Monthly Report

 I see upon glancing at my blog that I have not kept up with reports of my health disorders. I'm sure no one has missed these, but who knows, I might need to look back at some point to keep track of them myself should a doctor want to know when I had this or that. So the last one I wrote about was actually kind of two in one - -a problem with eczema occurring in concert with the flu. Well, I've moved on from that. Always moving forward, as far as poor health is concerned. 

After the flu, or rather on the tail end of the flu, I developed a serious case of gastroesophageal reflux. I've had this before, most notably back in 2019, as I recall. After that time I had little flare-ups now and then, but this latest case was a doozy. I finally seem to have gotten on top of it, although I am still following a very bland diet and taking omeprazole twice a day. 

Therefore, with nothing better to do, I decided to reinjure my shoulder. Apparently this happened when I was raising my arm above my head, as the orthopedist had told me to do. Listening to him as it turns out was not a good idea. What happened was that I irritated my acromioclavicular joint. This is the space between your shoulder blade and your arm. Of course, I did not know specifically what had happened, all I knew is that it hurt like hell over the entire shoulder and down into my chest and back. 

So after suffering for a week or so, I decided I had best go to the doctor, especially considering that I will be headed to Japan later in the month and I did not like the idea of sitting for 8 hours or so on a plane while having an insanely painful shoulder. But, you know, the tickets had already been purchased. 

I had an x-ray at the doctor's office and was informed that, thankfully, there was no damage done to the recent surgery site. Nothing out of place, nothing broken. That was my great fear - - that I would end up in the hospital again with another hospital bill, on top of the expense of the Japan trip. Ruination! 

But no, the doctor explained that this unimpressive little space between bones was responsible for all that impressive pain I was having. I am surprised that no one has ever mentioned this little particular to me before, either in previous physical therapy or after the shoulder surgery. In my case, this space has become extremely narrow due to arthritis and degeneration of cartilage between the bones. 

So now I am taking muscle relaxers, pain medication, and learning exercises designed to decrease pain and keep the joint as stable as possible. 

And I'm not lifting my arm above my head. 

Ever. 

Again. 

Apart from all of this trouble, I have purchased all four books of Elena Ferrante's My Brilliant Friend series. I am currently reading book 2 in Indonesian, which for some reason was not available here in English. Go figure. I'm not really sure why I'm so fond of these novels. Maybe it is because of the excellence of the female viewpoint communicated by Ferrante. For a male reader, it's kind of like continually saying to oneself, Oh, I see, so that's what they are thinking! I dunno, it's just a very engaging story filled with interesting characters, both female and male. 

Twain

I was watching a documentary on Mark Twain the other day and I was shocked to find that he was only 74 years old when he died. I say only, only as an old man, I suppose. But the surprising thing was just that it was surprising--surprising because I have read several biographies of Twain and of course I've seen many pictures of Twain, but somehow it had not sunk in that he was not more like 90 years old. He certainly looks 90 years old in some the photos I've seen. But here is what I am getting around to. I myself am nearly 73 years old now. Could it be that I am nearly as old as Twain and ready to die? That I have just one year left? Surely I cannot live longer than Mark Twain, because, I mean, after all, he was Mark Twain for God's sake! And lived a life worth living, and left so much behind for the rest of us. His imprint on life, even in death, far supersedes the impression made by most other people who have ever existed. Indeed, it absolutely blots us out. Now how do you like that? Anyway, I wish now that I hadn't watched that documentary and found out how really old I am. Thanks a lot, Mark.

Aposiopesis

... Did you know that there are more bacterial cells in your body than human cells?

    Seriously? 

    Way more. You have 500 different species of bacteria just in your intestine. There's enough bacteria inside you to fill a two-litre bottle. Scientists believe some human genes originally came from bacteria. 

     Well that's disgusting, she says. 

     Yeah, you say. But when you think about it, it's also pretty interesting. People get so hung up on are they this kind of person or that. But if you have ten times more non-human cells than human cells, then, in a way, you're not even you. 

     It kind of takes the pressure off, you say. I feel like if people knew they were mostly bacteria it would solve a lot of problems. 

--The Bee Sting, Paul Murray

One last bit of biting hilarity from The Bee Sting, the second reading of which I enjoyed even more than the first. This novel ends in what is called, in literary terms, an aposiopesis--a really keen term meaning that it has an open ending, it is a non-closure narrative. The story ends at the point of maximum tension and provides no clear resolution. That part is up to the reader, and in this case, it serves as a litmus test for whether one is an optimist or a pessimist, or perhaps something in between. It gets you to thinking ever more deeply about the story, and indeed about yourself. It is interesting, if you delve into the thing online, to find how many different reactions and opinions there are, each seeming very sure of itself. My own reaction on the second reading was of a somewhat different shade than on the first. The book itself hasn't changed, and so that means, I guess, that I have. It seems that a new shaft of sunlight has appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe it's just that proverbial light going on in my brain. 

