Count Your Blessing.

"Count your blessing one by one and see what God has done." - Lily (not her real name.)

Fine! Let's do it. I am thankful today that God gave me a family. They helped me survive last year's crisis. I would have given up if left to my own devices. It is easier to give up and succumb to the illness than to endure the chemotherapy. Yet persevere I did by the strength of those who stood by me.

If you haven't guessed by now, why yes, I was an adopted child. I knew who my biological parents were but I could not circumvent the complicity that stood between us. And so I lumbered on in an unhappy environment where the protagonists were my Ma and married sister, the antagonist being my brother's wife. Those were miserable years. I shall not embark on the twist and turns of an antagonistic relationship for it is in the past and what good will it bring us all? My brother's wife had had her share of retribution ... at its worst.

Unlike most children my age, I did not have a sense of belonging. I was neither here nor there. As a result, I dwelt in an imaginary world which was kind to the likes of me. I spent hours in the company of Theen. (not her real name) She gave me a false sense of belonging. She was the first among the many kindred spirits who stumbled across my path when they were direly needed. I felt blessed.

There were two important lessons that I learned in my youth. To emulate the magnanimity of Theen (not her real name) and to shun the unkindness of my brother's wife.

Try as I would, I could never forget the year Ma had a stroke. In the old days, restaurants and food stalls were not opened on the eve of Chinese New Year. My married sister who lived miles away brought dinner in a tiffin carrier. On the first day of Chinese New Year, my biological sister brought lunch. I remembered sobbing between mouthfuls. I felt blessed.

When Freda (not her real name) complained about her mother sewing a heart-shaped jewelry box for her wedding, tears sprang to my eyes.  I never did explain them. I hoped she'd figure out why.

Ma died soon after and I was out of house and home. Yet not all was lost. Solutions came in various form and God in his Mercy was kind. Kindred spirits appeared unexpectedly. There were far too many of them to be named in this post, but you reading this ... you know who you are.

So I should be thankful and I am. If my childhood hadn't been half as miserable, I wouldn't have been twice as blessed.

shadows on the sand

sturdy in the gentle breeze
hovered over me
♥
i was not alone

Auntie Molly

Auntie Molly (not her real name) is in her seventies. She moved into the neighborhood umpteen years ago with her ailing husband and a little white dog. I first noticed her when I heard her yelling at the Yip Family who lived across the road on her right. It was none of my business but heck ... I always had time to watch a good yell now and then. It took the humdrum out of my daily routine.

I wouldn't call Auntie Molly a little old lady and you shouldn't too. She is sprightly for a woman her age. She had a passion for gardening so the first thing she did after moving in was to engage someone to clear out the weed outside her house. All manner of flowering shrubs occupied the narrow strip of land (hereinafter referred to as "The Land") to turn it into a delightful eye candy. It also became the object of a dispute between the two families.

Across the road from "The Land" lived the Yip Family.  "The Land" had been the parking area for the Yips since they moved in twelve years prior. I first noticed the Yips when a middle-aged well-dressed (and well-coiffured) woman  drove her car out of the porch, parked it outside my back gate, threw a garbage bag on the narrow strip of council land outside my house, and drove away. (No, I did not confront her. That would be unneighbourly.) The middle-aged man known as Mr Yip had a receding hairline and a Don't-Mess-With-Me face. His son was well built, mid twenties and weighed down by a chilling scowl. One morning while I was trimming my hedge outside the house, I saw him walked towards his car. He scowled at his windscreen which was smashed to smithereens. One wonders if that was not the aftermath to a happy hour brawl at the end of his day. Then there's young Miss Yip, well-endowed and on the obese side. Clearly, Mr Yip's Don't-Mess-With-Me genes were the dominant traits in his two children. Did I mention the little white Shih-Tzu? That's their bark-all-day canine which ran out of their house one morning when the gate was opened. It was run over by old Michael, the sausage dog man.

Too much detail?  Okay.

So, Mr Yip confronted Auntie Molly's husband and gave him an earful for the loss of his parking zone. What he did not know was that the old man suffered a stroke and was therefore unable to respond. It was the Auntie's moment. She snapped at the snarling Mr Yip who retreated quickly. When Mr Yip was safely inside his house, Auntie Molly started the yelling. Quick as lightning, I was out in the garden to get a better "understanding" of the crisis.

Oh ... IT ... WAS ... UGLY!  She yelled. He yelled. I listened.

It didn't end there. Three tall palm trees were added to "The Land".  It became the new point of disagreement. Mr Yip maintained that the three palm trees (right opposite his front door) affected the feng shui of his house.  His wife was diagnosed with leukemia.

Auntie Molly agreed to move some of her palm trees out. Mrs Yip's illness worsen. The Yips poisoned the shrubs on "The Land." Lawyer letters were issued. Letters of complaint were written to the local authority. (who owned "The Land.")

