Best Buddies

I have had a blessed life despite what just happened to me. Although I'm no extroverted party animal, I have had the blessing of buddies who remained my kindred spirit through the years. Granted, I have had a miserable childhood. Yet God in His Mercy had been good to me. 

I grew up among strangers under the watchful eye of my mother in a double storey shophouse which was never Home to me. Love was an alien concept in this house where survival depends on your ability to watch and learn. It was at this shophouse in a moment of solitude that I first reached out to God. Back then, the family members were deeply ingrained in Taoist practice and God was the Outsider, the foreign influence which causes you to hang between Heaven and Hell in death. But that's a story for another day.

The one thing I remembered most about my childhood was that I had no friends, not until I started attending school. Even at school, social interaction was awkward for I did not have much communicational skills. At home I was a liability nobody wanted. My brother's apprentices were kind to me. So was his clerk. I remembered becoming very attached to a Miss Yap who was a General Clerk at the shop. When she resigned, I was devastated. There was something rotten about Friendship if it can affect you in such a manner.  Miss Yap was my first friend.

By the grace of God, I have had numerous Best Buddies since. There was a time during my teenage years when one of my best buddy raised a question on the issue of our friendship. This buddy of mine had been transferred to a different school and was beginning to experience the sense of loss that I had first felt with Miss Yap. I remembered the words I wrote in response to hers as if it was yesterday when it was first written. I reserve the right to this quote.

"Companionship comes and goes but Friendship remains forever." - Carol

This maxim, tried and true, became the cornerstone of the numerous friendship that were to follow in later years.

Back to Imaging

So we walked back into the building in an orderly manner. Work was already in progress at Imaging. The good Datin was no longer in sight. I sat down before the young doctor. She managed to find a suitable vein this time after apologising for the previous unsuccessful attempts. I was asked to change into their hospital dress and given a cup of yellow liquid (Oral Contrast) which tasted awful. They pumped in more "Contrast" into the other end of me and inserted a tampon into ... well, where tampons usually goes. After that, I walked awkwardly towards the Scanning Room.

The CT Scan Machine is a huge standing ring with a sliding bed in its hollow core. Medical personnel were seated on the other side of the room divided by a glass window. The bed eased into the hollow core. I was asked to breathe in and hold my breath. My eyes were shut but I could hear the buzzing of the machine towering above me. Then they injected more contrast via the intravenous needle. I felt the surge of warmth and nausea which was quickly suppressed with Psalm 23. The bed eased itself into the hollow ring once again. I held my breath while the machine buzzed. And that was that. The long and short of the experience.

Suddenly, German sausages sounded like a delectable idea. We headed for a restaurant which served one of those sausage platter. I managed to swallow an entire sausage without nausea and was pleased. The man at the next table could not keep his eyes off me. (I was wearing one of those ski-caps to conceal my shaved head.) At some point, I was sorely tempted to sit at his table so that we can stare at each other. Common sense prevailed and the man's eye finally got used to seeing me.

I am happy to report that I feel far, far better today than I did two days ago. For the record, I am due for 4 more chemotherapies and I worry about the availability of my veins.

What A Day!

My 26th Wedding Anniversary began at about 6:30 this morning. After washing up, we were off for my CT Scan. Traffic was bearable so we arrived early at the hospital (Imaging) where a modest crowd had already gathered.

A distinguished looking Sikh arrived with his elderly Datin of a mother. They were given immediate attention by the Head of Imaging himself. It is great to be important, I thought. You get to cut queues and your caregivers smiled at you. 

It was a long wait.  They finally called my number. (and I came in far earlier than the good Datin) I was ushered into a room where a young doctor in her early thirties explained the procedure before inserting one of those needles into my veins. She could not find a suitable vein after two attempts and I was left both punctured and bruised. The Datin sat daintily on a nearby chair. She was already prepared for the scan. Did I mention that I arrived at Imaging way, way earlier than her?

That was when the siren went off. Would you believe it? A fire drill! 365 days in a year and they chose to conduct a fire drill when I'm there for my scan. (The Datin must be cursing too.) We were instructed to disperse in an orderly manner down the stairway towards the outside of the hospital. While we stood in the early morning sun, a police van arrived, followed by several Bomba fire trucks. Then the press arrived. Let's not forget the three or four (maybe more) ambulances which were already at the scene. The crowd hung around to witness the charade which ensued. None of us looked amused or entertained.