Ready or Not

Everything seems radiant with self, and at the same time distant somehow, as if it were receding from him -- moving away in time, while he stays where he is. This must be what it feels like to be dying, he thinks; the world remains around you, like a lover who does not want to hurt you by leaving, but in spirit it's already gone, taking with it the meaning of everything you shared. In truth it is already transforming into a future you will never be part of; and you realize only then that it has been transforming all the time, throughout your whole life, and you with it; and that, in fact, is life, though you never knew, and now it is over.

--The Bee Sting, Paul Murray

A penetrating, insightful passage from Paul Murray's excellent novel (which I am reading for the second time). Transforming into a future you will never be part of. That one stings. And I feel that way myself. I feel on the outside of the life that is unfolding around me. I am already not here. I'm watching someone's home movie. And that right there is how out of it I am--because people don't have home movies anymore, do they. Do you remember the old projector and the white screen on its folding stand? Do you remember having to watch someone else's life? Aware that it is important to them, at least, but that you yourself have no part to play. You are an observer. Or maybe you show up in one or two of the flickering images. There I am, you think. Proof of life. And then it's over. And you realize that as your own life unfolded you should have watched more closely, you should have lived with greater intention, you should have loved more completely, because this, this very short long life, is down to its final ticks; and what is left is nothing more than cliche - -if only I had it all to do over again .... 

Sleep Well

Before he became a father, he imagined the relationship as being like an intensive version of owning a pet. The child, he thought, was essentially passive, a vessel into which you poured your love. On TV that's how it looked. Children were silent, dormant; you went into their bedrooms, gazed down at them fondly, drew the blankets over them as they slept. 

--The Bee Sting, Paul Murray

That's not only how it looked on TV. For me. For me, that's how it was. My son, as a child, as a little boy, was everything I wanted him to be. And more. He could not have been more perfect, and no father and son can ever have been closer than we. 

That was a long time ago, when he was just a child. It was a very long time ago, and yet, at the time, it seemed like it would be that way forever. 

It was not what I expected, nor did I envision a silent, dormant creature, such as Murray describes. I envisioned nothing at all, for I had never been a father nor imagined being a father nor wanted to be a father. 

So what had been unknown and unwanted or at least unthought of became all that was known, all that was wanted, the center of thought, the birth of selfless love. 

Murray's story doesn't end at the quote above. Nor does mine. One night you draw the blankets over them, and then in the morning they are gone.

Cursed

I've been struggling over the past two weeks with two cursed problems occurring simultaneously. First off, I found myself suffering with terrifically itchy arms (something that has happened to me in the past as well). The skin was very dry and red and the more you scratched it the more itchy it got. Went to the doctor for that and found that this was actually eczema along with a skin infection, for which I received an antibiotic cream and some sort of other cream to help the skin heal. 

Then, the day after seeing the doctor about the skin problem, I woke up with the flu. And this has been a bad one--nose running like a faucet, sore throat, and finally coughing my lungs out. Impervious to cold medicine, or so it has seemed. 

But both problems seem to be on the heal now, although only slowly so. Both together have left me feeling fatigued and constantly sleepy. 

Not a great end of the summer season for me. Last night we had a heavy rain and one can feel the season changing. Soon the rains will become more common, heavier, and the stifling humidity will return. Honestly, summer (June, July and August) is the only really bearable season here. In fact it is quite pleasant. So I will have to just hunker down and look forward to summer of 2027.

An Old Couple and Etc.

Evelyn has been here in Bali for 2 weeks, and we had a cozy, pleasant time as usual, just hanging out, cooking, exploring. It seems that we have become as familiar as man and wife, an old married couple. Which I guess makes sense. We have been together now going on 6 years, per my calculations. But given that we are only able to be together once every two or three months, perhaps we have in this way avoided the familiarity that breeds contempt, as the old saying goes. 

Now she has returned to Central Java and I to such menial activities as arguing with atheists on Facebook or watching mostly substandard movies on Netflix (although I did discover not long ago that one can get lots of old movies on YouTube, some of them pretty good).

I have finished an absolutely intriguing book (if you are intrigued by plague) by Orhan Pamuk (Nights of Plague) and I am now reading Melville's The Confidence Man for the third time in these many years of mine. And finally, astoundingly, praise God, I am understanding it 😂. The prose here is very dense and sophisticated, even for Melville, but if you pay close attention, you get what is going on, beneath the surface, that is. It is, as I suddenly realize, an intensely Christian narrative, although in the cynical, satirical fashion of Twain. But it is a joy to read, and actually quite funny for its startling descriptions and turns of phrase. 

I have begun as well another Pamuk novel, The White Castle. I am reading it in Indonesian, so my progress is somewhat slow, but that in itself can be a good thing, as it tends toward a more careful focus on what is being read. Ironic, isn't it, that it can be easier to miss things written in one's own language.