More yells between the families. Auntie's daughter intervened. Peace was restored. The Yips moved away. Mrs Yip did not recover from her illness.

"How absurd can they get? My palm trees make his wife sick? Gah! I attend church, you know? I only pray for the well being of others." Auntie Molly explained to me by way of explanation.

Knowledge is power ... right?

Yup! I avoided Auntie Molly like The Plague. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Yada-yada-yada! You steer clear from the quarrelsome types, that's what you do. When she told me to cut my hedge more often, I had to agree. When she told me my discarded garden waste is too near her plants, I moved them away. When she removed herbs from my hedges without permission, I looked away. I am the picture of Congeniality.

Recently, we engaged a contractor to install an external water tank. The man borrowed our ladder for the job and left it at the back alley together with some discarded planks. The ladder disappeared. We bought a new one and did not pursue the matter.  Meanwhile, Auntie wasn't pleased because the planks were lying on her side of the back alley so she started scraping the outer wall of her house, the parts facing the back alley. She grumbled as she scraped and scraped as she grumbled. She kept this up from morning till well past noon. I got the message. She did not want the planks on her side of the alley. When the contractor did not remove the discarded wood at once, she recommenced the Grumble-and-Scrape Routine. Soon, she ran out of wall space to scrape. That was when she whipped out her ladder. She climbed up the ladder to scrape the higher parts of the wall, grumbling as she goes.

We found out where our missing ladder went. Did we yell at her or issue lawyer's letter or send complaint letters to the local authorities? We most certainly did not.

Three Generations

Wealth does not pass three generations.

That was what Ma used to say when she was in one of those bouts of melancholy. I missed Ma. She was a good woman. I never knew I'll get to her age when I did. It is just weird to think that I am as old as Ma was when she was Ma. I used to carry a picture of her in my purse right above my driving licence. She wasn't even my biological Ma not that it made a difference. When she died, I was devastated nonetheless. It was four years before I could speak of her without choking. It troubled me that I no longer remembered her face. Happily or unhappily (depending on which side of the story intrigued you) she was the link to my distant past. And exactly why am I looking so far back? I don't know. When we grow old and gray we make a habit of looking back in retrospect and wishing to call back the days of youth. 

As a teenager, I commuted daily to the college in the city. It was a precondition set by Ma. 

"If you want to enter that college, you'll have to commute daily. I won't have you staying away from home."

That should give you some indication of the level of trust that Ma and me had between us. Then again, you mustn't forget that I was educated in a school where English was the medium of instruction, and the product of this decision suffered (at the time) the terrible malady of "turning bad". (More about this HERE.)

I cannot remember the name of the bus company but I remembered that it was red and white and it costs a dollar and ten to reach the city.

I also remembered the guy with the Afro. Mr Afro (not his real name) was a public accountant in his mid twenties. He commuted daily to the city. He was clean shaven and neatly dressed and stood a few inches over me. If you think I'm tall, please continue to think so. I once told Jo (not her real name) that anyone taller than me, is tall. She laughed and decorum would have called for nothing less. I grinned as I always do to indicate that I wasn't serious.  Back to Mr Afro, I remembered thinking that it was weird for a public accountant to sport an Afro. The stereotyped accountant as I envisioned was basically straight laced and goody two shoes. 

One morning, Mr Afro asked me if I had any problems with my family. (Which teenager doesn't?) It was as weird a question as any public accountant with an Afro could ask, so I held my tongue and gave him one of those I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it look.

"I know lots of young girls like you who have family problems."

Silence.

"I used to help them. "

Silence.

"Do you know the *Alleycats?" ~~~ (*local musical band.)

"Why yes!"

"I know them very well. I used to hang out with them. Those girls I told you about? The ones with family problems? I take them to meet with the Alleycats. They're very happy now, living independent lives in the city."

I nodded and smiled. My instincts were on fire. It was time to avoid the man. He disappeared from the commuter line until a few months later when he mysteriously reappeared, unshaven and slovenly dressed, a ciggie between his lips.

The moral of this story? Don't trust public accountants with Afros. 

I spent many hours at the window seat of the bus, looking out the window and imagining up a storm. I was good at that, real good, just so you know.

When the bus took us up the oil palm slope, I remembered the time when we hiked into the estate, carrying pots and pans. It was called the "Six Mile Expedition." We were supposed to walk six miles to a predetermined destination (we took the bus), camp, cook a meal, then return. And Jackie (not her real name) had a monthly inconvenience when we arrived but that's a story for another time. Why we participated in the "Six Mile Expedition?"To become First Class Guides. (I'm not sure if we accomplished that.)

Next to come up on the road was the cemetery. That's the spooky spot where my Dad was buried. I don't know anything about the man. He died when I was this high.

