I was washing the dishes at the sink last night when I began to note tiny ants crawling on my skin. As quickly as I brushed one off, it seemed that two more would appear. It was then that I noticed the kitchen counter, against which I was leaning while doing the dishes, was swarming with the little critters. And I do mean little.. These guys were the next thing to microscopic, and yet each little microscopic ant packed a powerful bite! Soon I was itching from head to toe. Well, a long shower succeeded in flooding the ants off my skin and out of my hair, though not before I was left with multiple little red welts. Now I not only have skin cancer, but skin 'antcer' as well.
Visits
Friday, December 7, 2018
Thursday, December 6, 2018
The Fall
Christoph, my fellow MSer here in Bali, had a bad fall in the shower the other day, and by this morning found himself unable to get out of bed. The pain medicine he had been given, which was after all just paracetamol, proved ineffective for his pain. Pain can be a problem here in Bali, as the strongest med they have, as far as I've found, is codeine, which is often not very effective either (not to mention that it constipates the user something terrible). Christoph, however, whom I talked to this morning, was able to find some help through his Balinese friend and that friend's network in the form of a temporary assistant and (I think) a visiting doctor. The will be to be caring and helpful, which seems common among the Balinese, never ceases to amaze me. It is, I think, a cultural thing learned early on, and there is a desire, especially where the tamu are concerned (the 'guests', like me and Christoph) to be helpful, to provide assistance to strangers in a strange land. In some sense, there is no better place in which to suffer the disabilities of MS, particularly in the sense that kindness is often the only effective treatment for the disease.
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
5-FU
Finally got my magic cancer skin cream this afternoon. An old friend my ex-wife's and mine had the cream from leftover from her father who died of cancer, though not skin cancer, of course. That was just a cancer he was doing as a sideline to the liver cancer which eventually killed him. His name was Eugene and he was a fascinating old fellow who was originally from Russia but had spent most of his life in France, and then in Singapore and Indonesia. He spent his retired years writing historical fiction and bringing up his young daughter, whom he and his wife had adopted, though his wife passed away early on. In the end, the daughter, Nita, took care of Eugene. So it goes.
This cream is essentially the same as 5-FU (though it has a different name) and is to be used mainly for the precancerous keratosis on my right cheek, although when I talked to the oncologist about the basal cell carcinoma in my ear, I asked if I could use the cream on that and he said 'couldn't hurt'. So I'll give it a shot. If it is effective, I should be able to get more from Australia (they don't have the stuff in Indonesia). I am told, however, to use it sparingly, three times a week, as it can make your skin fall off. Yikes.
This cream is essentially the same as 5-FU (though it has a different name) and is to be used mainly for the precancerous keratosis on my right cheek, although when I talked to the oncologist about the basal cell carcinoma in my ear, I asked if I could use the cream on that and he said 'couldn't hurt'. So I'll give it a shot. If it is effective, I should be able to get more from Australia (they don't have the stuff in Indonesia). I am told, however, to use it sparingly, three times a week, as it can make your skin fall off. Yikes.
Morning Challenge
A challenging morning, mostly of my own invention. I was to go to lunch later on with my ex-wife and friends, but it was so damn hot that I thought I'd get a haircut first. Also, the hair has grown so long that it's bothering the sore on my ear--you know, always rubbing against it, irritating it.
So I popped up the street to the usual barbershop, only to find it closed. The sign on the door said "Open at 4:30". What kind of barbershop opens at 4:30? Maybe the kind that's not doing a lot of business? Or maybe the barbers are off at a ceremony? But no, that can't be, because most of them are from Java, not Bali, and it's the Balinese that do the ceremony thing.
Anyway, I thought 'Well, there's a barbershop over on Tukad Buyon, still close to my house. So I headed down there, but given that this took me on the same road that leads to Sanur, my brain kicked in with automatic pilot and I was nearly to Sanur by the time I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.
Oh well. I recalled seeing a new shop in Sanur, so I figured I'd just go to that one. However, as it turned out, I could not find it again to save my life.
Dripping with sweat, I stopped for a coffee (at least I didn't forget where the Starbucks is), and upon finishing the coffee, decided that I did not want to show up for the lunch in my increasingly soggy condition.
