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.