Then, there's the Soon Seng Group. A spread of about three to four factory buildings right smack in the middle of nowhere (at the time). This entity looked impressive. They must be pretty wealthy. I wondered what it was like to own such an entity. It took about ten years for a rag to riches story to come out of the mysterious Mr Soon Seng, (not his real name) founder of the Soon Seng Group.

Mr Tick (not his real name) was one of my colleagues at a time long gone.  He told me how Mr Soon Seng arrived at these shore, young, impoverished and hungry. This hunger helped him built his empire which later became the Soon Seng Group. Now, Mr Tick had an impoverished cousin who fell in love with the sole daughter of Mr Soon Seng. It was a mismatch as far as the old man was concerned.

"We are not social equals. If you marry him, I will disown you."

The besotted daughter married her pauper. The old man disown his daughter and struck her out of his Will. He died many years later in a road accident. A truck hit him while he was on his bicycle attempting to cross the road. Or so the story goes.

Today, the Soon Seng group of factory buildings no longer carried their name. I wondered what became of the Soon Seng Group. I wondered if it outlasted the three generations of the age-old adage.

And then, there was Magdalene. Magdalene was a school senior with sultry looks. She had wavy shoulder-length hair which were neatly tied up with blue ribbons in school. She often let her hair down when out of school where she attracted lots of attention as she was ... umm ... well endowed.

I bumped into her once on the bus and as it passed some building under construction, I asked Magdalene.

"I wonder what they're building."

Magdalene frowned as she pondered and it was several minutes before she answered, almost solemnly "I think they're building something."

We nodded sagaciously.

I cannot reminisce decently without thinking about Harry. (not his real name.) Harry used to be a prominent businessman way back when.  He inherited a company whose name stood to this day in the residential suburbs. The lady who founded this company was said to have adopted several demonic creatures which gave her a foothold in the prosperity she coveted. There were tales circulating at the time, about the lady and her strange demonic-feeding rituals, of dishes and cutlery, bowls and plates, placed before empty seats. When she passed away, none of those who survived her continued with this ritual. It was said that the enraged demons became blood thirsty and started feeding on the patrilineal bloodline.

The company no longer existed, or so I heard. Harry is gone. Most of the male line died tragically in the bloom of youth.

Is this story substantiated? Nah.... There isn't a shred of evidence to hold it up. But wait! I did have a colleague who knew the young-uns intimately, that is before they died prematurely.

So ... yup! Wealth does not pass three generations, not in this case, if we are to believe what we hear.

Whoops!

I was deep in thoughts as I meandered absentmindedly towards the sign inside the city shopping mall. It was empty. I entered a vacant cubicle.

Suddenly I heard voices. Male voices. I was outraged. What were these men doing inside the Ladies toilet?

I stepped out of the cubicle. just as a boy of about twelve walked by. The two men at the urinal on the right plastered themselves to the wall. Three other men already inside the toilet gasped in astonishment. Oh dear God! I was the one inside the wrong toilet.

Mortified by this scandalous blunder I scooted out of the Gents with as much pluck as I could muster.

In a typical household, both men and women were given free access to a common toilet. When it came to public toilets, the rules are changed. We have different washrooms designed for the boys and girls and God help the addled goose who wandered mistakenly into the wrong one.

NOTE: By the way, have you noticed how many names a toilet go by? We're talking about ... Lavatory, loo, washroom, john, water closet, urinal, outhouse, jakes, ladies, gents, restroom, bathroom, shithouse and many more. Amazing that we needed so many words to describe the place where we made just the one or two principal calls.

Unforgettable calls ...

... of nature.

The island of Mount Putuo in China was a pilgrimage destination for Buddhist far and wide. I was there as a tourist a couple of years ago, looking as bemused as you please, at the throng of worshipers huffing and puffing into and out of the temples. It was a hot day so I drank more water than I should. At the most inopportune moment, I had to go.  My niece accompanied me to the nearest public toilet on the island.

Holy-Mama-Climb-Up-A-Tree! It was the horror of all horrors.

The toilet  was built at the edge of a low cliff barricaded by a low cement embankment. It was a communal latrine surrounded by four crude concrete walls and a roof. A single large window allowed some light into the interior. There wasn't a single tap inside and forget about the flush system. My niece stood guard at the entrance while I reluctantly entered. Three cubicles made of low concrete walls stood in a row. These were open cubicles. No doors, get it? And to spice things up a little, remember that single large window? It was located right in front of the cubicles so that one could whistle and watch the world go by as she goes.

That was one heck of an experience. I still get nightmares from it.

Supplements

"Are you on any herbal remedies or supplements?" the good professor asked.

