After hours of witnessing guard huts, roof tiles, and cats cartwheeling past your window. The aural battering, by the sort of noises only God can make, suddenly stops and the sun starts to shines though. The eye of the storm has arrived, I was mentally prepared for the debris strewn impact site, but what threw me was the deathly silence, it was on such a biblical scale no birds, no cars, no background rumble, it was like the sound of the earth before anything that breathed arrived. After a few minutes the sun gets blotted out again, and the tumbling, howling wall of the storm returns to finish off what it left behind.
Christmas was the eye of my own storm but the calm was also short lived, the storm front on the horizon is fast approaching. The sensation of time passing is quite fluid, I only just arrived back in Singapore, and now my travel teddy is back out again. For death row customers waiting years for the big day on the hot seat, the time locked up must have felt nothing more than a long weekend.
I am battening down the hatches, flights booked, latex clad physio therapist booked, new undies purchased, and the zimmer frame dug out. The exercise regime, needs to be cranked up. During Xmas, looking at the photos of hotel facilities was the closest I came to the seeing the gym. Yesterday I adjusted the cross training machine to a level known as, Wearing a Sandwich Board in Pool Full of Honey. After 30 minutes the mechanical tormentor started to follow my own death throes noises. Today a note greeted me "Out of Order, " there is something deeply satisfying breaking a machine design to test and push human endurance.
The 2 weeks before T-day, restrictions starts to apply no Chinese herbal remedies or Aspirin type medication. While buying some headache medication in the glamorous sounding Beverly Hills Pharmacy the paperwork generated would make a forest morn, I had to sign pages and pages of grey small print accepting that I was aware of the list of potential side effects which read like the yellow pages. Having brain surgery in a litigious society is a good thing, though you are reminded of all this daftness, "cars are closer than they appear" is etched in the side mirror. Coffee cups have "warning this liquid is hot" soon pavements will have "warning this surface is hard".
The hospital cannot deal directly with an non US based insurance firm. The surgery will be billed as having no insurance coverage, the invoice will be reduced from US$ 150k to 40k, which means the hospitals have been taking the piss with insurance based fees all these years, and I will now get the windowless operating theatre next to the dust bins, the night watch man and janitor will double up as operating staff, and the microscopes are on loan from ToysRus.
Our helper is not allowed into the US, she has the wrong coloured passport and and lets be honest wrong coloured skin. For certain passport holders the world is still not your oyster. She is considered a "flight risk" they assume the moment we land in the US she will be whisked away by her covert 3rd world connections, to then fulfill her life long dream of being a cleaner in some midwest motel. Whats sort of arrogance is that? the higher you go the bigger the fall, mind you I would have to say, you really have reached the wobbly top rung, when you and your pith helmet wearing chums, thinks it is a perfectly reasonable idea to stick the word "Great" before a country's name. What ever happened to humility.
There is talk on the grape vine of another form of treatment, all the works is carried out via a fibre optic video camera known as an endoscope inserted through a coin sized opening. Recovery time is very much reduced, but like everything in life there is a down side, should banana fingers nick a major artery then they have to rush in with chainsaws to cut a bigger hole so bits of wood, and newspapers can go in to stem the flow. So no change in plan and no going back, full steam ahead with the quarry like hole in my head option.
In a warped way I am looking forward to my big day, it is a huge experiment with controlled drugs. We all been through it at University, with stuff that been couriered around the world up someone bum. I have the, By Invitation Only, access to the cream of the cream Opium Dens from the grainy old sepia prints. The only thing missing is the red lanterns, a Fu Man Chu mustached Chinaman filling my bamboo pipe, and a silk smoking jacket. There is talk of out of body experiences during long operations, these tumour removal have been known to take 18 hours. The only way I can relate to this time travel is when I just jumped off the bungee platform, time momentarily froze, there was an unnerving feeling of utter loneliness and detachment. The silence is quickly replaced by the rapidly increasing and deafening wind roar on the way down.
Quite literally, if push came to shove, its the catheter that gives me the willys, I can deal with pain in a Abu Ghraib prison kind of way, I have not one but two cigarette burns on my arm, a result of a bet, after the burnt bacon smell wafted away and a raw blister appeared, I doubled the bet so a second cigarette was slowly stubbed out on the blister. Typing about it, brings on no reaction apart from eye rolling acceptance of the stupidity of youth.
When I ripped my whole thumb nail off in a freak accident, I remember seeing where my nail used to be, slowly turn from marshmallow textured pink mushy flesh to pulpy bloody red. The body must have a trip switch somewhere designed to shuts off the major trauma signal to my head, it took 5 seconds, before the crippling pain just tsunami through me, I gagged trying to hold back the adrenalin induced vomit. There is a reason nail ripping is used as a form of torture, I still get a bit of a involuntary fist clench just recalling it. But mention catheters my eyes, teeth and sphincter are already clamped shut.
The result from the Google search is quite literally an eye opener. There are groups of people who feel Friday night is not complete, unless the boys pop over to the YMCA, for a late night session of musical catheter. You can even buy a nice little boxed set of what at first looks like knitting needles, ranging in size from a very tight tweed knit to the ones used for super size chunky sweater, but trust me you don't want to be giving these stainless steel implements to Granny for Xmas.
I hope no one can figure out where I live, as the gym will know where to send the cross trainer repair bill, and if a couple of gang bangers kidnapped me and need to know where my millions are buried, they just have twirl a catheter tube around their fingers, and I would be on my knees offering to help them dig it up.
I will be floating past the MIR space station so not to bothered about the surgery. I have heard of Stephen King like horror stories being half awake during surgery, but partial paralysis prevents me telling the laughing gas bloke, who is too busy reading the papers. Its not the flying that people fear its the impact into ground where the problem starts. I feel nauseous in a revolving restaurant, if you get a pestle and mortar and chuck in a dose of motion sickness, add some altitude sickness, and sprinkle a good hand full of delirium causing head flu, grind it all up and add a touch of Dengue fever for flavour, that is what will hit me post op.
Fairground rides last for 3 minutes, imagine a roller coaster with tracks that twists, loops and snakes off into the horizon, no end in sight, you don't know if it will stop in a few days or months. Post op people are found hanging for dear life to the rails of the bed, fearing they will slide off, your head does not know half your balance mechanism is on the way to the incinerator in a green bio-hazard garbage bag. The damaged and conflicting signals makes you see and feel the room is tilted at 45 degrees.
There is little point in predicting the outcome of the surgery, there are so many variable and details that I cant even comprehend. The Titanic passengers would never have predicted they will end up as a watch 100 years later. There something very wrong with using parts of the salvaged hull to make the watch case, the face is created from ground down organic matter collected off the seabed around the wreck. Why stop there, how about hardwood chopstick from dug up coffins, or better yet, a new set of soup bowls hand crafted from skulls found in the killing fields of Cambodia. What ever happened to respect?
Many gave Gawd credit for the safe landing of the recent Qantas flight with the suicidal fire extinguisher. I would give all the credit to the pilot and the structural designers of the aircraft, if you think about it then, was Gawd a tad bored that day and wanted a bit of a laugh with his chums, so put a gash in the fuselage in the first place? To say a ship is unsinkable is really tempting fate, Qantas has never advertised the fact their jet fleet is fatality free, we all know exactly what would happen the moment they do plaster up some catchy slogan, its all fate.
Some people need a tangible explanation, a way of being able to control destiny and most are quite happy to accept that lighting a candle or joss stick might make a difference. Reminds me of a time when I had hair and working as a lacky in an architectural firm, the big cheese always wore black suits, with two annoying bollox hanging on his left shoulders pad. His philosopher chum comes up with the glossy coffee book explanation of the intangible. According to his book, Mr. Shoulder Pad architecture represents the urban virginity being pierced by a sword of modernity. He knew we knew it was total crap, when pushed why he thought the urban environment was a virgin, he curtly pointed out in an appropriate German accent, we were not being paid to question, and left in a flurry of blackness the door nearly decapitated his two little shoulder tassels.
For those that need one, here is a good explanation on what will determine the out come of my surgery. Its known as the Butterfly Theory developed by some bloke in the late 19th Century with either way too much time on his hands, or he is the one wearing the silk smoking jacket in the sepia prints. It will all boil down to a small blue butterfly in a forest, who two years ago took off to the left side because of a bad landing the night before sprained her right ankle, on the way up she clipped a dead leaf which fell onto a log that spanned a river. Moss grew under the shade of the leaf, and the moisture it held eventually rotted the trunk, causing it to collapse into the water. Downstream it blocked the hydroelectric dams intake, creating a disruption to the electrical supply. In a blacked out city far from the forest a man went for a walk as his apartment had no power. On the way out he bumped into a Neurosurgeon neighbour who had to transfer his shopping, to the other hand in order to hold the stair well door open, in doing so he pulled a small muscle in his elbow. That neurosurgeon in two weeks time will be working in the head of a 45 year old male from a small country in Asia.
I know you know its all a load of crap, its all down to chance. There is no higher power, no bearded old man on a gilded seat in the clouds. Its a roll of the dice, the result of the throw is determined by the bloke who painted that dice in some Turkish sweatshop, did he applied too much paint on one, side when a blue butterfly flew past and distracted him ?
This will be my last post before the big day, so better start practicing typing with my mouth and a rubber tipped chopstick. Igor at the back of the boat needs to tighten his loin cloth. The target is in sight, I have assumed my Spirit of Ecstasy pose on the bow, from now on Igor drum beat will be at full ramming speed.
That's it then, bugger this for a game of soldiers, I will see everyone on the other side, butterfly willing.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Calm Before the Storm
I did the covert recon around the surgeons room, personally signed photos from past Presidents and Kings, Check. Lots of official certificates covered with signatories, Check. Nice God fearing family photos, Check. No expensive toys, which show hes not on the take from medical equipment suppliers, Check.
I traveled 9000 miles to be here, and the plane seemed to be permanently climbing, was the Captain a real Ah Beng type with a string vest and he had one flip flop shod foot up on the dash, that accidentally knocked the trim wheel? Not the sort of hardship Marco Polo faced, but it meant I had to keep walking uphill to the loo.
I heard Dr. Greenman talking outside the door, so near and yet so far. Being in Tinseltown, was it choreographed? work the audience into a foaming frenzy before the fireworks accompanied big entrance. I was straining to hear, did he just mention the morgue? being sued?
When he did make his entrance, without the feather topped show girls, he looked just like the wise old turtle from Kung Fu Panda, minus the shell.
Dr. Greenman was a lovely guy, I checked his hands for potential nerve severing twitches, nothing. Though he did have a small cut on his knuckles, playing with his dog last night or an Alzheimer slip of the scalpel? and do I really want to be operated on by someone, whose white lab coat looked like it was made from polyester rather than Egyptian cotton?
A call came through from an Israeli hospital they needed some advice. It was straight back to the calculations he was doing prior to the choreographed phone call. Even I would come back and scratch my head and ask where was I?
He told me everything I already knew, I was the potential employer interviewing three surgeons. They were selling themselves and I had to figure out, not if my potential new employee will get on with Mary in HR, but if he will save my life as I know it.
