Goodbye to Tamoxifen

I perceived a subtle change in Dr RAM. She is no longer the burst of sunshine that she once was. What had happened between then and now only she alone knew. She had that look in her eyes which bore some semblance to those embroiled in political polarization. I don't know. It's just a fleeting feeling.

The doctors at the Gastroenterology Clinic had, in their report suspected Tamoxifen to be the cause of my elevated liver enzyme. As such, they had recommended a change in treatment. Tamoxifen had been dropped and a new drug introduced, Arimidex. This is a non-steroidal aromatase inhibitor (whatever that meant) which costs about an arm and a leg. Arimidex is also known to increase osteoporosis and worsen the arthritic condition in some patients. (I suspected that my stiff finger joints were arthritic although good ole Dr Choo opined that they were caused by over-work.) I am now scheduled for a Bone Mineral Density Scan next month. At the moment I have no idea what that meant but by next month I should be able to give a full account.

I could not help feeling a tad depressed with this new development. With all the tests on my list, and all the medications, I wondered if in the end, I survived this to die of something else.

Brooding and deep in unsavory thoughts, I stepped into a waiting cab. The driver was especially chatty this morning. He executed a cheery monologue about the colossal profits collected by the farmers on the FELDA scheme. He wasn't bothered by my silence but went on to talk about a motorcycle on the road which burst into flames due to some illegal wiring. "You can't beat the insurance company," he said. "They dig in deep and are very thorough in their investigation."

Bread and butter issues, I thought ,as my eyes swept through the interior of the car. The seat covers were worn thin and bare. Stain marks on the car's ceiling suggested a humid past. Marks left by water (or was it blood?) was visible. The man was dark in complexion. Thin hands grabbed the steering wheels in an unusual manner. The picture of the licensed driver on the dashboard of the car did not match his.

Through the rear mirror, he took quick looks at me, increasing my discomfiture. I turned my gaze outwards. We are on the right track and its broad daylight so I held my trepidation, ignored his speeding and was immensely glad when he stopped outside my home. He wanted to know which house mine was, and pretending that I hadn't heard him, I left without collecting my change.

I chose to follow my instincts.

Much ado about nothing.

The barking began half-past one after midnight. Xena was in her element. It wasn't a friendly "Hi, how do you do, neighborhood dogs. Let's have us a good ole dog-to-dog chat."  Instead, it was a hostile bark, the kind which says "I don't like your face so scoot!"

I wouldn't have risen to analyse her bark but on this hot humid night, I could not sleep. I had taken a sip too many after-dinner tea and it was stimulating my mind to all sorts of thoughts triggered by recent events.

It wasn't nice of her to bark and it wasn't nice of anyone to prowl about causing her to bark at this unearthly hour so wishing to announce my presence, I walked towards my bedroom window and issued a firm "Xena!" This usually calmed her down considerably but not this night. She went on barking a notch louder, if my perception is anything to shout about (It isn't.). Rising from bed, I went downstairs to peer outside through the glass on my back door. It was pitch black outside so I switched on the porch light. She was at first startled by the light but kept on with the barking. Then I saw something a tad troubling.

If the object of her scorn is outside the house, she should be facing outside with her tail towards me. She wasn't. Her eyes were glaring in the direction of the granite stool and table we had by the wall outside the house a little distance from the back door which I was peering through.

Something, or someone is there. 

In my mind, I see a young lad, probably a drug addict attempting to rob the daylights out of us. Well, it was past midnight, for a fact, so let's forget about the daylight bit. Still, I see him, probably standing on the granite stool or table, a weapon in his little thin hands trying to ward off the fearsome dog.

Oh de-de-dear-dear! Whatever should I do? Should I raise the alarm? Call up the boys? Call up the police, for crying out loud? In the darkness, I composed myself. I haven't seen anything to warrant this panic.

Noise. I'll make me some noise so the intruder will know that someone is awake and give up this insane idea of robbing us. I switched on the toilet lights. This triggered the ventilation fan which had been groaning loudly of late, exactly what I needed now. Noise. I flushed the toilet. Oh goodie! More noise. Having done the needful, I peered through the glass on my back door. Xena was still barking and looking in the same direction. I knocked on the door to alert her. She looked at me briefly, then returned her attention to the aforesaid direction.

This meant that the object of her scorn is still there, probably shivering with fright and reluctant to surrender the safety of its sanctuary.

Then I remembered Venus. She had a good track record of scaring away would be intruders. Why was she silent? 

Dear God, she's not dead, is she? (Venus is 15 years old.) Maybe she's lying there near the table, gasping for air, juggling Life and Death with her dying breath, appealing for help.

Nah... Doesn't explain the hostility in Xena's bark. Both dogs were not the best of buddies but they have learnt to live with each other. I walked towards the glass blocks next to my front door. Peering through the blocks, I could see smudged images of Venus scratching herself outside the front door. Now if the object of Xena's scorn had been an intruder with malicious intent, Venus would be barking too.

It was right about then, that a stray thought hit me.

This is Tomb Sweeping season and it had been two years since TOM (The Old Man) died. TOM was my father-in-law who had lived with us for five years before his death. And that spot where Xena was barking at? That was his favorite spot. He sat there every morning to read the papers.

Now this was a scary thought too because you can't see where he is or what he looked like now that he's on "the other side".. My goose bumps (not that I'm a goose, you understand?) readied itself for some action. Not wishing to hear or see anything and not being able to sleep, now that unearthly ideas tormented me, I switched on the TV to listen to the same unwholesome CNN Trump stories 

Meanwhile, Xena kept on her unyielding barks, her vocals a little strained by now. Should I wake the husband up and tell him that his dog is barking at his dear departed Dad outside in the garden? He will not find that amusing in the least. It was 2 am.  I held my peace and stayed put.

Half an hour later, my husband, irritated by the irate Xena who wasn't responding to reason, rose from his bed, and stomped out the front door., the sleep hardly leaving his eyes. I followed meekly behind to see what all that drama was about.

No shivering drug addict on the granite table, armed to the teeth and ready to slash the ferocious dog. No dying dog, gasping for air, treading the line between Life and Death.  No green shadows lurking in the darkness, eyes red, tongue dripping with blood. None of that theatrics, mind you. It's just a trapped cat.