"Just Millennium Powder Beverage and Probiotics"

The liver hemangioma from the previous ultrasound scan was still at the same spot and of the same size. No new danger was revealed except that I have moderate fatty liver.

"Why do you need these supplements? Do you know they can cause elevated liver enzymes?"

"Well, they were strongly recommended and I thought they'll help."

"Supplements are known to cause elevated liver enzymes, okay? I even have one patient whose liver enzyme shot up because of vitamin pills."

I would never have thought that the supplements were the culprit so I consulted my GP, old Mr Choo.

"Probiotics and other supplements may be good but the trouble is that we don't know what other ingredients went into them, especially when they are not listed."

So I'm back on CRESTOR to contain my lipid. As for the supplements, they're being shelved for the time being.  My appointment with the gastroenterology professor is in three months time. We'll see what happens after that.

Gastroenterology Clinic

I returned to the hospital on the following day. The reference letter was forwarded to the good professor who decided that my case did not warrant immediate attention. I was given a three months appointment.

Either my elevated liver enzyme (3X normal) and blood cholesterol(10.1) is within manageable limit or the good professor is a  #$X%^&*X!!. There, I've deleted the word. It was not very nice of me and I do beg your indulgence. Polite people do not resort to expletives however monochromatic even in rants.

We made the decision. It is time to see a specialist at the private hospital. I sent a message (whatsapp) to Prof Yip. (the breast surgeon who operated on me) She messaged back immediately. I am to walk into her clinic first thing tomorrow morning to get a liver ultrasound done.

I felt a huge weight lift off from my shoulder. For one thing, we have made a proactive decision. Furthermore, if the gastroenterology professor isn't worried about my elevated liver enzyme and cholesterol, perhaps all is not lost as yet.

Wish me luck, friends. Those of you supporting me in prayer, please continue to do so. I am not out of the woods yet.

Thanks!

Elevated Liver Enzyme

When I returned from the hospital the day before yesterday, I was a total wreck. My spirit sank so low I couldn't see the sun shining above. All I saw was the wretched self lying on a hospital bed, yellow from all that trouble with the liver and waiting dismally for Death to summon. 

I wasn't sure if I should be yellow but I once saw an old lady on a hospital bed. Her face was yellow and she was struggling with some liver trouble too. That was years ago, but I was pretty convinced that the color of death by liver trouble is still yellow. But why am I bitching over the detail anyway?

The needle prick for the blood test went well. It was over in a squeeze of a lime. I've gained some weight and Dr Santhi (the oncologist) told me she'd call me to let me know my blood result. She called me just as I was about to leave the hospital.

"Not good," she said. "Can you come back?"

Both my liver enzyme and total cholesterol had escalated. (I was instructed to stop taking the cholesterol medication since June.)  She wrote me a reference letter addressed to the Gastroenterology Clinic.

"I will request for an early appointment," she added as she scribbled those request on the front of the envelope.

At the Gastroenterology Clinic, I was asked to return on the following day so that the attending Professor could determine if my case warrant an early appointment. Otherwise, the standard appointment is three months forward.

My spirit sank as I took refuge in my inner shell. Pity party in session.

Water ... water!

Drink more water during the day and less at night.

That's what it says in the forwarded email. The age of e-mail meant that people write a whole lot less these days. Most of the time. they are forwarding forwarded messages written by unknown characters some time in the indeterminable past.

But we're talking about water.

Women should drink at least 3 liters of water daily while men should drink about 3.5 liters. 

It didn't explain why you should drink less water at night.  You don't need a degree in rocket science to surmise that all that water in the belly is bound to interrupt your sleep.

As it did mine.

I have had all sorts of horrid nightmares about toilets, nasty ones, ghastly and unforgettable ones ...

In the latest "toilet incident", I was holidaying in Kuching and putting up at a friend's place. Pat (not her real name) had been a dear friend of mine, so dear that when it was time to leave, she did all my packing. And there was a lot to pack. Instant noodles, tissue boxes still inside their huge plastic bags were strewn all over the room I occupied. (It was not clear why I was in Kuching to purchase instant noodles and tissue boxes so we'll just blame that on the peculiarities of the dream master.)

Pat was struggling with the packing. She looked worried for my flight is due and she had to drive me to the airport. As always, it was at inopportune moments like this that I needed to go. So I went.

Pat's toilet is situated way back at the left hand corner of the house. It was one of those portable types and it was painted pink. Once inside, all you see is a gaping hole on the floor. The longer you contemplated this hole, the bigger it grew. As I gaped incredulously at the predicament now facing me, the floor started to slant. And my feet started looking like a muesli bar. At this point, I usually get the message, I snapped myself out of my sleep, (yes, you can do that.) walked to the bathroom and the rest, as they say ... is history.

A nice cup of coffee.