Four firemen strolled into the building and strolled out again, each carrying the four corners of a tarpaulin which they deposited near the parked police van.. As the tarpaulin leveled itself on the ground, we saw a wounded dummy playing dead. An attending nurse covered the dummy with sheets of newspapers but you could still see the face of the deceased as blasts of air lifted the paper when people walked by.

Next, the firemen set up what looked like a tarpaulin medical tent outside the building. The "paramedics" arrived with the first ambulance and sauntered towards this tent. There was a burst of activity as firemen, policemen and paramedics convene. Three youngs girls emerged from the tent dressed in bandages and heavy make-up. (There should be a make-up artist inside the tent.) One of the young girls walked towards an open stretcher to play dead. The attending nurse covered her with sheets of white paper. (Maybe she ran out of newspaper) The girl who played dead fidgeted under the paper until someone had the presence of mind to remove the paper which was covering her face.

More ambulances arrived. Pee-poo-pee-poo-pee-poo! More firemen strolled into the building with more ropes. The paparazzi was all over the place. Some were wearing police and bomba uniforms while others were wearing hospital nametags. I thought I saw RTM and Times nametags but I couldn't be sure. And I couldn't be sure because I was bitching about the doctor who couldn't find a suitable vein. 

In the midst of my whining, I suddenly felt a gust of wind which came at me from behind. The first thought which came to me was "Is that you, God?" That was followed by remorse, constructive prayer and a sense of calm.  As if in answer to my question, a few more windy blasts hit me from behind and died down after my prayers were said. I'll tell you what is strange. My husband was standing beside me at the time and he did not notice the gusts of wind. There are some things in life you cannot explain, I thought.

The nurses continued to smile at each other while the firemen continued their leisurely stroll in and out of the building.  Ambulances arrived and left without their cargo but with much to yell about it. Soon the paramedics started to disperse, the firemen dismantled their tent while the policemen gathered for group pictures.  As the paparazzi went clicking about and receiving more request for group photos, we were finally asked to reenter the building in an orderly manner.

Shitty, for simplicity

I am sorry. Some of you left me text messages and emails and I had been slow to respond, if at all. The past couple of days had been a bane. If I must choose one word to describe what it had been, I'd probably choose "shitty" for simplicity.

Nasi Lemak didn't work this time. Nor did Roti Canai. The thought of those two just puts me off. I kept burping up gaseous stuff and when I breathe in, the air is reeking with the smell of medication. If I could ask God, I would really want to know, for sure, what His plans are. Am I intended to survive this? If not, why not just take me quick and be done with it? And then my thoughts went out to Job. The book of Job is a difficult one to understand. But I don't want to understand it. I don't need to understand it. I hate being where I am, the Here and Now of the present. I understand why I have to go through this but going through it is hard. Food in my mouth turned to ash. I am hungry but food brought no pleasure or satisfaction.

Do I want to survive this? I should. Could I? Probably. I don't know. I'm confused. At times, I thought in terms of recovery and focused on what I would want to accomplish after my recovery. I want to think positive thoughts and I know I should but in a moment of weakness, adversed thoughts crept into the outer peripheral and make a mockery of me.

I hear about the actress who died of breast cancer, the actor who died of liver cancer. The relative of a friend of another friend who had pus and blood oozing out of her breast. Each time I hear such stories, Hope and Courage abandon me and I am left with fewer arsenal to face my demon. Yet, what should I do? Should I avoid the bearer of unhappy news and continue living in a make believe happy-happy-Devil-May-Care world? No. That world no longer existed. It stopped existing when I found my Beast.

Meanwhile, my temperature is good. 36.9 deg Celsius.  It looked like I'll live - for one more day. Let's see what tomorrow brings. Tomorrow, I turn 53.

Chemotherapy 2

No. I am not sociable, haven't been since I resigned from my job that many years ago. It's easy to arrive at this conclusion.