I went to checked out the spa, pool and dining facilities in the hospital next door. The private underground link was a bit grim, not dirty grim but more in the institutional sense of the word. Being deep in the basement it rumbled, the air handling units pumped filtered conditioned air to all the sick people in the rooms above me. The bright florescent strip lights revealed tracks worn into the grey marble effect linoleum floor tiles, lot of trips to and from the freezer, and we are not talking the chicken nuggets and Ben and Jerry's type of freezers.
I held my breath while walking past anonymous rooms with yellow BIOHAZARD signs. The low paid 3rd world technician could have been distracted by the new rash on his hands, and forgot to seal the lid on the anthrax Tupperware box. I sensed the thicker Ebola and bird flu virus laden air around me. In front of me the glass door parted and I felt like a U-Boat crewman the moment the hatch cracks opens, I was hit with cool outside air.
There is one rule within the worn leather chesterfields rooms of the old boys network in London, never talk about religion, or race, there is good reason for this, it gets very messy, there are no absolutes, its all about dealing with old concepts developed in a period, when the average guy on his camel actually believed it is possible to walk on water, and mass education as we know it today did not exist. Its a totally abstract outlook on life, and very much dependent on the direction of the wind at that particular moment.
After emerging from the tunnel of death, in front of me was a huge structure that held the hospital together, it was in fact a 5 story high crucifix. If you want to scare the living daylights out of Jesus then a Godzilla size cross will probably do the trick. What would be on the walls of peoples homes, if the Romans decided to use Edward II method of execution? think along the lines Popsicles and red hot pokers.
Recently at a Chinese wedding, I was sitting next to a priest he must have thought I was the Perrier sipping Antichrist, because I was stunned he did not know about Enuma Elish, the 7 tablets that was unearthed, each tablet representing the Babylonian stages of the origins of life, eerily similar to Genesis 7 days. He was like an English teacher with no foundation in Latin.
In the UK, a couple of neighbouring churches, decided to bury the hatchet and other made in China religious paraphernalia, because of the dwindling numbers of punters, they would sell the various plots of prime land, and build a single neutral worshiping hall that can be used on a time sharing basis. Like large cigarette corporations the religious bigwigs are now targeting the vulnerable people of the third world, where the uneducated will still throw their life savings at faith healers, who claim to remove faulty body parts, on stage with their bare hands, leaving the patients tumour and scar free.
What really irks me, is this threat of a lorry load brimstone through your letter box if you don't tow the line. It may have worked 2000 years ago when people actually used brimstone, these days its just not very PC to use fear in the office or places of worship. When I make it home without being trampled by pack of orange robed, drum beat tranced skinheads, there is always some blue rinsed happy clapper camping on my doorstep, with suggestions on ways of stock piling locust repellent in preparation for my Sodom and Gomorrah type end.
To protect their position and income those in robes actively encourage the creation of an xenophobic congregation. I was talking to what appeared to be a perfectly normal person when religion reared its ugly head, he said that people who believe in different deities are misguided and he could not accept them, it goes against every grain of his own faith, by even acknowledging them means he is not true to his own beliefs. So much for love thy neighbour and world peace etc. Take Jesus, anyone would think he was born in Norway, if the real Jesus turned up at any Western immigration point he would get the full Al Queda treatment. Did the people making the effigies for the local churches in the West misplaced the tar and brush? Lets be honest he would look more like Saddam Hussain.
The priest next to me was in between jobs and before he starts looking in the classified section of Choirboy monthly, he should go back to the college where he studied theology and ask for a refund. If I was a Bishop looking to employ a new rent boy for the local parish, one of the first interview questions would be, how he intends to stop the revolting peasant from setting fire to his place of worship, once they get wind that Eve was in fact a plagiarised version, of the Ancient Sumerian civilizations concept of a garden of life called Dilmun, where a lady called Nitini used to hang out, she was known as the lady of the rib, and her partner ate the sacred plants.
Don't get me wrong, everyone needs some form of crutch to get through life people turn to drink, drugs, sex, religion, so long as its done in moderation and it helps that person, then I am all for it, I would much rather be in a pub full of pissed religious folks than national front supporters. All the individuals are actually good eggs, when people say we pray for you, whether it be in a prone position in the floor without shoes, beating on drums, burning of incense, I know what they are offering and I willingly hand over to them a part of me for safe keeping.
Its the pushy sort that gets up my wick. You know, the medallion man in the pub "go on, go on have a drink". The crack head trying to justify her addiction. The leopardskin print, fluffy slipper neighbour "suggesting" a late night coffee, or the white ironed granny pants girl and her top button done up nerd "platonic" boyfriend, saying we should all go to the church to hug while studying the scriptures.
The world has moved on, just around the corner there is the Church of Jesus Christ sitting next to the Church of the True Jesus Christ, whose boundary is shared with a cow and scantily clad multi limbed lady covered Hindu temple, that in turns rubs shoulders with a mosque whose minarets tickles the whiskers of a neighbouring dragon, the smoke from the Chinese dragon temple wafts over the House of Ronald MacDonald, that is busy serving Halal Big Macs.
Take my kid, she has a Shinto grandmother, Church of England grandfather, a Buddhist mother and a Druid father. Her school discourages any form of single religion worshiping. Religious Studies is just what it says it is, a study of religions, all religions, where they come from, how they developed and more importantly how they are actually quite intertwined.
Angel Gabriel who came and had tea and biscuits with Jesus mum Mary. She needed cheering up as she was a bit depressed for standing out like a sore thumb in middle east, having blonde hair, blue eyes, and to top it off, a bun in the oven that need a lot of explaining. I am surprised so few people know it was the very same Angel Gabriel that help Prophet Mohamed cobble the Koran together.
Its not that I am getting all Alaluya on everyone, my point is how a tumour and religion can be seen in the same light. Both were originally set up to help with life, the splitting and creation of cells to produce the road map for life, and religious doctrines laid down to create ground rules so a stable and prosperous civilization can be managed. In both cases they mushroomed and have changed into an uncontrollable mass that is now doing the polar opposite to its original intent. All sounding a bit deep and heavy, better shave my beard and put the soap back in the box.
It turns out this is hospital is partially church funded, which explains the suspiciously large number of images of our Norwegian friend on a cross. The clinic who will be carrying out the operation, has taken over the whole top floor and have their own ICU within this building.
Dr. Schultz is nothing like his name suggested, no jack boots and had a good sense of humour. We were both the same age, It starts to hit home you are getting old when President, Prime ministers, and Neurosurgeons are younger than you.
I was the 5th architect he had seen with the same tumour, does that mean in a few years time, like asbestos, space suit clad men will be removing drafting pens from evacuated architectural offices. Apparently my tumour is cystic, it is not solid meat but contains areas of goo. Good news, it means if you pop the cyst the tumour is not as big. The bad news, if I go down the star wars zap route complications may occur. Imagine a sausage with a small water filled balloon inside. How the sausage reacts in a microwave would be a tad unpredictable, the sausage carnage could be removed from the oven with a tissue, unfortunately the easy clean oven coating, is not an available option inside of my head.
If we go down the cut and paste route, The scalpel crew may leave a slither of tumour cell behind on the thin cyst wall, to preserve the nerves that control the face, tongue, eyes and swallow reflex. The way to picture it, imagine you have to clear a lawn of weeds, but there's a huge sleeping and very hormonal Rottweiler in a corner of the garden, you can pick all the weeds around him. I am willing to bet, you would leave the ones underneath him rather than risk having your face chewed off, hoping they will shrivel and die under the weight of Tyson. There is a risk the tumour may regrow from the leftover cells, and if so, I will have to face this whole thing again in five -ten years time.
He sat on the fence when it came to Zap or Slice, saying I can swing ether way, which basically means he is terrified of lawsuits. I asked what would he do if he was on the cold steel slab and was faced with the choice, wise old turtle surgeon or a young gun, who has a lot more to loose from a career point of view? Humpty Dumpty should learn a thing or two from Dr. Schultz, like the coconuts in those fair ground stalls he could not be knocked off his perch. Is that why his room was so spartan? could he not decide on the curry house flock or pastel easy wash faux marble wallpapers. Maybe his name was spot on, just no nonsense and practical and high quality work, non of this unreliable Italian exuberance . Though he would probably freeze with indecision if California was hit with a 7.8 earthquake during my operation, but whats the chance of that happening, probably same as getting a brain tumour?
If I read between the lines, he did say the hospital is like any office environment there is a certain pecking order, and you have to respect that. Its thanks to the old boy Doctor they are on the world map, The fancy new architectural designed wing was probably his doing, in fact the sole reason I turned up on the doorstep was because of his reputation.
Each member of the governing committee, who are also golfing chums, all drive to work in nice comfortable cars thanks to Dr. Turtle research and journals. Which Judas on the committee will stand up and say thanks for everything, hand over the cheap quartz clock and wheel him out of the door? I notice the sell by date dilemma was brushed under the carpet with the original Dr. Mansion, he worked well into his 90s.
Next up was Dr. Number 3, a highly recommended Dr. Woodman, the room we sat in belonged to the infamous Dr. Mansion Junior, looks like he was still busy in the photocopy room. Is Dr. Woodman so crap he does not even get a room? was he promoted last year to the broom cupboard?
We heard the Doctor just outside the door, he obviously employs the same choreographer as Dr. Greenman. He was talking about some previous patient who had too high expectations after the surgery and he needed help fending off her calls.
Turns out he has the same first name as me so that was the deal clincher, his teeth was suspiciously straight and white, and made all the more noticeable by his even more suspect tan.
No daft tests this time, he just looked over the scans and confirmed that his partner in crime was Dr. Schultz. His green surgeon shell suit looked well pressed, I liked the guy, turns out a lot of ladies ask for him because he is cute. A little bit too cute and groomed if you ask me, I would say he bats for the other side. Apparently he never lost a person on the operating table, implying that others have? or had a case of total facial paralysis. There again my idea of "total" facial paralysis and surgeons are somewhat different, in the surgeons book, if you stick a burning fag end on the face and there's a slight twitch from a hair on the left buttock then the surgery was a success.
It was a tough call, the old boy with 3000 operations under his belt or cutie with 800 operations to his name. Wife did have a good point if there's a complication in 5 or 10 years time, will the old boy still be around? It boiled down to a flick of a coin. Looks like Orange Tan Ivory wins.
We are then sent off to meet the surgery counseling department. I was expecting some blonde matron with big boobs whose job was to stroke my head saying "there, there, it will all be OK" instead we get a woman who works part time as a prison guard, her job was to deal with all the nitty gritty stuff like money, booking in the surgeons, all the complex paperwork and getting patients to polish her jack boots. In the end she was actually very helpful in a no nonsense kind of way, and the slap across my face with the black calf skin gloves was just what was needed. She didn't beat around the bush when it came to dealing with us parting with large sums of money, and with her frown and pen hovering over the diary no one dared to be wishy washy with the proposed surgery date. We came out a bit stunned, have to admit we were not planning on fixing a date but glad we did.
Everything was signed and sealed, all that was left to do was collect some medicine to be used three days before the surgery. That is it, all done at least for the next 6 weeks there's nothing more to worry about. It was a calm surreal experience after the months of heartache, headaches, soul searching, trauma and tears. We left the hospital with a folder full of paper work and a bottle of antibacterial shampoo, which is a bit odd as I have no hair.
