In the latest medical news, it turns out that I don't have diabetes, I have "pre-diabetes'", which I guess can be controlled with diet and exercise for the time being. Of course I have to discontinue all my favorite foods, like cake and pie and candy and cinnamon rolls and bread and jam and Froot Loops, and so on. I also have high blood pressure and high cholesterol. No more potato chips or salty Indo dishes. What else? Vitamin B deficiency and andropause. Gee, and I was feeling so good just several months ago. And this is getting damned expensive too! More than 2 million rupiah today for the doctor and the meds. Eating myself into a quick demise might be preferable.
Visits
Friday, May 17, 2019
The Kingdom
A long, long time ago, a good friend of my father's had an issue with his neighbor. Or rather, his neighbor had an issue with him. Or rather, had an issue with his children. The children, youngsters of my own age, naturally enjoyed playing in their yard, with one another and with their little friends. Well, the neighbor felt the children were too loud, and suspected that they were occasionally stepping onto his property. In short, the neighbor did not like children.
Nonetheless, he refused to discuss the issue soberly with my father's friend, preferring to grumble, accuse, and wag his finger. For this reason, my father's friend, George Baganstoss by name, decided to write and deliver a speech from his driveway, which paralleled the neighbor's and was conveniently situated below the neighbor's living room window. He showed my father the speech, which struck my father as quite eloquent, with shades of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Abraham Lincoln.
In his resounding baritone voice, George delivered this speech one evening, standing in his own driveway, gesturing appropriately with his arms and hands.
The neighbor pulled down his shades (and likely plugged his recalcitrant ears).
I have always remembered this incident, which caused me to genuinely like George Baganstoss for himself rather than just as the father of our friends. And I am reminded of it now as a problem arises regarding the two little children who occasionally visit me at the villa where I live. It seems that someone considers their presence annoying, a trespass of "solitude". Are they running around and jumping through hoops or destroying property or being riotous? No, mostly they like to play with my laptop. Sometimes they will just visit for a bit with me. One girl, Viana, comes just to ask how I'm feeling, for she knows that I've been ill. I find the two of them polite, well-behaved, fairly quiet, and wonderfully entertaining. Having raised five children, who are already grown, and one of them, my natural son, gone forever, I am called back to a youthfulness within myself, an aptitude for simple joy.
Once upon a time, little children were brought to Jesus for him to lay his hands on them and bless them. The disciples were annoyed and rebuked them.
"Let the little children come unto me," Jesus said, "and forbid them not; for of such as these is the Kingdom of heaven made."
And again, when asked by his disciples Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? Jesus called a little child to his side, and he said "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."
I would add the logical extension that as long as you reject and forbid the little children, neither will you enter the kingdom of heaven, try as you might through your precious silence and solitude.
Nonetheless, he refused to discuss the issue soberly with my father's friend, preferring to grumble, accuse, and wag his finger. For this reason, my father's friend, George Baganstoss by name, decided to write and deliver a speech from his driveway, which paralleled the neighbor's and was conveniently situated below the neighbor's living room window. He showed my father the speech, which struck my father as quite eloquent, with shades of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Abraham Lincoln.
In his resounding baritone voice, George delivered this speech one evening, standing in his own driveway, gesturing appropriately with his arms and hands.
The neighbor pulled down his shades (and likely plugged his recalcitrant ears).
I have always remembered this incident, which caused me to genuinely like George Baganstoss for himself rather than just as the father of our friends. And I am reminded of it now as a problem arises regarding the two little children who occasionally visit me at the villa where I live. It seems that someone considers their presence annoying, a trespass of "solitude". Are they running around and jumping through hoops or destroying property or being riotous? No, mostly they like to play with my laptop. Sometimes they will just visit for a bit with me. One girl, Viana, comes just to ask how I'm feeling, for she knows that I've been ill. I find the two of them polite, well-behaved, fairly quiet, and wonderfully entertaining. Having raised five children, who are already grown, and one of them, my natural son, gone forever, I am called back to a youthfulness within myself, an aptitude for simple joy.
Once upon a time, little children were brought to Jesus for him to lay his hands on them and bless them. The disciples were annoyed and rebuked them.
"Let the little children come unto me," Jesus said, "and forbid them not; for of such as these is the Kingdom of heaven made."