While waiting for my turn at the Oncology Ward yesterday, I sat down way back from the rest of the crowd. (That's the first clue.) An elderly lady in her seventies took a seat on the row in front, which was good. She minded her business and I minded mine, and that suits me fine. (Second clue.) Next, a young couple arrived. They took the seat next to the elderly lady in front and immediately struck up a conversation in Mandarin. The woman is in her forties and from what I gathered from the little Mandarin I knew (I could speak a smattering of Mandarin, if you have to know) the younger woman had gone through the entire treatment regime and is here for a follow-up consultation with the oncologist. The first thing I noticed about the husband were the two strings of crystal beads on his left wrist. Those beads were huge, probably a centimetre in diameter. One is brown, the other yellow. An old yellow string accompanied the pair of beads and clutched in the same hand is a book. He was bald. He asked my husband if we could read any Mandarin. I looked away while my husband gave him a polite "No." Next he went on to extol the wonders contained in the book he held. My husband said "We can't read Chinese." So he went on to tell us the precious tips on surviving cancer, the dos and don'ts, the special recipes which is contained in his book. My husband declined and the man backed down, finally.

They jabbered on and on and I was relieved when they finally left. An old couple in their sixties arrived to take the seat they vacated. The woman read her papers quietly while the husband answered a call from his staff regarding some business deal. A businessman, from the look of it. They minded their business, which was a good thing.

A well dressed woman in her early forties arrived at the scene. She was all decked out in branded attire, handbag and what looked like an Adidas ski cap.  She took the seat behind me, read her papers and minded her business, which is fine with me.

They called my number so I went in.

In the treatment room, two ladies were already seated with their tubes.While the rest of us sat in collective silence, each minding our business, the two cackled on and on for the entire duration. Mine was finished after 1¼ hours. I went home with a head-dy-ache!

This morning I woke up still nauseous and feeling utterly lousy. Not a pleasant experience, if you ask me.

Support

CASE 1

Hillary (not her real name) found a lump on her breast. It was cancerous. Mastectomy was the only option. Her husband was flabbergasted. To him, mastectomy was not an option. 

"I cannot look at you like that!" He declared.

She hesitated. Six months later, she died.

He remarried.

CASE 2

Anita, (not her real name) aged 57 and single, went to seek a second opinion when she discovered she had Stage 1 Breast Cancer.  Confused and alone, she moved in with a bomoh who promised to heal her. Her family (siblings) knew nothing about her condition.

The cancer spread to her colon.  She died a year later.

Support comes in many form. 

Financial Support is the practical solution. It is the short term solution to what looked like a long term problem. Sometimes, it saved lives but not always.

Moral Support then. "We're behind you through and through and we support your decision." That's the support that comes from an uninvolved concerned party.  It says that "We are behind you while you go through this alone."

Emotional Support is something else. That's the kind of support which says "We will walk through this together." It can only come from an involved party, a family member, a soulmate.

In Case 1, financial support was not an issue.  Hillary just did not have any moral or emotional support. It might work out differently had those issues been addressed.

Anita, in Case 2 did not require financial support. Sadly, she cut herself from the moral and emotional support that could have been given by her siblings. She turned instead to a bomoh. We pay for our follies.

Still thinking about food.

Now that I am NOT on any special diet, my mind occasionally drifted to years long gone, my childhood days and the food I used to enjoy. The shophouse played an integral part for most of my childhood and there were memories there that I could never shake off. Never!  But that's a story for another day. I want to focus on happier thoughts today. Some people eat to live, I live to eat but that's an understatement.

Now the shophouse where I used to live is located opposite a school by a sliproad. Back then, traffic congestion is virtually unheard of.  Cars were fewer and most people walked to their destination.  I walked to school until someone bought me a rickety bicycle I named Rocky.  (That's because the tyres were punctured most of the time.) The shophouse was also home to some of the out-of-town apprentices. Where hungry mouths abound, food is always in demand. Hence, this became a good stop for food sellers.

Ice Balls. They were a big treat back then.  For something like 5 sens, you get shaved ice compressed into a syrupy ball. half red and half brown.  They fit nicely into the palm of your hands and you sucked the daylights out of them, that's what you do.

That brings us to the Ice-Cream Man. He carried his tubs of ice-cream in a metal box behind his bicycle.  A wooden contraption at the back of his bicycle provided an avenue for bonuses and rewards. (a Wheel of Fortune of sorts, if you will.)  It was a wooden disc, duly marked with nails standing in a circle on the outer rim.  A thin metal wire pointed towards this disc. For something like 10 sens, you get three scoops of ice-cream served on a cone plus a go at the Wheels of Fortune.  You turn the wheel by pushing one of the standing nails and watched carefully as the nails hit the thin metal wire to make that unmistakable sound.  When the wheel stops, your fortune is determined by the thin metal wire and where it pointed at.  If you're lucky, you get an additional scoop served on a miniature cone. Once, I saw someone win an entire cone which came with 3 scoops of ice-cream. The lucky devil!