I traveled 9000 miles to be here, and the plane seemed to be permanently climbing, was the Captain a real Ah Beng type with a string vest and he had one flip flop shod foot up on the dash, that accidentally knocked the trim wheel? Not the sort of hardship Marco Polo faced, but it meant I had to keep walking uphill to the loo.
I heard Dr. Greenman talking outside the door, so near and yet so far. Being in Tinseltown, was it choreographed? work the audience into a foaming frenzy before the fireworks accompanied big entrance. I was straining to hear, did he just mention the morgue? being sued?
When he did make his entrance, without the feather topped show girls, he looked just like the wise old turtle from Kung Fu Panda, minus the shell.
Dr. Greenman was a lovely guy, I checked his hands for potential nerve severing twitches, nothing. Though he did have a small cut on his knuckles, playing with his dog last night or an Alzheimer slip of the scalpel? and do I really want to be operated on by someone, whose white lab coat looked like it was made from polyester rather than Egyptian cotton?
A call came through from an Israeli hospital they needed some advice. It was straight back to the calculations he was doing prior to the choreographed phone call. Even I would come back and scratch my head and ask where was I?
He told me everything I already knew, I was the potential employer interviewing three surgeons. They were selling themselves and I had to figure out, not if my potential new employee will get on with Mary in HR, but if he will save my life as I know it.
I went to checked out the spa, pool and dining facilities in the hospital next door. The private underground link was a bit grim, not dirty grim but more in the institutional sense of the word. Being deep in the basement it rumbled, the air handling units pumped filtered conditioned air to all the sick people in the rooms above me. The bright florescent strip lights revealed tracks worn into the grey marble effect linoleum floor tiles, lot of trips to and from the freezer, and we are not talking the chicken nuggets and Ben and Jerry's type of freezers.
I held my breath while walking past anonymous rooms with yellow BIOHAZARD signs. The low paid 3rd world technician could have been distracted by the new rash on his hands, and forgot to seal the lid on the anthrax Tupperware box. I sensed the thicker Ebola and bird flu virus laden air around me. In front of me the glass door parted and I felt like a U-Boat crewman the moment the hatch cracks opens, I was hit with cool outside air.
There is one rule within the worn leather chesterfields rooms of the old boys network in London, never talk about religion, or race, there is good reason for this, it gets very messy, there are no absolutes, its all about dealing with old concepts developed in a period, when the average guy on his camel actually believed it is possible to walk on water, and mass education as we know it today did not exist. Its a totally abstract outlook on life, and very much dependent on the direction of the wind at that particular moment.
After emerging from the tunnel of death, in front of me was a huge structure that held the hospital together, it was in fact a 5 story high crucifix. If you want to scare the living daylights out of Jesus then a Godzilla size cross will probably do the trick. What would be on the walls of peoples homes, if the Romans decided to use Edward II method of execution? think along the lines Popsicles and red hot pokers.
Recently at a Chinese wedding, I was sitting next to a priest he must have thought I was the Perrier sipping Antichrist, because I was stunned he did not know about Enuma Elish, the 7 tablets that was unearthed, each tablet representing the Babylonian stages of the origins of life, eerily similar to Genesis 7 days. He was like an English teacher with no foundation in Latin.
In the UK, a couple of neighbouring churches, decided to bury the hatchet and other made in China religious paraphernalia, because of the dwindling numbers of punters, they would sell the various plots of prime land, and build a single neutral worshiping hall that can be used on a time sharing basis. Like large cigarette corporations the religious bigwigs are now targeting the vulnerable people of the third world, where the uneducated will still throw their life savings at faith healers, who claim to remove faulty body parts, on stage with their bare hands, leaving the patients tumour and scar free.
What really irks me, is this threat of a lorry load brimstone through your letter box if you don't tow the line. It may have worked 2000 years ago when people actually used brimstone, these days its just not very PC to use fear in the office or places of worship. When I make it home without being trampled by pack of orange robed, drum beat tranced skinheads, there is always some blue rinsed happy clapper camping on my doorstep, with suggestions on ways of stock piling locust repellent in preparation for my Sodom and Gomorrah type end.
To protect their position and income those in robes actively encourage the creation of an xenophobic congregation. I was talking to what appeared to be a perfectly normal person when religion reared its ugly head, he said that people who believe in different deities are misguided and he could not accept them, it goes against every grain of his own faith, by even acknowledging them means he is not true to his own beliefs. So much for love thy neighbour and world peace etc. Take Jesus, anyone would think he was born in Norway, if the real Jesus turned up at any Western immigration point he would get the full Al Queda treatment. Did the people making the effigies for the local churches in the West misplaced the tar and brush? Lets be honest he would look more like Saddam Hussain.
The priest next to me was in between jobs and before he starts looking in the classified section of Choirboy monthly, he should go back to the college where he studied theology and ask for a refund. If I was a Bishop looking to employ a new rent boy for the local parish, one of the first interview questions would be, how he intends to stop the revolting peasant from setting fire to his place of worship, once they get wind that Eve was in fact a plagiarised version, of the Ancient Sumerian civilizations concept of a garden of life called Dilmun, where a lady called Nitini used to hang out, she was known as the lady of the rib, and her partner ate the sacred plants.
Don't get me wrong, everyone needs some form of crutch to get through life people turn to drink, drugs, sex, religion, so long as its done in moderation and it helps that person, then I am all for it, I would much rather be in a pub full of pissed religious folks than national front supporters. All the individuals are actually good eggs, when people say we pray for you, whether it be in a prone position in the floor without shoes, beating on drums, burning of incense, I know what they are offering and I willingly hand over to them a part of me for safe keeping.
Its the pushy sort that gets up my wick. You know, the medallion man in the pub "go on, go on have a drink". The crack head trying to justify her addiction. The leopardskin print, fluffy slipper neighbour "suggesting" a late night coffee, or the white ironed granny pants girl and her top button done up nerd "platonic" boyfriend, saying we should all go to the church to hug while studying the scriptures.
The world has moved on, just around the corner there is the Church of Jesus Christ sitting next to the Church of the True Jesus Christ, whose boundary is shared with a cow and scantily clad multi limbed lady covered Hindu temple, that in turns rubs shoulders with a mosque whose minarets tickles the whiskers of a neighbouring dragon, the smoke from the Chinese dragon temple wafts over the House of Ronald MacDonald, that is busy serving Halal Big Macs.
Take my kid, she has a Shinto grandmother, Church of England grandfather, a Buddhist mother and a Druid father. Her school discourages any form of single religion worshiping. Religious Studies is just what it says it is, a study of religions, all religions, where they come from, how they developed and more importantly how they are actually quite intertwined.
Angel Gabriel who came and had tea and biscuits with Jesus mum Mary. She needed cheering up as she was a bit depressed for standing out like a sore thumb in middle east, having blonde hair, blue eyes, and to top it off, a bun in the oven that need a lot of explaining. I am surprised so few people know it was the very same Angel Gabriel that help Prophet Mohamed cobble the Koran together.
Its not that I am getting all Alaluya on everyone, my point is how a tumour and religion can be seen in the same light. Both were originally set up to help with life, the splitting and creation of cells to produce the road map for life, and religious doctrines laid down to create ground rules so a stable and prosperous civilization can be managed. In both cases they mushroomed and have changed into an uncontrollable mass that is now doing the polar opposite to its original intent. All sounding a bit deep and heavy, better shave my beard and put the soap back in the box.
It turns out this is hospital is partially church funded, which explains the suspiciously large number of images of our Norwegian friend on a cross. The clinic who will be carrying out the operation, has taken over the whole top floor and have their own ICU within this building.
Dr. Schultz is nothing like his name suggested, no jack boots and had a good sense of humour. We were both the same age, It starts to hit home you are getting old when President, Prime ministers, and Neurosurgeons are younger than you.
I was the 5th architect he had seen with the same tumour, does that mean in a few years time, like asbestos, space suit clad men will be removing drafting pens from evacuated architectural offices. Apparently my tumour is cystic, it is not solid meat but contains areas of goo. Good news, it means if you pop the cyst the tumour is not as big. The bad news, if I go down the star wars zap route complications may occur. Imagine a sausage with a small water filled balloon inside. How the sausage reacts in a microwave would be a tad unpredictable, the sausage carnage could be removed from the oven with a tissue, unfortunately the easy clean oven coating, is not an available option inside of my head.
If we go down the cut and paste route, The scalpel crew may leave a slither of tumour cell behind on the thin cyst wall, to preserve the nerves that control the face, tongue, eyes and swallow reflex. The way to picture it, imagine you have to clear a lawn of weeds, but there's a huge sleeping and very hormonal Rottweiler in a corner of the garden, you can pick all the weeds around him. I am willing to bet, you would leave the ones underneath him rather than risk having your face chewed off, hoping they will shrivel and die under the weight of Tyson. There is a risk the tumour may regrow from the leftover cells, and if so, I will have to face this whole thing again in five -ten years time.
He sat on the fence when it came to Zap or Slice, saying I can swing ether way, which basically means he is terrified of lawsuits. I asked what would he do if he was on the cold steel slab and was faced with the choice, wise old turtle surgeon or a young gun, who has a lot more to loose from a career point of view? Humpty Dumpty should learn a thing or two from Dr. Schultz, like the coconuts in those fair ground stalls he could not be knocked off his perch. Is that why his room was so spartan? could he not decide on the curry house flock or pastel easy wash faux marble wallpapers. Maybe his name was spot on, just no nonsense and practical and high quality work, non of this unreliable Italian exuberance . Though he would probably freeze with indecision if California was hit with a 7.8 earthquake during my operation, but whats the chance of that happening, probably same as getting a brain tumour?
If I read between the lines, he did say the hospital is like any office environment there is a certain pecking order, and you have to respect that. Its thanks to the old boy Doctor they are on the world map, The fancy new architectural designed wing was probably his doing, in fact the sole reason I turned up on the doorstep was because of his reputation.
Each member of the governing committee, who are also golfing chums, all drive to work in nice comfortable cars thanks to Dr. Turtle research and journals. Which Judas on the committee will stand up and say thanks for everything, hand over the cheap quartz clock and wheel him out of the door? I notice the sell by date dilemma was brushed under the carpet with the original Dr. Mansion, he worked well into his 90s.
Next up was Dr. Number 3, a highly recommended Dr. Woodman, the room we sat in belonged to the infamous Dr. Mansion Junior, looks like he was still busy in the photocopy room. Is Dr. Woodman so crap he does not even get a room? was he promoted last year to the broom cupboard?
We heard the Doctor just outside the door, he obviously employs the same choreographer as Dr. Greenman. He was talking about some previous patient who had too high expectations after the surgery and he needed help fending off her calls.
Turns out he has the same first name as me so that was the deal clincher, his teeth was suspiciously straight and white, and made all the more noticeable by his even more suspect tan.
No daft tests this time, he just looked over the scans and confirmed that his partner in crime was Dr. Schultz. His green surgeon shell suit looked well pressed, I liked the guy, turns out a lot of ladies ask for him because he is cute. A little bit too cute and groomed if you ask me, I would say he bats for the other side. Apparently he never lost a person on the operating table, implying that others have? or had a case of total facial paralysis. There again my idea of "total" facial paralysis and surgeons are somewhat different, in the surgeons book, if you stick a burning fag end on the face and there's a slight twitch from a hair on the left buttock then the surgery was a success.
