I bit into my apple. Savouring this single piece of Mongolia that would be mine, in the end. Tears streamed down my face as my despair gave vent to a poem entitled ‘One Apple in Mongolia’.
I had been sitting on the same kitchen chair for most of the day. Clutching a water bottle to my stomach as it convulsed excruciatingly. I was in too much pain to even stand up, or sleep. And drifted now through consciousness and images of what I might look like emaciated and bald.
On the table before me was a copy of the ultra sound scan I had received at a private clinic in Ulanbaatar. Unintelligible russian was written beside it, describing a ’15 centimetre ovarian cyst, growing since birth and possibly cancerous’. The doctor looked at me with huge Mongolian eyes as I squirmed where I lay, biting my hand to muffle the groans.
Days after I arrived in Ulanbaatar to take up a year long teaching contract, I developed severe abdominal pains. I was told to return home immediately for surgery, and shuffled through Seoul airport like a frail old woman. Yet almost as soon as I touched down I recovered and was found perfectly healthy.