Rice pudding, I think it was. These were steamed in shallow metal plates and served steaming hot with condiments I no longer remembered. The ones you find these days paled in comparison.

Funny that I should be thinking about food here and now.  My blood test is due first thing tomorrow morning.  If all goes well, I'm going through the second chemo treatment.

Food Thoughts

When I was a kid, there was a time when a rambunctious old man used to frequent the shophouse where my brother was running some sort of business.  It was a double storey shophouse. We took residence on the upper floor.  The old man was usually dressed in a white singlet and khaki shorts, a Good Morning towel around his neck and a wooden pole on his shoulders balancing several bamboo trays containing loads of fried fish balls.

My brother's apprentice had tea breaks at about 3 each afternoon.  That's the time the old man arrived with his trays.  Effortlessly, he eased himself out of the pole, removed a soup bowl (with the rooster design) and placed three dices inside the bowl.  I never did understand the essence of the game. Each apprentice paid a small quantum (probably 20 sens or 50?) to get a go at those dices. The coins usually ended up in the old man's pocket but occasionally a winner is rewarded with a bowl full of fried fish balls. Winners are a magnanimous lot and their loot (fish balls) are often shared among the others.

I missed those fish balls.

Sometimes the Man with the dessert (tong sui) stopped by at the shophouse.  The rich aroma of hot steaming dessert came from the cart welded to his bicycle.  He carried all the local favorites from bubur chacha, red bean, mung bean, wheat porridge to sweet potato, all served in ceramic bowls and spoons with a dash of santan from a bottle.  In all the years I saw the man, he had never once smiled.

Once a month or thereabout, an elderly woman in her fifties appeared at the shop with a basket full of steaming hot vegetable pau.  These were usually gobbled up by our hungry apprentices which made her pau appear all the more delectable. In this time and age, you don't find food bearers like them anymore.  I missed the good ole days.

Special Diet

No.  I'm not on any special diet.  I mostly ate whatever is on my table except chicken, duck, prawn, salted fish and a myriad of other innocent looking dishes.  My well meaning team of dietician told me that my circumstances would be made more dire if I do not abstain from dishes on the Black List.  My oncologist told me that I can eat anything under the sky but to keep away from herbal remedies since they may not agree with my chemo treatment. 

I'm sick of steamed fish, have I mentioned that? I was never fond of fish dishes so its exclusive wonder is entirely wasted on me. Fishes are fishy and steamed fish are fishier. Three days after my first chemo treatment marked the day I found fishes revolting.  A slice of fish, fried or otherwise in plain sight is enough to whack my appetite out the door. It came to a point where all I had to do was to think of the stack of fishes in the freezer and all food in my mouth turned to ash.

Something had to be done.  On the weekend after my first chemo when I was poorly, I requested for a roti canai lunch complete with Chicken Masala.  Man!  It was heavenly!  On the following day, I had Nasi Lemak for lunch. A double whammy, by any standards.  All I got for my trouble was a mouth ulcer and sore throat. This was quickly arrested by a prescription of antibiotics on the first day of Raya.  Luckily for me, no fever ensued.  My appetite returned.

So, no.  I'm not on any radical diet.  I can eat anything except - Hey!  Did I mention that I hate fish dishes? Bluarrrggghh!

Stranger in the Mirror.

I rose from bed this morning, walked into the bathroom and had the rudest shock of my life. Behold!  The stranger in the mirror that is me.

This is going to need some getting used to.

It is official!

I am bald.

Previously, my hair had always been wispy and mostly white.  About 50% of them were gone by today but you wouldn't be able to tell because you could see through the whiteness of the hair and get a cold hard look at my scalp.  The fact of the matter is that when I looked at the mirror, I thought 70% of my hair was gone. In any case, I had the rest of my hair shaved off today. Still, let me assure you that that won't make a nun out of me.  And no, I'm not going vegetarian.  There is certain principles in life that one must never surrender. (I'm only saying this because of that illogical formula in my mind which says Bald = Nun + Vegetarian.)