It was a tough call, the old boy with 3000 operations under his belt or cutie with 800 operations to his name. Wife did have a good point if there's a complication in 5 or 10 years time, will the old boy still be around? It boiled down to a flick of a coin. Looks like Orange Tan Ivory wins.
We are then sent off to meet the surgery counseling department. I was expecting some blonde matron with big boobs whose job was to stroke my head saying "there, there, it will all be OK" instead we get a woman who works part time as a prison guard, her job was to deal with all the nitty gritty stuff like money, booking in the surgeons, all the complex paperwork and getting patients to polish her jack boots. In the end she was actually very helpful in a no nonsense kind of way, and the slap across my face with the black calf skin gloves was just what was needed. She didn't beat around the bush when it came to dealing with us parting with large sums of money, and with her frown and pen hovering over the diary no one dared to be wishy washy with the proposed surgery date. We came out a bit stunned, have to admit we were not planning on fixing a date but glad we did.
Everything was signed and sealed, all that was left to do was collect some medicine to be used three days before the surgery. That is it, all done at least for the next 6 weeks there's nothing more to worry about. It was a calm surreal experience after the months of heartache, headaches, soul searching, trauma and tears. We left the hospital with a folder full of paper work and a bottle of antibacterial shampoo, which is a bit odd as I have no hair.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Feathers?
Some people feel body malfunctions should be kept private but its not like I need adult nappies, well at least not at this stage, I am unlikely to embarrass anyone by asking them to help take out the preparation H from the fridge, and give me a hand applying it. Sooner or later it will be obvious that somethings up, if the surgery all goes as planned, I will still be very wobbly if people understand why, then I don't have endure church going folks tutting because they think I have used vodka in my cornflakes.
The combination of the British stiff upper lip and the Japanese inscrutability probably helped my parent be pretty unfazed about the news. Either that or they suspected something was amiss for years but never mentioned it, like my brother said "It explains a lot".
I will probably be in a wheel chair for a while, its great when flying you really get the royal treatment, but once out in the real world its strange how people don't want to look at you, not so much that they are afraid they might catch the same virus that prevents you from using your legs, but more due to the social conditioning that its rude to stare, and being in a wheel chair really puts you out there. The avoiding eye contact game you normally find in a tube train is everywhere, the lack of Kenny G lift music really drives it home. Its great when someone comes up to you and say that's looks a bit painful, it breaks the morgue like atmosphere, you can talk about it.
Years ago a colleague of mine was being introduced to a friend who was wheel chair bound because of a car accident. Seeing the chair my colleague spoke very slowly, and really hammed up the lip motion like some Christmas pantomime. I still cringe just thinking about it.
One school of thought is to pretend people who are obviously not normal are perfectly normal, bit like being told never to mention the war when you meet Germans. When I first met old Gamy legs, he turned up in a car and I just had to ask how he drives, he was more than happy to show me how he controls it with just his hands.
Since my news has slowly done the rounds, even people I don't even know comes up to me and ask how I am feeling. This year my birthday wishes came not just from the credit card and pest control company, but from folks I have not heard from in years. Even the cashier from the toy shop offered to help me get fit for the operation, she is a jogger and asked if I would like join her running group. Anyone would think I just won the lottery, its gives you great faith in humanity again.
We made it to Los Angeles and there was only 4o of us on the jumbo size plane, There is no denying the new 80cm seats are wide, but boy are they stiff and flat which means you slide around like Torvil and Dean. Why don't they just give everyone hammocks?
The US immigration must have attended some sort of courtesy training course, they have figured out not everyone in the world speaks English. Even the walls have official notices stating how government staff should treat visitors. In the past I have seen them yelling at some poor Japanese business man to get behind a yellow line, and when he didn't understand they just yelled louder, and became very aggressive towards him what kind of welcome to a guest of your country is that? Imagine it the other way round a Japanese immigration officers yelling in Japanese to an American holiday maker. They are the front line and its the first impression of a place that makes the biggest impact, this time I have to admit they were pleasant to deal with.
We rented a car, the top of the range Lincoln Navigator, the dashboard had dials that wouldn't look out of place in a Sopworth Camel, and like the local cheese cake it was the size of a house. Just turning the ignition key probably produced enough green house gasses to fill a zeppelin, but when in Rome do as the Romans do. The first port of call after the hotel and toilet was the hospital to meet and pick my surgical team. The waiting room was a good indicator of the stages to be expected. There was the melancholic and newly diagnosed, wobbly old timers with canes and dark glasses, a number of folks with very sore 8 inch crescent scars behind their ears, and young girl in a sorry state, slumped in wheel chair with a bandage that was bigger than her head. Her view of the world was seen though a clear eye patch filled with goo.
Once in the doctor's room which looked disappointingly like any other doctors room from world war 2. Maybe I had too high expectations, visualizing a place with lots of lackeys in white boiler suits and clip boards. The place was supposed to look like a cross between Gods living room and the bridge of the Star Trek Enterprise. At least the building looks like it was designed by an architect with a bit of pride in his work.
With my eyes shut the nurse made me touch my nose, hop on one foot, clap my hands, then she caresses my cheeks with a feather. I am sure Henry VIII cod piece wearing physician would have done the same test. What happened to all the Arthur C. Clarke high tech tests? are there still medical supply stores that stocks feathers? probably on the shelf between the leeches and pointy black hats. During my recent dental check in Singapore I had X-rays carried out by some very impressive robots in a white room. Like a prop from space odyssey 2001 it spun around my head, though alone in the room I was accompanied by a creepy emotionless female voice. The machine probably sits there blinking at night wondering if it should fry the next human. I would feel I was getting better treatment if a moonlighting car welding robot dressed in all white plastic stabbed the feather in my eye.
The combination of the British stiff upper lip and the Japanese inscrutability probably helped my parent be pretty unfazed about the news. Either that or they suspected something was amiss for years but never mentioned it, like my brother said "It explains a lot".
I will probably be in a wheel chair for a while, its great when flying you really get the royal treatment, but once out in the real world its strange how people don't want to look at you, not so much that they are afraid they might catch the same virus that prevents you from using your legs, but more due to the social conditioning that its rude to stare, and being in a wheel chair really puts you out there. The avoiding eye contact game you normally find in a tube train is everywhere, the lack of Kenny G lift music really drives it home. Its great when someone comes up to you and say that's looks a bit painful, it breaks the morgue like atmosphere, you can talk about it.
Years ago a colleague of mine was being introduced to a friend who was wheel chair bound because of a car accident. Seeing the chair my colleague spoke very slowly, and really hammed up the lip motion like some Christmas pantomime. I still cringe just thinking about it.
One school of thought is to pretend people who are obviously not normal are perfectly normal, bit like being told never to mention the war when you meet Germans. When I first met old Gamy legs, he turned up in a car and I just had to ask how he drives, he was more than happy to show me how he controls it with just his hands.
Since my news has slowly done the rounds, even people I don't even know comes up to me and ask how I am feeling. This year my birthday wishes came not just from the credit card and pest control company, but from folks I have not heard from in years. Even the cashier from the toy shop offered to help me get fit for the operation, she is a jogger and asked if I would like join her running group. Anyone would think I just won the lottery, its gives you great faith in humanity again.
We made it to Los Angeles and there was only 4o of us on the jumbo size plane, There is no denying the new 80cm seats are wide, but boy are they stiff and flat which means you slide around like Torvil and Dean. Why don't they just give everyone hammocks?
The US immigration must have attended some sort of courtesy training course, they have figured out not everyone in the world speaks English. Even the walls have official notices stating how government staff should treat visitors. In the past I have seen them yelling at some poor Japanese business man to get behind a yellow line, and when he didn't understand they just yelled louder, and became very aggressive towards him what kind of welcome to a guest of your country is that? Imagine it the other way round a Japanese immigration officers yelling in Japanese to an American holiday maker. They are the front line and its the first impression of a place that makes the biggest impact, this time I have to admit they were pleasant to deal with.
We rented a car, the top of the range Lincoln Navigator, the dashboard had dials that wouldn't look out of place in a Sopworth Camel, and like the local cheese cake it was the size of a house. Just turning the ignition key probably produced enough green house gasses to fill a zeppelin, but when in Rome do as the Romans do. The first port of call after the hotel and toilet was the hospital to meet and pick my surgical team. The waiting room was a good indicator of the stages to be expected. There was the melancholic and newly diagnosed, wobbly old timers with canes and dark glasses, a number of folks with very sore 8 inch crescent scars behind their ears, and young girl in a sorry state, slumped in wheel chair with a bandage that was bigger than her head. Her view of the world was seen though a clear eye patch filled with goo.
Once in the doctor's room which looked disappointingly like any other doctors room from world war 2. Maybe I had too high expectations, visualizing a place with lots of lackeys in white boiler suits and clip boards. The place was supposed to look like a cross between Gods living room and the bridge of the Star Trek Enterprise. At least the building looks like it was designed by an architect with a bit of pride in his work.
With my eyes shut the nurse made me touch my nose, hop on one foot, clap my hands, then she caresses my cheeks with a feather. I am sure Henry VIII cod piece wearing physician would have done the same test. What happened to all the Arthur C. Clarke high tech tests? are there still medical supply stores that stocks feathers? probably on the shelf between the leeches and pointy black hats. During my recent dental check in Singapore I had X-rays carried out by some very impressive robots in a white room. Like a prop from space odyssey 2001 it spun around my head, though alone in the room I was accompanied by a creepy emotionless female voice. The machine probably sits there blinking at night wondering if it should fry the next human. I would feel I was getting better treatment if a moonlighting car welding robot dressed in all white plastic stabbed the feather in my eye.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Goals in Life
To snap out of my " I am now just flotsam on the sea of life with no paddle" mood, I changed my brand of coffee to the sort that would even curl the chest hairs of a Turkish bazaar carpet salesman.
After my cup of liquid tarmac, my paddle appeared , I got up and booked the flights to Los Angeles, turns out Singapore Airlines has scrapped all economy direct flights to LA the whole plane nose to tail is all business class, so much for the global down turn. I even booked the Disney hotel, does seem like a strange choice of accommodation, it would be the last place on earth someone with a brain tumour and associated migraines wants to be, but hanging out in mickey home turf is more too keep our toddler occupied while grown ups deal with men in white coats, sharp scalpels and big invoices.
There is no way I am going to operate on myself with a shaving mirror and a pair of knitting needles, so I accept it is still all out of my hands, but if I am going to go for surgery I can at least get fit, ask yourself this: who has a better chance of surviving major surgery, a 300 pound junk food fueled couch potato or a starving Marvin marathon runner? OK, the Chippendale talent scout will not be knocking on my door in 2 months time, but I have a target and a goal.
Things did not get off to a good start, every meal time I ordered the heart stopping Vindaloos, followed by the local Knickerbocker glory, and a side order of slow death in a bun. Theory being as one of the complication of the surgery is the loss of taste, this will be last time I may ever taste such culinary delights so may as well splurge out .