So I made me a nice glass of cappuccino this fine morning and sipped it outside in the garden with a plate of home baked banana cake which didn't quite make a mark. The cool morning air was crisp and light. The humidity of the previous day had been dispelled by a predawn drizzle. It was as good a day as any other day.

The coffee was hot so I finished the cake first and took the empty plate back to the kitchen. 

I received lots of flyers and brochures in the mailbox so seeing that the morning was good and the coffee was hot, I decided to burn them first. Buried ashes enrich the soil, don't you know?. After that was done, it was time to drink up the remaining cappuccino ... or what was left of it, so I returned to pick up my glass from the coffee table outside.  This was what I saw.

Small splashes of spilt cappuccino on the low coffee table surrounded a glass containing only about a quarter of the original brew.  I had previously taken only two sips of coffee so the glass was near full. So, who did it?

I have three dogs.  Venus is a 14 year old Golden Retriever/Spitz who was trained never to touch any food not offered to her. Ginger is a 7 year old chihuahua who was also trained never to touch any food lying around. Yup! We're left with Xena.  That's the mutt on the right. It had to be her not that I caught her red-handed. (red-pawed?) She probably thought I wouldn't notice if she left a quarter of the coffee behind. I glared at her, gave her an earful while she walked away with that satiated look on her face.

Twelve Ladies

This is the painting occupying the center wall of my living room. It was one of those paint-by-number pieces, Measuring approximately 6' X 3', it is the largest piece on my wall.  It is also the most colorful. Visitors liked it for its contrasting color and detail.

I do not.

It was painted last August through my chemotherapy. It kept me occupied, these twelve birds in gilded cages. 

Elevated Liver Enzymes

It was old Mr Choo (my GP) who first raised the alarm. Some time back in July of this year, blood samples were drawn from my right foot because a suitable vein could not be found on my right hand. My left hand was off limit since last year's surgery. In that surgery, many lymph nodes were removed. Now, the lymph nodes played a pivotal role. It produces antibodies to fight infection and acts as the drainage system for what they call inter-cellular fluid. Fluid retention is something to watch out for. I have seen patients with swollen arms appear at the surgeon's clinic to have the fluid drawn out. To prevent this, the following rules had to be observed.

1. No intravenous administration.
2. No exerted pressure caused by the taking of BP readings.
3. No blood draws for tests or otherwise.

So the blood from my leg was sent to the lab and it was the resulting report which raised my GP's concern. The liver enzymes were three times the normal level. This meant that the liver is in trouble and my oncologists had to be forewarned so that an investigation can be initiated to figure out what caused this elevation.

From my own analysis, the enzyme levels began to rise when chemotherapy started. However, the oncologist assured me that the liver is known to correct itself once chemotherapy ended, which was not the case with me. They opined that this elevation is due to other medication and/or supplements I am on. So I was asked to stop taking all medication/supplements except for the hormone and blood pressure pills.

I've stopped my cholesterol medication since July. And I have been instructed to stop drinking the Millennium Powder Beverage as well as the probiotic capsules.

My next blood test is due in two weeks time. I hope my enzymes return to normal so that I can go on with the business of living.

NOTE: This post is put up for the benefit of my concerned nieces who wanted to know my condition. Thanks, kiddo! I am touched by your concern.

Roti Bengali

"PENANG ROTI BENGALI" was sprawled across the exterior of the white van. The long queue next to the van caught my attention. It brought back memories. (I've been reminiscing an awful lot of late.)

At a time long gone,  an old Bengali used to live in a wooden shophouse down the road from ours. (I heard that the term "Bengali" had been deemed offensive in recent years so I'll beg your indulgence while I reminisce.)

There was a time when commercial bread did not exist. We breakfasted on Bengali bread. If you have seen the bread served at Hainanese kopitiam, there ... that's your regular Bengali bread, or rather, ... mine! I called it the Bengali bread because it was baked and sold by the Bengali man who carried his bread inside  a round container at the back of his bicycle. . The round container was so big you could wrap your hands around it and still not be able to make them meet. A black conical lid covered this container while the black rubber horn on his bicycle announced his approach.

I loved watching him slice and skin the bread, He had a kindly face and white beard and if you stand real still long enough, he'd give you the discarded pieces which is awesome with homemade kaya. Back then, butter was a rarity for margarine was the order of the day. My brother's wife used to feed her children with buttered bread and jam. I wasn't allowed to touch her butter until the day I came out with a devious plan. I sneaked into the kitchen and buttered my bread while she was dozing and had me my first bite. It was heavenly but only because the forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest.

She taught me a valuable lesson, this sister-in-law of mine. She showed me the hideous side of a mean-spirited face.

RTP

Those in the industry knew what RTP meant. Others might not. Most, probably thought I had abbreviated erroneously. "What she meant was RIP, but of course that's what she meant." And everyone knew that  RIP is Rest in peace, right?