I've never been bald in my life.  My head feels light and tingly.  I won't be needing any shampoo for the next six months and I'm having my scalp covered with vibrant headscarves. Don't get me wrong.  I've seen some bald headed guys before and their scalp looked pretty homogeneous.  Not so for me.  Where the hair once were, it appeared paler than the rest of my head.  Perhaps in time my scalp will get used to being bald. Perhaps in time, I'll get used to seeing myself bald.  Assuredly, baldness doesn't become me but I looked far healthier.

It is a hard decision, going bald, but a necessary one.  So, I've gone through three big hurdles.  The surgery; the first chemotherapy and going bald.  I am alive.  My appetite is back.  I'm drinking my fruit juices.  And I'm well.  Can anything beat that?

Castaway

I haven't finished reading The Story of Pi.  At the risk of sounding melodramatic, let me tell you how I relate to the story.

When the hyena devoured the zebra's innard, the poor creature was still alive, its good leg kicking to no avail in the wrong direction.  At that point, I was thinking about the malignant cells devouring me from the inside and I remembered crying out to God for mercy.  That was when I pondered.  What sort of mercy was I crying out for?  Was I seeking the mercy of Death or was it Healing that I sought?  A shadow of doubt crept into my mind and I hesitated.  It was something to mull over. 

How do I put it in words?  See?  If it was the mercy of Healing that I seek, would I not be bitter if it was denied? Likewise, if I had asked for the mercy of Death, and it was granted, would I not be equally embittered?  In truth, I realized that I do not know what I wanted.  So I took the easy way out.  I told my God that I will leave it to Him.  I will accept His Will.  Perhaps I had been in denial all this while for it finally dawned on me that when I accepted His Will, it made it easier for me to face my demon.

But let us go back to The Story of Pi.

Now the protagonist (Pi) is a castaway floating in the Pacific Ocean with the Beast.  Just as I became the castaway floating in the deep blue sea with my Beast.  I started blogging in July 2013.  In total I made 28 blog entries.  Yesterday, I received my first comment from an Anonymous reader.  I felt like a castaway who finally found a savior.  I will beg your indulgence but  let it be known that this anonymous entry by someone just passing through made me feel that I am no longer a floating obscurity in the sea of oblivion.

Why I started this Blog.

After my surgery, friends, colleagues and relatives started calling me up periodically to find out how I was. That was sweet of them but I soon tire of repeating myself over and over again.  Hence I started this blog expecting it to be a two way communication between any or all of the above.  However, I noticed that my friends, colleagues and relatives were sweetly bashful so they kept their opinion to themselves, preferring instead to email me privately when they had any thoughts to share.

I have no regrets starting this blog.  It kept my mind occupied and was a healthy distraction. There is something therapeutic about writing.  My troubles appeared less colossal after they were put in writing. Seeing one's perspective in written words does change one's mindset and your despair loses its depth.

Besides, if someone else were to stumble upon my blog entries and found them useful, then I would have done a greater good.  It is in the sharing that we learn to deal with our pain.

Counting my Blessing

No, this is not a fool's errand.  When I count my blessings, it kept my anchor rooted on positive thoughts, not that I have many to begin with.

Still ...

I'm alive.  What could be a better blessing than being alive and being able to talk about it.

I'm getting a new crown of glory.  Well, not immediately but soon.  My old ones have abandoned ship. Traitors!  I don't have much use for them anyway.  They're unremarkable, mostly white and never looked healthy.  In the meantime, I'm going to wear those vibrant headscarves I've never had reasons to wear before.

Remember that frozen shoulder I was telling you about?  The one on my right arm?  Only about 10% of the original achy stiffness remained.  That's gotta count for something.

The little blister in my mouth is healing fast, thanks to Biotene. Most of all, my appetite is back.  So is my sense of humor.

The stiffness on my left arm is marginal on most days.  I've been exercising and keeping the blood circulating around the area. It still hurts but the pain diminishes with the passage of time.

Also, I cleaned my bedroom this morning and changed the bedsheet, all by myself.  I am so proud of me. My wound is a little sore now but it'll pass.

The Life of Pi - Some Thoughts

So the protagonist (Pi) is left alone on the lifeboat with the Bengal tiger.  Survival became a matter of paramount importance. The first thing he did was to build a raft to put some distance between them.