The surgeons will take a big chunk of bone and meat out from my head and chuck it in the green recycle bin. Just as you would use newspaper to protect your rare china in a box, to stop my grey gel from rattling around my head, the men in matching green shower caps will use a block of lard from my tummy. Being knighted Sir Cumference has its advantages, it really is in my case, you are what you eat. I just assume those six pack folks out there with no spare tire will have to use the fat off their bum cheeks, at least when you call them butt head they will have no choice but to agree with you.
I always thought the men in gyms are all genitalia challenged, they are pedaling furiously on bikes which mock them, mimicking their lives by also going nowhere. Take good look at the word endo"mor"phine, and you will know what I mean.
The wife cottoned onto my "not towing the line" health attitude, and taking a page form our communist cousins up north, she hired a Miss Whiplash to help with my re-education through corrective training.
There I was at the gym today in brand new shoes, and don't get me started on shoes, my last gym outing you only had the choice of Dunlop green stripe or socks and you carried a tube of white paste to make sure they looked clean. Took me three days to find a pair of "cross" trainers, that didn't look like it was designed by some ghetto gangster high on crack. There are shoes for every kind of sport and if you ask me they all look the same and ugly to boot, its all just some marketing ploy to get us to buy hundreds of plimsoles.
I can deal with the sort of training challenges normally thrown at chanting men in muddy polished black boots. Pull a train with my teeth? I will be up for it, lift a barbell with two bunny girls on ether end? bring it on. Shove my head in the loo, bury me alive, done it all before.
Miss. Whiplash is all new age incense burning Yogi type stuff, to me Yogi is brown, furry and has a suspect relationship with Boo Boo. My Lycra clad tormentor with the cattle prod keeps pointing out to me my "inner core" is weak and that does not mean its time to dig out the Viagra. One thwack of my belly and the rippling waves running up to my manboobs and back down again, also means my outer core is not so strong either.
Its quite amazing she twists me into all these positions where I can see my butt without a mirror, then ask me to lift a arm or leg by a few centimeters, no amount of hernia inducing straining can I do it. After 10 minutes I was begging Whiplash to untangle me or I will embarrass myself in my new and very stretched gym shorts.
The SAS should all grow long beards, wear thongs and have a go at this, the next time they go into battle, they just have to assume the position and the enemy will leg it when they see what they are dealing with.
For a long time Yoga to me was for nonces and women with a spandex fetish only there to meet like minded ladies in comfortable sandals. Now putting string in one nostril and pulling it out the other has my new found respect. I have to confess, I was in the yoga section of the local book shop I know its bit like admitting to wearing ladies underwear. I went to the last page of Inner core monthly, and there was a great after dinner party trick to impress the in-laws, the ultimate test of yogimanship, you have to squat on a bowl of warm salty water and suck it up your own bum.
I have found a new goal in life.
After my cup of liquid tarmac, my paddle appeared , I got up and booked the flights to Los Angeles, turns out Singapore Airlines has scrapped all economy direct flights to LA the whole plane nose to tail is all business class, so much for the global down turn. I even booked the Disney hotel, does seem like a strange choice of accommodation, it would be the last place on earth someone with a brain tumour and associated migraines wants to be, but hanging out in mickey home turf is more too keep our toddler occupied while grown ups deal with men in white coats, sharp scalpels and big invoices.
There is no way I am going to operate on myself with a shaving mirror and a pair of knitting needles, so I accept it is still all out of my hands, but if I am going to go for surgery I can at least get fit, ask yourself this: who has a better chance of surviving major surgery, a 300 pound junk food fueled couch potato or a starving Marvin marathon runner? OK, the Chippendale talent scout will not be knocking on my door in 2 months time, but I have a target and a goal.
Things did not get off to a good start, every meal time I ordered the heart stopping Vindaloos, followed by the local Knickerbocker glory, and a side order of slow death in a bun. Theory being as one of the complication of the surgery is the loss of taste, this will be last time I may ever taste such culinary delights so may as well splurge out .
The surgeons will take a big chunk of bone and meat out from my head and chuck it in the green recycle bin. Just as you would use newspaper to protect your rare china in a box, to stop my grey gel from rattling around my head, the men in matching green shower caps will use a block of lard from my tummy. Being knighted Sir Cumference has its advantages, it really is in my case, you are what you eat. I just assume those six pack folks out there with no spare tire will have to use the fat off their bum cheeks, at least when you call them butt head they will have no choice but to agree with you.
I always thought the men in gyms are all genitalia challenged, they are pedaling furiously on bikes which mock them, mimicking their lives by also going nowhere. Take good look at the word endo"mor"phine, and you will know what I mean.
The wife cottoned onto my "not towing the line" health attitude, and taking a page form our communist cousins up north, she hired a Miss Whiplash to help with my re-education through corrective training.
There I was at the gym today in brand new shoes, and don't get me started on shoes, my last gym outing you only had the choice of Dunlop green stripe or socks and you carried a tube of white paste to make sure they looked clean. Took me three days to find a pair of "cross" trainers, that didn't look like it was designed by some ghetto gangster high on crack. There are shoes for every kind of sport and if you ask me they all look the same and ugly to boot, its all just some marketing ploy to get us to buy hundreds of plimsoles.
I can deal with the sort of training challenges normally thrown at chanting men in muddy polished black boots. Pull a train with my teeth? I will be up for it, lift a barbell with two bunny girls on ether end? bring it on. Shove my head in the loo, bury me alive, done it all before.
Miss. Whiplash is all new age incense burning Yogi type stuff, to me Yogi is brown, furry and has a suspect relationship with Boo Boo. My Lycra clad tormentor with the cattle prod keeps pointing out to me my "inner core" is weak and that does not mean its time to dig out the Viagra. One thwack of my belly and the rippling waves running up to my manboobs and back down again, also means my outer core is not so strong either.
Its quite amazing she twists me into all these positions where I can see my butt without a mirror, then ask me to lift a arm or leg by a few centimeters, no amount of hernia inducing straining can I do it. After 10 minutes I was begging Whiplash to untangle me or I will embarrass myself in my new and very stretched gym shorts.
The SAS should all grow long beards, wear thongs and have a go at this, the next time they go into battle, they just have to assume the position and the enemy will leg it when they see what they are dealing with.
For a long time Yoga to me was for nonces and women with a spandex fetish only there to meet like minded ladies in comfortable sandals. Now putting string in one nostril and pulling it out the other has my new found respect. I have to confess, I was in the yoga section of the local book shop I know its bit like admitting to wearing ladies underwear. I went to the last page of Inner core monthly, and there was a great after dinner party trick to impress the in-laws, the ultimate test of yogimanship, you have to squat on a bowl of warm salty water and suck it up your own bum.
I have found a new goal in life.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Flash floods
Hospitals are a bit like airports, some are architectural or technological wonders of the modern world, they have the compulsory Starbucks, porters dressed like they just stepped off the Flying Scotsman, and in both cases people visiting them are on some sort of journey, but no one actually wants to be there, everyone wants to move on and pass though it as fast as possible.
The difference, in a hospital they stick you in a outfit just long enough to cover your dangly bits, when seated you are like a bespectacled, ironed granny pants school girl, trying to clamp your legs tight for fear of terrifying the goldfish opposite you. In an industrial lit room that stinks of Dettol you are then told you are seriously sick, the indignity of all.
My problem is put into perspective, everyone of those folks behind the glass door of the terminally ill section will gladly swap their gremlins for a Quasimodo smile, a Captain Hook eye patch and a bit of the "just left the pub dizziness/nausea". At least I can go to a stationary shop and buy a 2010 diary knowing the pages will be filled, its an option many of those wandering around in a one size fits all garbage bin bag don't have. Instead of plastic flowers and the oh so 90s marble effect pastel wall paper, why don't hospitals get better gowns? I would feel a bit better being told I have days to live if I was dressed in a more flattering gown designed by some Italian poof.
As I was waiting in hospital for additional copies of my scan, I had a look at the free internet terminal. Its a good sign that while my spud was physically in my mind for the first time in weeks it was not on my mind, instead of Googling "tumour", I typed in "Seven wonders of the world" as it was on my things to do before I die list.
There are seven natural wonders, seven man made wonders, seven modern wonders, seven ancient wonders, some of which only exist as a lump rock in the middle of a busy roundabout that doubles up as a handy dog loo. So who ever choose "Seven" lacked a bit of foresight.
To top it off, the wonders that are chosen varies and depends on who you ask. It is like after loosing all your chums in an avalanche, your fingers are still stuck to your ice axe 50m below you, finally you reach the summit of mount Everest. You survey the majestic scenery, then through the corner of your frost bitten eyes you notice you are on the wrong mountain. It could turn out the seven wonders that you managed to visit in your final last ditch effort are the wrong seven, it should have been Borobudur temple instead of Machu Picchu.
The House Ear Institute, started by Mr. House in the 50s specialises in my spud and developed the method of surgery, even the tool used during the operation is called a House Urban Dissector, a fancy name for a microscopic vacuum cleaner.
The main man obviously is Dr. House Snr, but unless there is a radical new approach to surgery by séance he cant help me, he is dead. So main man number two appears to be Dr. Brackman, interesting not Dr. House Jnr. who actually works there but maybe he got in thanks to his Dad pulling a few strings or ears and Junior is just kept busy in photocopy room.
Dr. Brackman even developed a special scale of measuring facial paralysis, doctors being a creative lot, he chose an imaginative title, The Brackman Scale. 1 is normal, 6 you look like Arnold Schwarzeneggar taking bullets in the Terminator.
They say go with your gut feeling, which basically means there is no right answer. This day and age humans can prepare to send men to Mars, create black holes in linear accelerators. Yet for the simple bit of chewy grizzel in my head, there is no real 100% solution.
I woke up in the same frame of mind as Julius Caesar on the banks of the Rubicon, when he shouted to his first mate, "Damn the Greek torpedoes, full steam ahead" . Gut feeling told me to call Brackman up and say, "Let roll and get this bugger out".
Three surprising things happened, first the initial impression that he sounded a bit pissed during our conversion, was now put it down to his Californian laid back drawl.
The second surprise, there should have been a warning sign near me "Do not play in the storm drains sudden flash flooding may occur"just after the I hung up, I balled my eyes out like a right girl. That was totally unexpected, and even now as I write about it sends a shiver down my manlike spine. I have been so busy researching I did not really think about the implication, this was the first step that really confirms it is all real. The hope that I will be getting a call saying there was a mix up with the MRI scans is not going to happen.
You can be a muscle bound meat head that can crush beer cans with your butt cheeks, as smart as Mr. Stephen "quantum physics" Darlick in his wheel chair, rich as some Cambodian drug Lord. It will make zip all difference, that is what really got to me.
The cause, the symptoms, and the eventual treatment is out of my hands. Like a plane crash there is nothing you can do, on a ship or a train at least you can fight your way out and jump off, even in a bus you can dive forward and try and steer the thing, in a plane crash you just have to sit there and finish the inflight movie and wait for the spectacular fireball to come barreling up the now very bent aluminum tube.
The third surprise, I checked Dr. Brackman CV, very impressive he worked in the heads of Heads of States, Royalty, thousand of similar operations under his belt, but his birth date showed he was born when Florence Nightingale was still doing her rounds, he just turned 70, I have seen my dad who is also in his seventies park his car and the number of dents in it made me very worried.