Well, RTP is right thumb print.

I have had the occasion to walk into a bank a couple of weeks ago. I'm not particularly fond of walking into this particular bank because the customer service is simply atrocious. Then again, customer service in the banking industry had taken a heavy toll since well ... since Adam was a kid. In any case, a form was thrust in my face and my signature demanded without so much as a blink.  Common courtesy would have demanded half as much..

I struggled with the pen. I struggled with the signature. The lady at the bank looked blandly at my signature, frowned and declared that it did not match the one in my specimen. (or was it profile?)

"I have tendonitis so I can't sign properly," I explained as I pointed at my wrist with much contrite.

"Never mind. Biometric!"

"Huh?"  (Biometric? I muttered to myself.)

She slipped my card into a thingamajig and asked me to place my thumb onto a certain spot. A red light lit up and I was cleared. Talk about technology. Some of you must have experienced this far earlier than me. That should tell you how long I haven't been to the bank.

There was a time when things were done differently ...

RTP used to be a messy affair. The thumb print set came in a metal casing measuring about 3" X 7" with a lid which opened to reveal a hard surface. (probably glass) You squeeze some black paste from a little tube onto the hard surface, then smear them evenly with the ink roller provided. This had to be repeated every time the ink on the metal plate dried up, a messy chore not at the top of most people's list.

In days of old (I don't know about the current practice) pensioners in the civil service were issued pension warrants which had to be presented at the bank for encashment at the close of each month. Some pensioners deposited these warrants in their bank accounts but most joined the month-end bank queue to collect their meager dues.

A toothless grin and a raised thumb usually precedes each transaction. The thumb print set is opened, their thumbs were grasped, maneuvered over the stained glass surface and the darkened thumb thereby rolled over the back of the warrant. Mission completed. They get their money. They leave. A messy but straight forward affair ... until the day someone with a criminal mind came out with a cunning plan.

Mr WhatsHisName, a young man of about 30, had been collecting his mother's pension with her consent after she was incapacitated by some illness. The proper documents were produced and this went on for a couple of years until a courtesy call on the mother revealed that she had been dead for years. Her son had severed her thumb and used it to get her RTP. The risk factor had changed exponentially.

I used to agonize over the thumb prints for I couldn't tell one from the other. An old bubbly colleague used to whip out his magnifying glass to glare at the prints through his thick spectacles. Looking up from the prints, he would peer intimidatingly at the presenter before approving any payments.

Someone else had a brilliant idea. He folded the prints in half and matched it against the print on the identity card. As for me, it is all about mitigating your negligence so I did what I did but you needn't have to read about it.

The cumbersome thumb print sets were no longer in use these days. They were later replaced by small compact cases which incidentally, I haven't seen in years.

Meanwhile Risk Management in the industry grew from a small department handled by a handful to an enormous division pulsating with life. Integrity and trust is a thing of the past.

Hepatitis B & C

I tested negative. This is good news according to the oncologist whose name I did not or could not grasp. Another liver function test was called for.  Off to the dreaded needle once again. This time they inserted the needle into three different spots before they call it quits.

Later in the afternoon, Dr WhatsHerName (the oncologist) called to report that my liver enzymes are up again.

I'm due for another test in a months time.

Curly hair and groovy nails

Despite what was being said by those who seemed to be in the know, post chemotherapy DID NOT give me dark curly hair. It's been a year since my treatment and I have more or less given up hope.

The dark lines on my toenail had been pushed to the outer peripheral and removed by now. What followed the dark lines were rough grooves on both my finger and toe nail. I guess those are part of the deformed cells discarded by the body.

Fatty Liver

Dr Lim is one of the oncologist on Dr Rosita's team. She is soft spoken and thorough in her investigation. I told her about the excess liver enzyme in my blood stream. She offered the following possibilities, none of which is conclusive without further tests:-

1. Hepatitis B or C virus is known to lie dormant in some people until activated by a lowering of the immunity system which can be a consequence of treatments like chemotherapy. When triggered the virus hits the liver. This could cause an increase in liver enzyme in the blood.
2. Cholesterol Medication which are statin based is also known to adversely affect the liver.
3. Fatty Liver which is a reversible condition where triglyceride accumulate in liver cells.
4. Tamoxifen, the hormone pill I'm taking to tame my Beast, is also known to damage the liver.

There is no two way about it. A blood test was ordered to check for Hepatitis B and C plus liver function. That was in early August. Blood tests sent the chill up my spine. You'd probably remember that the chemotherapy had damaged most of the veins in my good hand. I've never had issues with blood tests before but post chemotherapy changed everything. In my last blood test, my GP (Dr Choo) had had to stick a needle into a vein on my leg to get the blood because the veins on my good hand were blocked.