Next, he had to reclaim territory from the tiger and to assert himself as the alpha male. Drawing inspiration from a Circus Ringmaster, he used a whistle from a life jacket to establish his presence.  Now the tiger was terribly seasick.  Pi used this to discipline the beast by making the boat bob up and down while he blew the whistle. As reward, he fed the beast with fresh fish caught off the ocean.  The tiger started associating its seasickness with the whistle and in time grew to respect the whistle.  In this way, Pi gained superiority over the beast and the order of their relationship was established.

I thought that was an interesting account of animal psychology.  You should use this knowledge to establish yourself as a pack leader if you happened to own and love dogs.

Scalp Distress

They told me its all in my mind but I doubt it.  Each time my head hit the pillow, I could feel the agony of my hair and the trauma in my scalp.  Look!  My hair is falling apart.  How can that not cause any distress?

Each morning when I rose from bed, I am afraid to touch my hair for fear that more will fall. Fall they did, in any case, touched or not touched, like rats leaving a sinking ship. Traitor!

My second chemo treatment is scheduled for next Thursday. Why am I not looking forward to it?

Ionizer

My sister-in-law gave me an ionizer.  I had no idea what an ionizer does but Uncle Google told me that an ionizer creates negative ions using electricity. Opposites attract, so the negative ions flood the room and seek out positively charged particles, such as dust, bacteria, smoke and many other allergens.

The negative ions and positively charged particles bond together. This creates dirt particles that are too heavy to keep floating around in the air, so they fall to the ground and can be cleaned by normal means. Some particles might fall onto other surfaces in the room, such as furniture, television screens or shelves, and can be cleaned off by dusting or wiping those surfaces.

So there you are, the long and short of it.  Although its claim remained dubious at best, I did sleep better last night.  The air wasn't as annoying as it was in previous nights.

It was untimely for me to get a stiff shoulder on my right arm.  Else, I would have had a restful night's sleep.

The Life of Pi

My nephew (Kelvin) and his wife surprised me some time last month by giving me this book. It was a pleasant surprise because this book was made into a movie.  Directed by Ang Lee, the movie won several awards at the Oscars.  The book itself won the Man Booker award.  I was curious to know what the story was about.

The protagonist is a Tamil boy from Pondicherry who is named after a swimming pool in France. Embarrassed by this name, he changed it to Pi, (or π) which in Mathematics equate to 3.14159265.

Pi's father owned a zoo in Pondicherry which was sold when unfavorable government policies under the administration of Mrs Gandhi prompted him to move his family to Canada.

Only Pi made it to Canada.  His parents and brother perished when their ship sank.  Pi survived for 227 days on a lifeboat with a spotted hyena, an injured zebra, an orangutan and a Bengal tiger.  As it turned out, the hyena killed the zebra and the orang utan while the tiger killed the hyena, all in the name of survival.

The book started off with an interesting account of Animal Psychology.  I found it intriguing until the author broached the subject of religion.  It seemed inconceivable for the protagonist (Pi) who was a vegetarian Hindu, to be baptized as a Christian and then accept the Muslim faith, concurrently.  It sounded blasphemous for although each may arguably have the same origins, how do we serve three masters at the same time?

The fever that never came.

So I'm a pessimist.  I've never denied being one.  The throat infection yesterday was bad so I expected a fever to follow suit, especially when my immunity system is compromised by the chemo treatment.  The night air was dry so I left a glass of water on my bedside. By morning the water level was down by about an inch. When will the monsoon come?

See?  My sister-in-law had breast cancer.  She died a year or two ago from fever.  At the time, nobody knew that fever and chemotherapy did not get along.  That was why the oncologist and nursing team kept warning me to look out for the fever.

I was under strict instruction to admit myself into the Emergency Ward if my temperature hits 38 deg C or above.  Antibiotics will then be intravenously administered following which, if it is God's will, I may live to fight another day.  On that note, I sat down to write my Will. Yesterday.

My throat is a lot better this morning.  Although my hair continued to fall, I am feeling a little less pessimistic and a little more optimistic.  Someday in the foreseeable future, I will get that ratio right.

First Infection

I went to the 24 hour clinic this morning.  It was the first day of Raya and my GP is on holiday.  My urine's fine but I have a throat infection.  The doctor prescribe Augmentin.