The difference, in a hospital they stick you in a outfit just long enough to cover your dangly bits, when seated you are like a bespectacled, ironed granny pants school girl, trying to clamp your legs tight for fear of terrifying the goldfish opposite you. In an industrial lit room that stinks of Dettol you are then told you are seriously sick, the indignity of all.
My problem is put into perspective, everyone of those folks behind the glass door of the terminally ill section will gladly swap their gremlins for a Quasimodo smile, a Captain Hook eye patch and a bit of the "just left the pub dizziness/nausea". At least I can go to a stationary shop and buy a 2010 diary knowing the pages will be filled, its an option many of those wandering around in a one size fits all garbage bin bag don't have. Instead of plastic flowers and the oh so 90s marble effect pastel wall paper, why don't hospitals get better gowns? I would feel a bit better being told I have days to live if I was dressed in a more flattering gown designed by some Italian poof.
As I was waiting in hospital for additional copies of my scan, I had a look at the free internet terminal. Its a good sign that while my spud was physically in my mind for the first time in weeks it was not on my mind, instead of Googling "tumour", I typed in "Seven wonders of the world" as it was on my things to do before I die list.
There are seven natural wonders, seven man made wonders, seven modern wonders, seven ancient wonders, some of which only exist as a lump rock in the middle of a busy roundabout that doubles up as a handy dog loo. So who ever choose "Seven" lacked a bit of foresight.
To top it off, the wonders that are chosen varies and depends on who you ask. It is like after loosing all your chums in an avalanche, your fingers are still stuck to your ice axe 50m below you, finally you reach the summit of mount Everest. You survey the majestic scenery, then through the corner of your frost bitten eyes you notice you are on the wrong mountain. It could turn out the seven wonders that you managed to visit in your final last ditch effort are the wrong seven, it should have been Borobudur temple instead of Machu Picchu.
The House Ear Institute, started by Mr. House in the 50s specialises in my spud and developed the method of surgery, even the tool used during the operation is called a House Urban Dissector, a fancy name for a microscopic vacuum cleaner.
The main man obviously is Dr. House Snr, but unless there is a radical new approach to surgery by séance he cant help me, he is dead. So main man number two appears to be Dr. Brackman, interesting not Dr. House Jnr. who actually works there but maybe he got in thanks to his Dad pulling a few strings or ears and Junior is just kept busy in photocopy room.
Dr. Brackman even developed a special scale of measuring facial paralysis, doctors being a creative lot, he chose an imaginative title, The Brackman Scale. 1 is normal, 6 you look like Arnold Schwarzeneggar taking bullets in the Terminator.
They say go with your gut feeling, which basically means there is no right answer. This day and age humans can prepare to send men to Mars, create black holes in linear accelerators. Yet for the simple bit of chewy grizzel in my head, there is no real 100% solution.
I woke up in the same frame of mind as Julius Caesar on the banks of the Rubicon, when he shouted to his first mate, "Damn the Greek torpedoes, full steam ahead" . Gut feeling told me to call Brackman up and say, "Let roll and get this bugger out".
Three surprising things happened, first the initial impression that he sounded a bit pissed during our conversion, was now put it down to his Californian laid back drawl.
The second surprise, there should have been a warning sign near me "Do not play in the storm drains sudden flash flooding may occur"just after the I hung up, I balled my eyes out like a right girl. That was totally unexpected, and even now as I write about it sends a shiver down my manlike spine. I have been so busy researching I did not really think about the implication, this was the first step that really confirms it is all real. The hope that I will be getting a call saying there was a mix up with the MRI scans is not going to happen.
You can be a muscle bound meat head that can crush beer cans with your butt cheeks, as smart as Mr. Stephen "quantum physics" Darlick in his wheel chair, rich as some Cambodian drug Lord. It will make zip all difference, that is what really got to me.
The cause, the symptoms, and the eventual treatment is out of my hands. Like a plane crash there is nothing you can do, on a ship or a train at least you can fight your way out and jump off, even in a bus you can dive forward and try and steer the thing, in a plane crash you just have to sit there and finish the inflight movie and wait for the spectacular fireball to come barreling up the now very bent aluminum tube.
The third surprise, I checked Dr. Brackman CV, very impressive he worked in the heads of Heads of States, Royalty, thousand of similar operations under his belt, but his birth date showed he was born when Florence Nightingale was still doing her rounds, he just turned 70, I have seen my dad who is also in his seventies park his car and the number of dents in it made me very worried.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Magic bullet
I can see why those poor desperate folks turn to snake oil peddlers, give me a few months and who knows I too will be chanting Urdu, under a magnetic pyramid while trying to balance a yogi blessed Himalayan kryptonite crystal on my on my head.
I have been hunting for the holy grail of treatments, a blue bubbling tonic in a glass vial, that will suddenly make everything normal again.
Bottom line I have two choices, well three if you include doing nothing which actually seem like a good idea as I have no symptoms, feels odd to effectively give a neurosurgeon a new Aston Martin so I can have a go at Russian roulette with the potential out come of the hammer hitting the handy orange Disable Parking bullet. If I leave it things will get more complicated, a stitch in time and all that.
So the two real options are Zap it with some Buzz Lightyear ray gun or make a big hole in my head and cut it out.
The local surgeon suggested he book me in to his clinic in two week time, stick a special Harold Robins like hat on and zap it for 20 minutes, then I can go home for a salad. Call me an old cynic, but like Gandhi once said if its too good to be true...
I did some more research and our "bit too laid back" Doc failed to mention the hat required a Black and Decker cordless drill and raw plugs, its screwed directly into your skull. The reason it has to be fixed, if I twitch during the Chernobyl like gamma ray firing there will be, as our American cousins say "collateral damage" which can range from slightly crisping the edge of a near by Arab kebab to totally vaporizing a Baghdad convent school for blind children.
It can take months if not years to see if it worked, as it is still flesh and part of me, it tends to expand, gets blistered and really upset when microwaved. This expansion may cause all sorts of complications as it twangs around all the nerves that pass through the tumour. So when your eyeball starts spinning like a jackpot machine and and you are on your knees barfing up from motion sickness, you really don't know if its because you are getting better or worse.
The icing on the cake, it could turn cancerous and if it still keeps growing then separating a now crispy, gnarled, scar covered and very pissed off tumour from hair like nerves will be a challenge of biblical proportions on a microscopic playing field.
If I went down this Dr. No route every time I forget my keys or drool a bit of Wheatabix in the morning it would be a full on Allah Akbar rush to the local ER to check if its just given birth to an even uglier offspring.
Option 2 cut it out, sounds easy enough, but your head is like a modern car, open the bonnet everything is covered and sealed, you would be hard pushed to find the dip stick let alone the spark plugs. Big yellow signs warning "Warranty Void if Opened" are there for a reason, its not designed to be messed with. If GAWD intended us to tweak around with our brains then a handy hatch would have been provided bit like the mouth for maintaining the teeth.
Once my bonce is open the neurosurgeon using microscopes has to try and scrape and cut away the tumour without cutting or bending any of the facial nerves, the surgery means the removal of the balance section of the inner ear, so when you first come out, for the next few days will be like setting up a bed on one of those spinning tea cup rides. Most end up with some form of facial paralysis, bit like that just left the dentist feeling, when you drink it all dribbles out the numb side. There are horror stories of having to stitch shut one eye, as you wont be able to feel when its drying out and turning into a raisin. Another odd one, you may not be able to walk in the dark, your body is now totally reliant on your eyesight to figure out if your are standing perpendicular to mother earth, if its dark you crumple into a heap on the floor. Lets not forget a common and life threatening problem of brain fluids leaking out of your nose and eyes months after.
The outcome of both options are so unpredictable. Here is my best analogy assuming you can get the best surgeons at the best hospitals, then you have the choice of a Mercedes, BMW, Lexus as opposed to Proton, Kia, Cherry.
Then there is the size of the tumor a small one means you get a concrete block about the size of an oil drum, medium size a block the size of a golf cart, and big, we are talking about a car like size lump of concrete.
Mine is medium, so lets stick this golf cart size lump of concrete at the end of a runway. I then have to get into the car of choice and drive at 50 mph straight into the block.
What I will be like after the dust and fires have settled is anyone's guess, some people just open whats left of the door and flick off the broken glass and plastic and walk away, others are crippled and some though only a few these days don't come out at all.
That is my bullet, a leather seated one with a Mark Levinson sound system. Heading down the runway, it has all the ABS, multi airbags, traction control, HUD, but the result of the impact? there is no magic with my bullet.
I have been hunting for the holy grail of treatments, a blue bubbling tonic in a glass vial, that will suddenly make everything normal again.
Bottom line I have two choices, well three if you include doing nothing which actually seem like a good idea as I have no symptoms, feels odd to effectively give a neurosurgeon a new Aston Martin so I can have a go at Russian roulette with the potential out come of the hammer hitting the handy orange Disable Parking bullet. If I leave it things will get more complicated, a stitch in time and all that.
So the two real options are Zap it with some Buzz Lightyear ray gun or make a big hole in my head and cut it out.
The local surgeon suggested he book me in to his clinic in two week time, stick a special Harold Robins like hat on and zap it for 20 minutes, then I can go home for a salad. Call me an old cynic, but like Gandhi once said if its too good to be true...
I did some more research and our "bit too laid back" Doc failed to mention the hat required a Black and Decker cordless drill and raw plugs, its screwed directly into your skull. The reason it has to be fixed, if I twitch during the Chernobyl like gamma ray firing there will be, as our American cousins say "collateral damage" which can range from slightly crisping the edge of a near by Arab kebab to totally vaporizing a Baghdad convent school for blind children.
It can take months if not years to see if it worked, as it is still flesh and part of me, it tends to expand, gets blistered and really upset when microwaved. This expansion may cause all sorts of complications as it twangs around all the nerves that pass through the tumour. So when your eyeball starts spinning like a jackpot machine and and you are on your knees barfing up from motion sickness, you really don't know if its because you are getting better or worse.
The icing on the cake, it could turn cancerous and if it still keeps growing then separating a now crispy, gnarled, scar covered and very pissed off tumour from hair like nerves will be a challenge of biblical proportions on a microscopic playing field.
If I went down this Dr. No route every time I forget my keys or drool a bit of Wheatabix in the morning it would be a full on Allah Akbar rush to the local ER to check if its just given birth to an even uglier offspring.
Option 2 cut it out, sounds easy enough, but your head is like a modern car, open the bonnet everything is covered and sealed, you would be hard pushed to find the dip stick let alone the spark plugs. Big yellow signs warning "Warranty Void if Opened" are there for a reason, its not designed to be messed with. If GAWD intended us to tweak around with our brains then a handy hatch would have been provided bit like the mouth for maintaining the teeth.