Home for a shower, then--and hey, I can stop this time by the barber I previously meant to stop at on Tukad Buyon.
Automatic pilot, however, frustrated this plan once again.
At home, after showering, I decided I should really resort to a pair of shorts today, even though my ex doesn't like me to wear them because they make my legs look too skinny. (I beg to differ on this point. It is not the shorts that make my legs look skinny. It is my legs that make themselves look skinny).
Now, the only decent pair of shorts I have is a pair of brown shorts, and for this I would need to wear brown sandals. The heel strap on my brown sandals has long been in need of repair, and I had long ago bought a little bottle of superglue to effect said repair. So, no time like the present.
This bottle of superglue is rather cleverly done. It comes in the package with a detached screw-on cap, and when you screw on the cap, the seal is punctured, thus allowing the superglue to escape the tube.
And escape it did. Soon, most of the fingers on both of my hands were glued to each other (though not a bit of the glue had yet gotten onto the sandal). I was in a bit of a panic, as it seemed like the thumb and middle finger of my right hand were about to be fixed permanently into the position of an "A-Ok" sign. Happily, a generous amount of dish washing liquid and hot water finally released them from one another.
By now, it must be getting late, I thought. So I went to check the time on my cell phone, and found the touch ID no longer works. The superglue has erased my thumbprint.
Off to lunch now. Hopefully my newly glued sandal will not end up permanently glued to my foot.
Wish me luck.
So I popped up the street to the usual barbershop, only to find it closed. The sign on the door said "Open at 4:30". What kind of barbershop opens at 4:30? Maybe the kind that's not doing a lot of business? Or maybe the barbers are off at a ceremony? But no, that can't be, because most of them are from Java, not Bali, and it's the Balinese that do the ceremony thing.
Anyway, I thought 'Well, there's a barbershop over on Tukad Buyon, still close to my house. So I headed down there, but given that this took me on the same road that leads to Sanur, my brain kicked in with automatic pilot and I was nearly to Sanur by the time I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.
Oh well. I recalled seeing a new shop in Sanur, so I figured I'd just go to that one. However, as it turned out, I could not find it again to save my life.
Dripping with sweat, I stopped for a coffee (at least I didn't forget where the Starbucks is), and upon finishing the coffee, decided that I did not want to show up for the lunch in my increasingly soggy condition.
Home for a shower, then--and hey, I can stop this time by the barber I previously meant to stop at on Tukad Buyon.
Automatic pilot, however, frustrated this plan once again.
At home, after showering, I decided I should really resort to a pair of shorts today, even though my ex doesn't like me to wear them because they make my legs look too skinny. (I beg to differ on this point. It is not the shorts that make my legs look skinny. It is my legs that make themselves look skinny).
Now, the only decent pair of shorts I have is a pair of brown shorts, and for this I would need to wear brown sandals. The heel strap on my brown sandals has long been in need of repair, and I had long ago bought a little bottle of superglue to effect said repair. So, no time like the present.
This bottle of superglue is rather cleverly done. It comes in the package with a detached screw-on cap, and when you screw on the cap, the seal is punctured, thus allowing the superglue to escape the tube.
And escape it did. Soon, most of the fingers on both of my hands were glued to each other (though not a bit of the glue had yet gotten onto the sandal). I was in a bit of a panic, as it seemed like the thumb and middle finger of my right hand were about to be fixed permanently into the position of an "A-Ok" sign. Happily, a generous amount of dish washing liquid and hot water finally released them from one another.
By now, it must be getting late, I thought. So I went to check the time on my cell phone, and found the touch ID no longer works. The superglue has erased my thumbprint.
Off to lunch now. Hopefully my newly glued sandal will not end up permanently glued to my foot.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
Thankful
I received a message from my friend Samuel the other day. The message said, "Mr. Will, what happen?"
You see, he had noticed something I wrote on Facebook about my cancerous ear saga, and though he cannot read or speak English, he was able to note the word 'cancer' and was concerned.
I sent a message back, briefly explaining the thing, and received the following message from Samuel.
"Mr. Will, I come to your house tonight."