Just took my temperature.  It's 37.  I hope I don't turn feverish.  My next chemo is on the 22nd of this month, in fourteen days time.  I hope I am up and well by then.

Hair Loss

Its been 15 days after my first chemo treatment.

This morning, my hair began to fall.  Not by the customary one or two strands but by the locks.  Although I was prepared for this, it still came as a shock.

Madam WhatsHerName

Madam WhatsHerName was my final roommate at the hospital.  Aged 56 and fair of face, her spoken Hokkien had a northern twist to it.  Her husband was a small thin man with a stony expression.  I guess stony expressions are in vogue these days.  Her two young sons came across as intelligently inquisitive.judging by their well placed questions.  Also, they were courteous towards me.  My greying hair and stooped shoulders put me way up there on the hierarchy of elders. Mirrors don't lie.  I don't feel "elderly" but one glance in the mirror and vanity finds its place.

Gallstones, it was. The lady had lots of those.  What she'll be going through is a six hour procedure.  (Mine took two hours.)

After her procedure, she showed me her wounds.  Three different holes on her abdomen. She was placed on the drip and denied food.  Under standard procedure for General Anesthesia, food is forbidden until six hours after the surgery.

She was always complaining about the pain.  On the first night after the surgery, the nurses brought her the Toilet-on-Wheels.  I have never heard of Toilets-on-Wheels before and had the pleasure of using one on the first night after my surgery.  It wasn't a very dignified piece of work but let's just say that when you gotta go, you gotta go.

She showed me the gallstones they removed from her.  They were the size of mung beans and there were three of them.

"Actually, there's more," she said.  "The doctor accidentally dropped them and there wasn't time to go look."

"So, what's going to happen next?  A follow-up procedure?"

"No.  The doctor said its okay.  It doesn't matter."

"If it doesn't matter, why then do you need this procedure in the first place?"

"Ya-lor!  I'll ask the doctor when I see him later."  

She looked worried.  That night, when she rose to walk towards the toilet, I saw blotches of blood stain on her back.  They looked ugly and it was impolite to ask.

There wasn't going to be any sleep for me that night.  As the hour progressed into the early break of day, she snored thunderously on while I waited patiently for the intermission.

I never did find out what her doctor had to say about the stones left behind.  On the following day, it was time to go home.

Madam Sangeetha

Madam Sangeetha (not her real name) was my second roommate at the hospital.  Aged 36 with one son after 10 years of marriage, she was an employee of UMW.  Her husband was a small thin man with a stony expression.

She made an appearance at about 10 in the morning, disappeared for a couple of hours, then returned for lunch. Yes.  More Bollywood movies.

At about 2 in the afternoon, the doctor appeared at her bedside.

"So, Sangeetha.  What's your decision?", asked the good doctor.

"I don't know la, doctor.  50-50!" chirped Sangeetha.

"Well, Sangeetha.  You know what it is.  You should get those stones removed.  Just because they're not causing you any pain now shouldn't be a reason not to do anything about it", continued the doctor.  "In any case, you don't know when the pain may come again."

"I think I'll decide when the next pain comes.  Maybe it won't come?

"How can you be sure?  I know people are talking about herbal remedies for gallstones.  I can guarantee you.  There is no cure for gallstones.  If there is, I will be the first person to make money out of it," the doctor chuckled.

The patient was silent.

"So, what's your decision?  You should do it now while I'm here.  Who knows?  In two weeks time, I may not be here to help you.  God put me here to help people."

"I don't know la, doctor. 50-50!"

This went on for close to half an hour.  The patient remained indecisive.  Her husband remained silent and the good doctor kept up with the persuasion, each time repeating more of the same.  By including God in his plans, he came across as a pious Christian, or so I thought, but who am I to judge?

Still, there weren't any decisions to be made that day.  The doctor left. The patient started calling up her contacts.  They spoke at length in that Bollywood lingua franca I was talking about in a previous post.  Time for my forty winks.

Sangeetha was gone when I woke up.  Her dinner grew cold.  Curiosity got the better of me.

"What happened to the lady on the next bed?"  I asked one of the attending nurses.

"Oh, she's on Home Leave," came the curt reply.

Home Leave?  I've heard of Emergency Leave, Annual Leave and Sick Leave.  I've also heard of Maternity Leave.  But, what exactly is Home Leave?