At this point, we need to talk about Faith. It doesn't matter what your religion is. Faith mattered. Notice that when you're in trouble, your last resort is always God? Watch those Hollywood blockbusters. When the world is in trouble, the President of the United States called out "God help us all!" Faith. Hope. This is what kept people from Despair.

So I prayed. Oh boy, did I pray. I prayed for my God to bless the hands of the nurses or doctors who were trying to find my veins. And Hallelujah! The staff nurse found a wayward vein and got my blood at the first prick. It wasn't even painful. Faith! See what I mean?

I discovered the liver trouble some time in early July when I wrote THIS POST. Dr Choo (my GP) advised me to stop my cholesterol medication to ascertain if it was the cause. He recommended BG 22 and I've been on it since. Some say BG 22 is not everyone. There were reports of people getting an increased incident of mouth sores, constipation, skin problems ... the whole shebang. Fortunately I'm okay probably because I drank lots of water, close to 2 liters daily.

Later, on the same day, the oncologist Dr Lim (bless her soul) called me to tell me the result of my liver function blood test.

"Your liver enzymes are on the downward trend. The cholesterol medication is a probable cause. I would recommend another blood test in two months time to confirm this. Then, you'd probably want to speak to your GP about a change in medication."

And what do you say to something like that?

You say "Praise the Lord!" is what you say.

Aunty Blur

Aunty Blur (not her real name) is a Chinese woman of about 70. She went to the Cashier's counter at the hospital and asked if she could pay. The Cashier told her she had to wait for her number to be called. In this time and age, little old ladies who did not understand numbers are a rarity. Aunty Blur is one of them.

"My son is not here with me," she lamented. (This was supposed to explain her trouble with the numbers.)

Now I'm a kindly old soul, am I not? I explained the system to her. She was too distracted to listen, disturbed as she was by the absence of her son and whatever will she do all alone at the mercy of the hospital.

Puan Aisha, aged 54 (who sat next to her) was the most patient patient I've seen. In simple Malay, she explained to the distraught woman, one word at a time and strangely got her attention.

I liked scenes like this. When you are in trouble, racism is the last thing on your mind. All of us, whatever our race is that close to meeting our Makers so what's the point in harboring all manner of racial prejudices?

Sitting next to me and waiting for our numbers to be called was Puan 65. (not her real name) Now Puan 65 is sixty-five years old (obviously) and had had a mastectomy two years ago. Since she had entered the menopausal stage her hormone medication was different from mine. You will recall that I'm on Tamoxifen which is prescribed for pre-menopausal patients. Post menopausal patients are prescribed something called "AI" which is known to rob you of your calcium. She was here to have her bones checked. 

We exchanged notes, she and I. (She spoke fluent English by the way.) She was especially depressed when she lost her hair.

"At least you have your tudong to cover you so nobody knew. For us, people stare once we start wearing head scarves." I whined.

"What tudong? I never wear tudongs before." She added as we laughed. I liked her. She had a keen sense of humor. We could have been best buddies at another time, at another place.

By the way, I was there for my follow-up with the oncologist.

Heading Home

Going home is the best part of a journey.

Roundabout near airport

Frangipani

I was wondering why there were Plumerias (better known as frangipanis) almost everywhere on the island. Apparently, frangipanis are their national flower and is widely used in massages not that I saw any being used for my foot.


Man, it was good to be home!

Baliinese Kek Lapis

After walking another 500 meters or so, we finally reached Bali Jaya.

It wasn't a bakery, or a cake house, or a teeny weeny dilapidated confectionery. It was a mini market. The kek lapis on their shelves lined ours. I was hugely disappointed but there was still one last hope. The airport.

So, what's all this fuss about the famous Balinese kek lapis?

Lee (my sister-in-law) visited Bali a couple of years ago and returned with boxes of Balinese kek lapis which were delicious. Divinely so. I had to have some of those.

Ground Zero

Road maps are quite the scourge. They tell you your destination is just an inch away but once you take to the road, it is never "just around the corner." You find yourself walking ... and walking ... and walking ... and never reaching the danged place.

It was a good thing we stumbled upon Ground Zero. Wait! It wasn't good as in "good" if you catch my drift. Stumbling upon the site beats the humdrum walk ... the walking ... and walking ... and walking ... to that place which almost always lay just behind that corner.

Ground Zero was the place which was devastated during the 2002 Bali Bombing. It ruined the tourist industry and most Balinese had to leave the country to seek employment elsewhere. Tourism was a big part of their economy so it was a bad time for just about everyone.

Today, the site is used for parking. We hear that there are no plans to develop the area.

The Ground Zero Memorial was built right in the middle of a part of the road where two smaller ones merged. It is located across the road from the above Parking Area.