Once my bonce is open the neurosurgeon using microscopes has to try and scrape and cut away the tumour without cutting or bending any of the facial nerves, the surgery means the removal of the balance section of the inner ear, so when you first come out, for the next few days will be like setting up a bed on one of those spinning tea cup rides. Most end up with some form of facial paralysis, bit like that just left the dentist feeling, when you drink it all dribbles out the numb side. There are horror stories of having to stitch shut one eye, as you wont be able to feel when its drying out and turning into a raisin. Another odd one, you may not be able to walk in the dark, your body is now totally reliant on your eyesight to figure out if your are standing perpendicular to mother earth, if its dark you crumple into a heap on the floor. Lets not forget a common and life threatening problem of brain fluids leaking out of your nose and eyes months after.
The outcome of both options are so unpredictable. Here is my best analogy assuming you can get the best surgeons at the best hospitals, then you have the choice of a Mercedes, BMW, Lexus as opposed to Proton, Kia, Cherry.
Then there is the size of the tumor a small one means you get a concrete block about the size of an oil drum, medium size a block the size of a golf cart, and big, we are talking about a car like size lump of concrete.
Mine is medium, so lets stick this golf cart size lump of concrete at the end of a runway. I then have to get into the car of choice and drive at 50 mph straight into the block.
What I will be like after the dust and fires have settled is anyone's guess, some people just open whats left of the door and flick off the broken glass and plastic and walk away, others are crippled and some though only a few these days don't come out at all.
That is my bullet, a leather seated one with a Mark Levinson sound system. Heading down the runway, it has all the ABS, multi airbags, traction control, HUD, but the result of the impact? there is no magic with my bullet.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Acoustic Neuroma
You can imagine at a student bar, Mr. Goatee with interesting glasses and a well used leather manbag saying that the acoustic neuroma gig last night was really cool.
Despite sounding like a newage spa treatment, the elation of not having the big C was short lived. My spud is totally self contained and does not latch itself to my gooey bits in my head, but it just grows. The very nature of the bone dome means there is no room to expand, its like slowly inflating a bouncy castle in a crowed tube train, once it gets to a certain size, someone will eventually get a bit upset. If it was the Big C, then it would be like inflating a giant razor covered cactus.
"So whats the Prognosis?", is the sort of lingo you hear from some chisel, dimple clad actor in a B movie. I will live but, this is not going to be a walk in the park.
After spending a week solid on Google, just below the sunny everything is rosy surface, there's layers and layers of different subculture based around different ways of life.
You can see the everyday ones in the magazine racks, Gardeners Weekly, Railway Molders, then you move to the fringes of normality, Guns and Ammo, Badger and Vaseline.
What you don't see are all the strange medical conditions, each one has its own official associations, forums, and newsletter. Unless you are touched by that particular affliction brush, you would not be in the least bit interested in it, for example would you really want a yearly subscription to Spastic monthly? Whole industries pop up to support these people, EyePatch heaven, EARPlugs-R-US these are all staffed by one eyed, partially deaf folks hobbling around the office. Why is it that these online stores and website for the medically challenged have zero sense of design and composition, they all look like they were put together by someone who actually enjoys crochet and just bought a 3 buck DTP software.
These subcultures are the lifeboat for many, the "Oh lets all hug" news letter with blue autumn leaf background is read and re-read by all these people hoping to find some magic bullet, some new break through. It gives them all a reason to get up in the morning.
The Acoustic Neuroma community is quite big, and grows in the US by 2500 people every year, large enough to have conventions in Vegas, is that good or very sad?. While I am just sitting here reading the crappy online AN newsletter, every few minutes some poor newbie registers, saying they or a family member just got the bad news. Everyone is surprising jolly despite their "complication", I suppose we are all in the same boat, while its not exactly sinking, its never going to pull into port either.
The old codger staggering around with the brass trumpet in his ear, will most likely be a victim of our little unwanted friend. A large number of wrinklies will eventually get it but because of their age most cases can be left alone. There is a very low probability that it will flare up or grow in a particular way to cause problems.
I remember during my visit to Omaha Beach where the D-day landing took place, I read that only 1 in 3 who charged the beach would survive. If I was on the landing craft during the attack, I am the sort of bloke who would look at the two guys ether side of me and think poor buggers. Now that I found I have AN a 1/100,000 chance, suddenly probability takes on a whole new meaning. The other day I was walking in a huge lightening storm normally it would not bother me, unless I was in a medieval suit of amour, but this time I stepped under some shelter.
Despite sounding like a newage spa treatment, the elation of not having the big C was short lived. My spud is totally self contained and does not latch itself to my gooey bits in my head, but it just grows. The very nature of the bone dome means there is no room to expand, its like slowly inflating a bouncy castle in a crowed tube train, once it gets to a certain size, someone will eventually get a bit upset. If it was the Big C, then it would be like inflating a giant razor covered cactus.
"So whats the Prognosis?", is the sort of lingo you hear from some chisel, dimple clad actor in a B movie. I will live but, this is not going to be a walk in the park.
After spending a week solid on Google, just below the sunny everything is rosy surface, there's layers and layers of different subculture based around different ways of life.
You can see the everyday ones in the magazine racks, Gardeners Weekly, Railway Molders, then you move to the fringes of normality, Guns and Ammo, Badger and Vaseline.
What you don't see are all the strange medical conditions, each one has its own official associations, forums, and newsletter. Unless you are touched by that particular affliction brush, you would not be in the least bit interested in it, for example would you really want a yearly subscription to Spastic monthly? Whole industries pop up to support these people, EyePatch heaven, EARPlugs-R-US these are all staffed by one eyed, partially deaf folks hobbling around the office. Why is it that these online stores and website for the medically challenged have zero sense of design and composition, they all look like they were put together by someone who actually enjoys crochet and just bought a 3 buck DTP software.
These subcultures are the lifeboat for many, the "Oh lets all hug" news letter with blue autumn leaf background is read and re-read by all these people hoping to find some magic bullet, some new break through. It gives them all a reason to get up in the morning.
The Acoustic Neuroma community is quite big, and grows in the US by 2500 people every year, large enough to have conventions in Vegas, is that good or very sad?. While I am just sitting here reading the crappy online AN newsletter, every few minutes some poor newbie registers, saying they or a family member just got the bad news. Everyone is surprising jolly despite their "complication", I suppose we are all in the same boat, while its not exactly sinking, its never going to pull into port either.
The old codger staggering around with the brass trumpet in his ear, will most likely be a victim of our little unwanted friend. A large number of wrinklies will eventually get it but because of their age most cases can be left alone. There is a very low probability that it will flare up or grow in a particular way to cause problems.
I remember during my visit to Omaha Beach where the D-day landing took place, I read that only 1 in 3 who charged the beach would survive. If I was on the landing craft during the attack, I am the sort of bloke who would look at the two guys ether side of me and think poor buggers. Now that I found I have AN a 1/100,000 chance, suddenly probability takes on a whole new meaning. The other day I was walking in a huge lightening storm normally it would not bother me, unless I was in a medieval suit of amour, but this time I stepped under some shelter.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Ace Card
On the way to the specialist I was relieved to see a few Italian exotics in the car park under the doctors only signs.
The waiting room decor made me worry a bit, felt like I was sitting in some bad curry joint on the outskirts of a big city.
That time spent sitting in a purple velvet seat shaped liked female genitalia, made me realize my logic that the type of car is exponentially proportional to the surgeons skill, is seriously flawed.
If some retard who qualified from the Uganda Skool of Medicine, arrives at the job interview for a surgeon with his uncle, who just generously paid for the hospital new wing. My guess is he will get the job plus the prime parking spot for his birthday present from mum.
I saw the specialist and its amazing how much peripheral information you take in to try and figure the guy out, any strange photos of him with a head band, camo gear? No religious icons? anyone who relies on faith rather than skill to patch people up is always a little bit off. Room is a messy though, same as inside his head?
After seeing the scans, lots of teeth sucking like plumbers do before an outrageous estimate. Out popped the compulsory Fisher Price anatomy of the head set, he was explaining all the bits and he told me the tumour looks like an acoustic neuroma.
If I was an American I would have been up on my feet, making whooping noises and twirling my fist in the air. I was busy at home the night before doing my research, there was one ace card, a non cancerous tumour and this was it.
Whether or not pole dancers are suitable for my funeral is no longer an issue.
Acoustic neuromas are benign growths, its still a tumour, its still in your skull, but I can now say I have a non cancerous growth in my inner ear.
As it was beyond the scope of the Ear Nose and Throat specialist I was sent off to meet the neurosurgeon.
This time the rooms was very slick modern, smelt nice had upmarket magazines in the rack. This was more promising, as rich mummy's boy Dr. Uganda may have the job but his magazine collection would be all Retard Monthly.
Doc came in, awful as this sound but he had a reassuring British accent, once in the room, very zen, nice original painting on the wall, everything in its place. Out came the fisher price head but this time its no made in China knockoff, this skull was the real deal, at least I know I am in a better position now than the poor bugger whose head we are juggling around, I asked if it was one of his patients, apparently not it came from India and real skulls are no longer sold.
The bottom line, it may not be life threatening now, but it will be if left unchecked, it has to come out. This means cutting a hole in my head and rummaging around like a lucky dip pot.
The waiting room decor made me worry a bit, felt like I was sitting in some bad curry joint on the outskirts of a big city.
That time spent sitting in a purple velvet seat shaped liked female genitalia, made me realize my logic that the type of car is exponentially proportional to the surgeons skill, is seriously flawed.
If some retard who qualified from the Uganda Skool of Medicine, arrives at the job interview for a surgeon with his uncle, who just generously paid for the hospital new wing. My guess is he will get the job plus the prime parking spot for his birthday present from mum.
I saw the specialist and its amazing how much peripheral information you take in to try and figure the guy out, any strange photos of him with a head band, camo gear? No religious icons? anyone who relies on faith rather than skill to patch people up is always a little bit off. Room is a messy though, same as inside his head?
After seeing the scans, lots of teeth sucking like plumbers do before an outrageous estimate. Out popped the compulsory Fisher Price anatomy of the head set, he was explaining all the bits and he told me the tumour looks like an acoustic neuroma.
If I was an American I would have been up on my feet, making whooping noises and twirling my fist in the air. I was busy at home the night before doing my research, there was one ace card, a non cancerous tumour and this was it.
Whether or not pole dancers are suitable for my funeral is no longer an issue.
Acoustic neuromas are benign growths, its still a tumour, its still in your skull, but I can now say I have a non cancerous growth in my inner ear.
As it was beyond the scope of the Ear Nose and Throat specialist I was sent off to meet the neurosurgeon.
This time the rooms was very slick modern, smelt nice had upmarket magazines in the rack. This was more promising, as rich mummy's boy Dr. Uganda may have the job but his magazine collection would be all Retard Monthly.
Doc came in, awful as this sound but he had a reassuring British accent, once in the room, very zen, nice original painting on the wall, everything in its place. Out came the fisher price head but this time its no made in China knockoff, this skull was the real deal, at least I know I am in a better position now than the poor bugger whose head we are juggling around, I asked if it was one of his patients, apparently not it came from India and real skulls are no longer sold.
The bottom line, it may not be life threatening now, but it will be if left unchecked, it has to come out. This means cutting a hole in my head and rummaging around like a lucky dip pot.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Brain Lesion
The Doc who carried out the screening test, called unexpectedly, well it was not entirely unexpected after the "situation" the day before in the scan room.
