the surroundings – I could relate to many people there, but felt nothing. I realised, it was just another day at HKL. Different people come and go everyday. But the energy is always the same -exhausive, sombre, sad.

Just another day at HKL.