Massage & Reflexology

We had time to kill so a foot massage sounded like a grand idea.  $110,000 rupiah for a pedicure complete with foot massage and reflexology. The reflexology part was a breeze. Either the girls weren't skilled enough or my organs are perfect. 

It was mid afternoon when ladies appeared on the road with baskets above their heads. They were selling cold drinks with ice cubes, local delicacies and tidbits.

I asked the masseurs if they knew where I could buy the famous Balinese kek lapis. They looked at each other then back at me. They haven't heard of it. 

"Will I find it at the airport?"

"I don't know. I've never been there, never left the country."

It struck me then how poor these girls were.  After consulting with the rest of the masseurs in their Balinese gobbledygook, they finally directed me to "Bali Jaya" which was about a kilometer away.

We went that away.

Balinese Rice

Balinese Set Lunch at the Adi Dharma Hotel/Restaurant.

Temple beside Reception

Of Rituals & Festivals

"Are there any fights between the Hindus and the Muslims?" I asked Gede.

"Oh yes. Several years ago there was a big fight. We were celebrating the Silent Festival."

"Silent Festival?"

"Ah yes. We call it the Nyepi. We are required to remain silent for 24 hours. It is a time for self-reflection, meditation and fasting."

"So, what happened?"

"The Muslims did not respect our festival. They talked loudly and the loudspeakers from the mosque disrupted our meditation. There was a big riot. People were fighting on the streets. The police had to interfere. After that, they banned loudspeakers in mosques. The Muslims are not allowed to build any more mosques."

Hmm ...

The footages above were taken during the Opening Ceremony of a commercial building in Kuta. The participant in this ritual were the employee.

Morning at Kuta Beach

Buggy Ride

Dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe (where I ate Smoked Chicken Salad, yes, salad.) followed by this buggy ride.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. For something like $150,000 rupiah we piled onto the carriage and embarked on the buggy ride. Poor horse had to cart all of us uphill and downhill, around corners and through heavy traffic. Since the narrow roads were one-way (which I hadn't previously observed) the poor horse had a long way to go. On foot, we would have taken short cuts to our destination.

I was kinda thinking of my poor Venus having to cart so many people around so that her owner may earn a living. In this frame of mind, I felt immensely sorry for the poor horse. I don't ever want to take another buggy ride again.

Sunset - Day 2 Kuta Beach

Split gates like the one on the right gives access to holy sites, symbolizing a mount of the gods which had been torn asunder through its midpoint.

Offerings

Assortment of religious paraphernalia used in the offering. These are available in ready packed sets.

With the number of tourists walking about, stepping on these was unavoidable. According to the local as long as you have no ill intent, it's ok.

Sometimes, these offering became food for the hungry. The footage below was captured at Tanah Lot.

Around Kuta

After Pandawa Beach, Gede drove us back to Kuta. As we walked about, I was on the lookout for any bakery which might offer the famous Balinese kek lapis. Luck was not on my side.

Stone carvings like the one on the right stood at every corner and at regular intervals between buildings. The distinctive Balinese smell is everywhere.

Carvings on black volcanic rocks.

A temple is built at every building, residential or commercial, even in major supermarkets. They almost always occupy a corner of the building. The staff at these buildings leave offerings at the temple twice a day, in the morning and evening. I'm not sure if this is gender-based but during my short stay there I never saw any males leaving offerings at the temple, only young girls clad in sarongs.

Bargaining is to be expected when you're out here shopping. Beach sarongs sold for $80,000 rupiah at Tanah Lot, $50,000 rupiah at Kuta Beach and $30,000 rupiah at the shops in Kuta.

Electrical cables like the above is a common sight. And by the way, water from the shower felt slimy like its alkali or something. Some of the locals dug wells in their compound but they do not drink from it.

Five foot passageway between shophouses leading to more buildings at the back. Also, I get the feeling that the sun here is especially hot and intense. Hats and sunglasses are a necessity.

Black sand used in construction. The use of white sand is prohibited.

Kuta (Night)

Pandawa

"We are now going to the Secret Beach," said Gede as he took the van off the main thoroughfare and drove through what looked like a housing estate. He stopped the van at a small table under a picnic umbrella where two Balinese collected the road toll.

"Over here, the residents of a housing estate are allowed to collect toll. This money is to compensate the community for the inconvenience caused by traffic passing through." Gede explained.

We passed cut mountains very much like the one on the right until we reached Pandawa Beach, the so called Secret Beach except that it wasn't a secret beach anymore for the place was teeming with tourists.  Holes like this were cut out of the mountain to house the Hindu idols.

According to Gede, the plan is to make this stretch tell the tale of the Mahabharata. A sacred spot. O-Wait! I might have got this wrong. Gede might have mentioned "Sacred Beach" which I mistook for "Secret Beach."