When I went for my medical I selected every single heart test, even the receptionist raised an eyebrow, put it this way by lunch time most of the other patients had gone home I was still there when the sun was setting. My concern was while in the pool I might get a stroke while doing some strokes and my kid would have to try and swim back to the side of the pool under her own steam which is a bit of a challenge for a blob like me let alone a two and half year old.
The Doc. said there's good news and bad news, she confirmed that I have a good heart, no cholesterol, no build up in the arteries so I managed to get one up on the burgers. The bad news, there is a lesion in my brain, looks like the burgers found a covert team to hit back while I was not looking.
What is a lesion? apparently its anything that's not normal, a mosquito bite on your arm is a lesion, the lobster jumping out or Mr. Hurts chest is a lesion, so we can safely assume it is not good.
The head has very few moving parts so when they do pack in its normally fairly obvious what it is.
I Googled -Brain tumor- result, 1 to 5 years life expectancy, it was my first real" Kum by ya" moment, well there was another a few years ago, I was rushing to cross the one-way street looking left, when a bus coming from my right just clipped my foot and spun me around, it was a two-way road. I had cold sweat all night, but that was due to my own stupidity. Now fate has dealt a lemon hand at the black jack table of life. Though some argue its the result of early mobiles phones, remember those bricks ? they pumped out enough radiation to light up a small African township. Who would have guessed ordering my pizza twenty years ago would turn my head into one.
I always had a premonition that my demised would be due to a large dark body of water, I get goose bumps around large reservoirs or waterfalls. I am a glass half full kind of guy so not matter how grim the situation there is always some poor bugger in a worse situation, and if you look hard enough there will always be a silver lining to every cloud.
When you look at those sad videos clips of people in horrific accidents and you can see them gulping their last breath, cant help wonder what frantic thoughts are going through their heads.
I have now been given this fantastic, alright maybe the word fantastic is pushing the "kid yourself" boat out a bit too much. I have been given a crystal ball that has shown me when, and how Mr. G. Reaper will be popping for tea and biscuits.
I can now get off my butt and do all the things I wanted to do, "sort out my affairs", making sure I don't leave behind a logistical nightmare, my wife does not know how to turn on the AV system, and its heart breaking knowing my 2 years old daughter wont be able to watch Higgly Town Heros. This is the sliver lining, fore sight, its something those poor souls in the crash videos did not have.
First thing is to do is find a travel agent that can sort out a trip to all the seven wonders of the world via parachute.
When I went for my medical I selected every single heart test, even the receptionist raised an eyebrow, put it this way by lunch time most of the other patients had gone home I was still there when the sun was setting. My concern was while in the pool I might get a stroke while doing some strokes and my kid would have to try and swim back to the side of the pool under her own steam which is a bit of a challenge for a blob like me let alone a two and half year old.
The Doc. said there's good news and bad news, she confirmed that I have a good heart, no cholesterol, no build up in the arteries so I managed to get one up on the burgers. The bad news, there is a lesion in my brain, looks like the burgers found a covert team to hit back while I was not looking.
What is a lesion? apparently its anything that's not normal, a mosquito bite on your arm is a lesion, the lobster jumping out or Mr. Hurts chest is a lesion, so we can safely assume it is not good.
The head has very few moving parts so when they do pack in its normally fairly obvious what it is.
I Googled -Brain tumor- result, 1 to 5 years life expectancy, it was my first real" Kum by ya" moment, well there was another a few years ago, I was rushing to cross the one-way street looking left, when a bus coming from my right just clipped my foot and spun me around, it was a two-way road. I had cold sweat all night, but that was due to my own stupidity. Now fate has dealt a lemon hand at the black jack table of life. Though some argue its the result of early mobiles phones, remember those bricks ? they pumped out enough radiation to light up a small African township. Who would have guessed ordering my pizza twenty years ago would turn my head into one.
I always had a premonition that my demised would be due to a large dark body of water, I get goose bumps around large reservoirs or waterfalls. I am a glass half full kind of guy so not matter how grim the situation there is always some poor bugger in a worse situation, and if you look hard enough there will always be a silver lining to every cloud.
When you look at those sad videos clips of people in horrific accidents and you can see them gulping their last breath, cant help wonder what frantic thoughts are going through their heads.
I have now been given this fantastic, alright maybe the word fantastic is pushing the "kid yourself" boat out a bit too much. I have been given a crystal ball that has shown me when, and how Mr. G. Reaper will be popping for tea and biscuits.
I can now get off my butt and do all the things I wanted to do, "sort out my affairs", making sure I don't leave behind a logistical nightmare, my wife does not know how to turn on the AV system, and its heart breaking knowing my 2 years old daughter wont be able to watch Higgly Town Heros. This is the sliver lining, fore sight, its something those poor souls in the crash videos did not have.
First thing is to do is find a travel agent that can sort out a trip to all the seven wonders of the world via parachute.
Monday, November 10, 2008
MRI Scans
You are a sausage in huge white elongated donuts. It was obviously designed by someone who never heard of the word claustrophobia.
Despite ear plugs and headphones, you hear strange rhythmic pulsating tones, the sort of thing you would experience if you ever wake up after being blinded by a light, and found yourself locked in a green goo filled room just above the UFO main source of energy.
The give away that something was up, I was inching along the conveyor belt, when it came to my head it stopped, I was pulled back and the head scanned again. There was a long enough period of silence for me to start wondering if everyone has legged it because of a fire and left me in this giant bog roll?
I was told via the ear phones they would like to do additional tests and I needed to give consent to inject dyes in my blood stream, and this will cost an extra 800 bucks. One half of me was looking for a mirror to see if I have SUCKER tattooed across my forehead, what person in that situation would say nope, no need, get me out of this fire death trap I rather spend the dosh on a new set of titanium Callaway golf clubs. It was the other half that reluctantly agreed to the extra cost
The sudden lack of eye contact and the replies “we are just technicians and cant read scans” said it all.
The biggest giveaway on the second round of scans, they played lift music in my earphone.
Oh the irony, my first ever attempt at blogging I write "Like life who know where it will go" what was suppose to be just a general rant and ramble, all seem to be focusing on me standing at the crossroad of my anatomical journey.
Writing about too much soya sauce on the char shui pows at Mr.Wongs seems a bit irrelevant, but who knows latter this whole thing might be the catalyst to really appreciate simple things, like being half asleep and finding the cool patch on your pillow in the middle of a hot night.
Have to think of the new name for the blog, The green mile, Dead man walking, The short plank, or cheesy one for those happy clappers who believe in the bearded David Blaine of the middle east how about “ @ONE ” ?
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Nipple Whitening Cream
It didn't take long to lower the tone of this blog, with that title I will be flooded with hits from pervs on Google.
During my wonders through the more colorful areas of Singapore, found a shop selling special powders to stop your turds from smelling, er.. why? and a tube of nipple whitening cream, I mean why of all places to be white, your nipples?
Pop into any chemist here and you will be assaulted by "clinical technicians" stick a white coat on a monkey, pop a pen in the chest pocket and brown people will queue up to buy tubs of whitening creams, potions, and pills
If there was a product that actually work the whole world would know about it? it would be front page news "A pill to cure racism"
How much easier would it have been for Obama to become president if he popped a couple snow-white pills?
Are there any scientific proof they work? There are lots of pseudo journals written or paid for by cosmetics firms, but are there any tests carried out by well respected medical institutions, using placebo and a control environment to prove these work?
Why do Asians want to be white? most think its so they can be more "western" but this lilly white fascination goes way back in time before Mr. Ginger minge even set foot in China.
I believe its comes from the fact that manual workers/laborer are always out in the sun and therefore brown. If you are that "been in a morgue fridge" colour then it shows you have the time and luxury of staying in doors all the time. Same theory applies to extra long nails and bound feet.
If you thought it was the British public school system that started all fetishes the Chinese was way ahead with foot binding.
Its only a matter of time before the more educated Asians will see that whitening is as daft as Westerners risking skin cancer trying to get brown.
Same logic works on getting a Tan, if you are anemic and see through, it means you are stuck in some dungeon like office, (the first world version of manual workers), but if you have the luxury of time and money you can jet off to exotic locations and as a result be brown. Caucasians can sleep easy knowing that they will eventually return back to white, can you imagine if you get a tan you stay dark? All the white folks will be in full on radiation suits.
Lets not forget to mention the horrific side effects of rubbing into your skin or swallowing mercury, No really? see
http://www.boston.com/news/globe/health_science/articles/2003/12/16/whitening_skin_can_be_deadly/
During my wonders through the more colorful areas of Singapore, found a shop selling special powders to stop your turds from smelling, er.. why? and a tube of nipple whitening cream, I mean why of all places to be white, your nipples?
Pop into any chemist here and you will be assaulted by "clinical technicians" stick a white coat on a monkey, pop a pen in the chest pocket and brown people will queue up to buy tubs of whitening creams, potions, and pills
If there was a product that actually work the whole world would know about it? it would be front page news "A pill to cure racism"
How much easier would it have been for Obama to become president if he popped a couple snow-white pills?
Are there any scientific proof they work? There are lots of pseudo journals written or paid for by cosmetics firms, but are there any tests carried out by well respected medical institutions, using placebo and a control environment to prove these work?
Why do Asians want to be white? most think its so they can be more "western" but this lilly white fascination goes way back in time before Mr. Ginger minge even set foot in China.
I believe its comes from the fact that manual workers/laborer are always out in the sun and therefore brown. If you are that "been in a morgue fridge" colour then it shows you have the time and luxury of staying in doors all the time. Same theory applies to extra long nails and bound feet.
If you thought it was the British public school system that started all fetishes the Chinese was way ahead with foot binding.
Its only a matter of time before the more educated Asians will see that whitening is as daft as Westerners risking skin cancer trying to get brown.
Same logic works on getting a Tan, if you are anemic and see through, it means you are stuck in some dungeon like office, (the first world version of manual workers), but if you have the luxury of time and money you can jet off to exotic locations and as a result be brown. Caucasians can sleep easy knowing that they will eventually return back to white, can you imagine if you get a tan you stay dark? All the white folks will be in full on radiation suits.
Lets not forget to mention the horrific side effects of rubbing into your skin or swallowing mercury, No really? see
http://www.boston.com/news/globe/health_science/articles/2003/12/16/whitening_skin_can_be_deadly/
My First Post
I always thought blogs are for sad computer geeks with the social skills of Quasimodo, now that I have a blog I can safely say, its true.
Although English is my mother tongue, I believe I have been touched by the dyslexic brush. I did contact the UK dyslexic association when I discovered if you are certified you are entitled to additional time during professional examinations. They wanted 600 pounds to confirm if I was dim or not, I gave it a miss and still passed my exams, so I leave it up to any grammar anoraks out there to decide.
What will this blog be about? I don't know, its just going to be one of those suck it and see types, like life who know where it will go.
Although English is my mother tongue, I believe I have been touched by the dyslexic brush. I did contact the UK dyslexic association when I discovered if you are certified you are entitled to additional time during professional examinations. They wanted 600 pounds to confirm if I was dim or not, I gave it a miss and still passed my exams, so I leave it up to any grammar anoraks out there to decide.
What will this blog be about? I don't know, its just going to be one of those suck it and see types, like life who know where it will go.
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