Similarly, other friends and acquaintances here picked up on the post and immediately expressed their concern and good wishes.
I mention this just as a way to express my surprise and my appreciation at receiving so many caring inquiries. I really did not expect that anyone would even notice, much less rush to my house. And although my ear and I have not been parted after all, it's nice to know that folks cared.
You see, he had noticed something I wrote on Facebook about my cancerous ear saga, and though he cannot read or speak English, he was able to note the word 'cancer' and was concerned.
I sent a message back, briefly explaining the thing, and received the following message from Samuel.
"Mr. Will, I come to your house tonight."
Similarly, other friends and acquaintances here picked up on the post and immediately expressed their concern and good wishes.
I mention this just as a way to express my surprise and my appreciation at receiving so many caring inquiries. I really did not expect that anyone would even notice, much less rush to my house. And although my ear and I have not been parted after all, it's nice to know that folks cared.
Monday, December 3, 2018
Baby It's Cold Outside
Once again, 'tis the season to object. I'm not sure when this sort of thing started. I do remember when Christmas was just Christmas, without any particular objection. But at some point people got in the habit of feeling offended.
The usual objection has been to overtly religious displays. God forbid that the celebration of the birth of Jesus should be tainted by … well, references to Jesus. Bluntly 'religious' carols had to go, and manger scenes and other distasteful images like the cross and wise men and shepherds in the field and so on. There has even been the feeling in some quarters that the word Christmas itself must go, that it would be somehow more polite and considerate to say 'Happy Holidays'.
But this year's objection (or the first one I see, anyway) is of a different sort. We are to object now to the old song, "Baby It's Cold Outside".
I saw this news just today, and my first response was Huh?
Well, yes. We are told that this song is not appropriate in the 'Me Too' age. We are told that the lyrics are misogynistic, sexist, insulting, and may even promote rape culture.
Oh, God. Don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of the Me Too movement. I'm also a big fan of pizza, but one can go too far with these things.
So, here are the lyrics (parts in parentheses sung by the male, non-parenthesized by the female):
Scandalous, right? Very inappropriate. Unhealthy.
Pfft.
The song has now, in the year of our Lord 2018, been banned by multiple radio stations. Clearly these lyrics encourage sexual aggression and predatory attitudes--the idea that women may be restrained against their will, badgered, and plied with drinks, going as far as to suggest that a man may put something in the drink!
Given that these lyrics were written in 1944, the author may well have intended to suggest that something had been added to the drink--something like an extra shot.
Baby It's Cold Outside has been performed by countless singers, including Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Michael Buble, Tony Bennett, Doris Day, Dolly Parton, Idina Menzel--and so on.
Little did these folks realize that they were promoting sexual assault.
Huh. And all these years I thought it was just a story about a boy pursuing a girl and a girl playing hard to get. How naïve of me.
The usual objection has been to overtly religious displays. God forbid that the celebration of the birth of Jesus should be tainted by … well, references to Jesus. Bluntly 'religious' carols had to go, and manger scenes and other distasteful images like the cross and wise men and shepherds in the field and so on. There has even been the feeling in some quarters that the word Christmas itself must go, that it would be somehow more polite and considerate to say 'Happy Holidays'.
But this year's objection (or the first one I see, anyway) is of a different sort. We are to object now to the old song, "Baby It's Cold Outside".
I saw this news just today, and my first response was Huh?
Well, yes. We are told that this song is not appropriate in the 'Me Too' age. We are told that the lyrics are misogynistic, sexist, insulting, and may even promote rape culture.
Oh, God. Don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of the Me Too movement. I'm also a big fan of pizza, but one can go too far with these things.
So, here are the lyrics (parts in parentheses sung by the male, non-parenthesized by the female):
I really can't stay (but baby, it's cold outside)
I've got to go away (but baby, it's cold outside)
I've got to go away (but baby, it's cold outside)
This evening has been (been hoping that you'd drop in)
So very nice (i'll hold your hands, they're just like ice)
So very nice (i'll hold your hands, they're just like ice)
My mother will start to worry (beautiful what's your hurry?)