Half an hour before midnight, Sangeetha reappeared with a baggage, without an explanation. Well, it isn't like she owed me one but an explanation would have been nice.

I slept well that night.

By morning, Sangeetha was up bright and early. She popped over for a little chat.  Home Leave, according to Sangeetha was some sort of time-off from the hospital bed. It was a concept used in medical insurance and patients are compelled to check into the hospital before midnight for any claims to become legitimate.

Or some such thing.

Sangeetha made her decision that morning.  She checked out.

Ms Tangachi

Ms Tangachi (not her real name) was my first roommate at the hospital. A young girl in her twenties, she kept pretty much to herself.  She checked in at about 10 in the morning, watched some Bollywood movie (with the volume turned up), disappeared for a couple of hours, then returned for more Bollywood movies. (with the volume turned up)  I don't know a great deal about Bollywood movies but I can recognize the lingua franca.

At about 2 in the afternoon, the doctor appeared at her bedside.  "I've taken a look at the ultrasound report. The lump is too small," said the doctor.  "We can't do anything about it at this point," she continued.

The doctor left.  The patient hung around for tea and more Bollywood movies, with the volume turned up.

She checked out at about 6 in the evening.

Medical Insurance will foot the bill.

One Month later.

It's been a month after my surgery.  Time is relative or so they say.  How true.  If I had access to Father Time, I would have forwarded myself a couple of years into the future in order to avoid the unpleasantries of the present.  But why stop there?  Why not go back in time to get that lump fixed at the beginning before it turned malignant?  Why not indeed?

Wishful thinking.

Other than that, I'm still sleeping fitfully.  The numbness hasn't disappeared.  I wondered if it ever will.  Then again, I am a pessimist.  The repressed optimist inside me is still crying out for a miracle.  Any miracle.  What sort of miracle am I wishing for?  That's easy.  I want the mother of all miracle.  To wake up tomorrow and discover that this was just a bad dream.

Wishful thinking.

You might say I have an issue with Acceptance.  I'd say you're right.  Who, in his/her right mind, is prepared to accept their destiny if it proved as beastly as mine?  Is it possible to reject my destiny?

Wishful thinking.

My molar hurts.  I don't know if a gum infection is coming up.  My sister-in-law recommended Biotene, a mouthwash intended for dry mouths.  (Especially helpful for those undergoing chemotherapy sessions.)  It helps with the sore but I don't know if the ache in my molar will go away.  Will this probable gum infection take a rain check and come back later? Like six months later?  Or, like never?

Wishful thinking.

Blood Pressure

There were a couple of things I did not know about how blood pressure readings should be taken.  A recent trip to my new GP fixed that.  Dr Choo is an elderly GP running an old clinic near SDMC.  I liked him.  He spent hours explaining the nitty-gritties of medical care, which is helpful to an ignoramus like me.  Most GPs just can't wait to get you out of their rooms so that they can move on to the next patient.  Medical ethics is something I've been mulling over since my recent surgery, but that's another story for another day.

A normal diastolic reading ranges between 60 - 80.  Mine was teetering between 40 to 60 which tells you that a blackout is imminent.  Dr Choo laid my concerns to rest.  He told me that the ordinary OMRON SEM-2 you buy off the pharmacy shelves is only as accurate as it gets.  The gadget tries to gauge your reading as best it could.  At my age, my vessels are expected to thicken, thereby making it more cumbersome for any gadgets to get an accurate reading.  (The most accurate reading, according to Dr Choo, can only be taken by inserting an instrument directly into the blood vessel but that is simply not done under ordinary circumstances.)  I was advised to pay more attention to my systolic reading instead.

The BP gadget you bought from any pharmacy shelves is designed to be used on your left hand.  (Something to do with its proximity to your heart, or so I heard.)    It comes with an electronic gadget which is connected to an adjustable cuff through a rubber tube.  The tube enters the cuff at a point marked with a little arrow. The cuff is wrapped around your left arm with its lower edge placed about 2 cm above your elbow.  The little arrow had to be adjusted so that it points at your middle finger.  A sensor inside the cuff (located on the left of this arrow) takes the actual reading on the pulse which is located on your inner arm..

In my case, I had to take the readings on my right hand.  The little arrow had to be adjusted towards my inner arm to point towards the outer edge of my little finger.  That way the sensor is directly above the pulse located on the inner arm of  my right hand.