My father will be pacing the floor (listen to the fireplace roar)
My father will be pacing the floor (listen to the fireplace roar)
So really I'd better scurry (beautiful please don't hurry)
But maybe just a half a drink more (put some records on while I pour)
But maybe just a half a drink more (put some records on while I pour)
The neighbors might think (baby, it's bad out there)
Say what's in this drink? (no cabs to be had out there)
Say what's in this drink? (no cabs to be had out there)
I wish I knew how (your eyes are like starlight now)
To break this spell (i'll take your hat, your hair looks swell)
To break this spell (i'll take your hat, your hair looks swell)
I ought to say, no, no, no sir (mind if I move in closer?)
At least I'm gonna say that I tried (what's the sense in hurtin' my pride?)
At least I'm gonna say that I tried (what's the sense in hurtin' my pride?)
Scandalous, right? Very inappropriate. Unhealthy.
Pfft.
The song has now, in the year of our Lord 2018, been banned by multiple radio stations. Clearly these lyrics encourage sexual aggression and predatory attitudes--the idea that women may be restrained against their will, badgered, and plied with drinks, going as far as to suggest that a man may put something in the drink!
Given that these lyrics were written in 1944, the author may well have intended to suggest that something had been added to the drink--something like an extra shot.
Baby It's Cold Outside has been performed by countless singers, including Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Michael Buble, Tony Bennett, Doris Day, Dolly Parton, Idina Menzel--and so on.
Little did these folks realize that they were promoting sexual assault.
Huh. And all these years I thought it was just a story about a boy pursuing a girl and a girl playing hard to get. How naïve of me.
Then again, I wonder. Could it be that the only inappropriate thing here has been the imposition of the corrupt, cynical, paranoid sensibilities of our time on a more innocent age?
Worth thinking about.
But in the meantime, and in keeping with the modern spirit, let's all try to be just a little bit less pleasant and a little less human this Christmas.
Sunday, December 2, 2018
The Mystery of the Laron
I was watching an old movie last night called The House of Fear, starring Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes, with Nigel Bruce as Doctor Watson. This had just happened to pop up on my YouTube page for some reason. Strange how that happens. Apparently the site is somehow aware that I and my brother used to enjoy watching these old Holmes flicks on a rainy day back when we were just tykes and presumed that I might be interested in watching them again. Of course, these Holmes flicks, produced during the '40's, weren't all that old back when we were tykes.
Early impressions are lasting and persuasive, and for that reason, Basil Rathbone stays with me as the best ever to have portrayed the British sleuth.
Honestly, The House of Fear was a rather silly story, and a predictable one; nonetheless, I was so immersed in the 'mystery' that I did not notice the swarm of laron that had entered the house. Laron is the Indonesian word for the flying brown termites that mysteriously appear at the most pressing height of the day's humidity, just before or just after a big rain. They are attracted to light, which of course is why they had come flocking into the house, and they retain their wings for only a short while.
So, I looked up from The House of Fear to find myself in the house of laron, swallowed in a veritable storm of flying brown bugs.
So much for the movie--for cleaning these critters out of the house requires time and effort. And a broom. Later on today, I will need to clean off the kitchen counters and sink in the back, for everything is covered with a blanket of brown wings.
Where did the bugs themselves go, minus their wings? Well, my der Watson, that remains a mystery.
Early impressions are lasting and persuasive, and for that reason, Basil Rathbone stays with me as the best ever to have portrayed the British sleuth.
Honestly, The House of Fear was a rather silly story, and a predictable one; nonetheless, I was so immersed in the 'mystery' that I did not notice the swarm of laron that had entered the house. Laron is the Indonesian word for the flying brown termites that mysteriously appear at the most pressing height of the day's humidity, just before or just after a big rain. They are attracted to light, which of course is why they had come flocking into the house, and they retain their wings for only a short while.
So, I looked up from The House of Fear to find myself in the house of laron, swallowed in a veritable storm of flying brown bugs.
So much for the movie--for cleaning these critters out of the house requires time and effort. And a broom. Later on today, I will need to clean off the kitchen counters and sink in the back, for everything is covered with a blanket of brown wings.
Where did the bugs themselves go, minus their wings? Well, my der Watson, that remains a mystery.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)