And again, when asked by his disciples Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? Jesus called a little child to his side, and he said "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."
I would add the logical extension that as long as you reject and forbid the little children, neither will you enter the kingdom of heaven, try as you might through your precious silence and solitude.
Thursday, May 16, 2019
Viana and Feby
Yesterday, Viana and her little friend, Feby, came flapping up to the door--or rather, they flapped up to the parking garage, where one can see the back patio through spaces in the wall, and announced their presence from there. "Meester!"
You see, we have a paranoid resident in our little settlement who obsesses on the condition of the door, whether it is closed or open or locked or not locked. The preference of this resident, who never comes out of her room, is for the door to be locked at all times. I and another resident objected to this arrangement, finding it both unreasonable and inconvenient. As a matter of compromise, I suppose, she had the caretaker install an attachment that would automatically close, but not lock, the door. The trouble with this attachment is that it is so stiff that one has to push the door quite hard to enter, and many, on first try, conclude that the door is locked. This was likely the conclusion of Viana and Feby, and thus they called out to me through the wall.
"Meester!"
Well, I let them in, and demonstrated that they could actually open the door by pushing harder, although I don't know whether they would do that. These are polite little kids with, seemingly, a perception of boundaries and a sense of propriety.
Naturally, they wanted to use the laptop, and the iPad, and the phone. I have had a horse-shaped piggy bank (a horse-bank) sitting around in my residence ever since Sasha moved back to America (some two, or was it three years ago?), so this I gave to Viana and Feby. This was of sufficient delight to wrench their interest away from the internet for a moment.
The counting of the coins proved a particular challenge, as Viana and Feby proceeded to call out their individual tallies at the same time, like in an old comedy skit, for of course each of them lost count a number of times and had to start again. Ultimately, they agreed upon a system of tens, and each began to arrange the coins in little stacks equaling one thousand ribu.
I was surprised, however, when they returned the coins to the horse and put the horse in front of me.
"No, no," I said, "I'm giving it to you."
"Yes, yes, we know, but we will keep it in your room.
Hmm. Something going on with Viana and Feby, hints of which I have noticed before. For instance, when Viana hears a motorbike on the street out front, she will duck out of sight and peek at who the driver is, sometimes standing and seeming relieved, sometimes not. Is there someone that they fear? Or have they been told not to come here to the villa? Or are they just playing some girls' game? Are they afraid to take the money with them because 1) it might be taken away or 2) they might get in trouble for taking it? I don't know. I've tried to ask Viana who she is looking for or if she is afraid of something, but she offers no comment whatsoever on the subject.
Oh well, I will keep the coins for them in any case.
You see, we have a paranoid resident in our little settlement who obsesses on the condition of the door, whether it is closed or open or locked or not locked. The preference of this resident, who never comes out of her room, is for the door to be locked at all times. I and another resident objected to this arrangement, finding it both unreasonable and inconvenient. As a matter of compromise, I suppose, she had the caretaker install an attachment that would automatically close, but not lock, the door. The trouble with this attachment is that it is so stiff that one has to push the door quite hard to enter, and many, on first try, conclude that the door is locked. This was likely the conclusion of Viana and Feby, and thus they called out to me through the wall.
"Meester!"
Well, I let them in, and demonstrated that they could actually open the door by pushing harder, although I don't know whether they would do that. These are polite little kids with, seemingly, a perception of boundaries and a sense of propriety.
Naturally, they wanted to use the laptop, and the iPad, and the phone. I have had a horse-shaped piggy bank (a horse-bank) sitting around in my residence ever since Sasha moved back to America (some two, or was it three years ago?), so this I gave to Viana and Feby. This was of sufficient delight to wrench their interest away from the internet for a moment.
The counting of the coins proved a particular challenge, as Viana and Feby proceeded to call out their individual tallies at the same time, like in an old comedy skit, for of course each of them lost count a number of times and had to start again. Ultimately, they agreed upon a system of tens, and each began to arrange the coins in little stacks equaling one thousand ribu.
I was surprised, however, when they returned the coins to the horse and put the horse in front of me.
"No, no," I said, "I'm giving it to you."
"Yes, yes, we know, but we will keep it in your room.
Hmm. Something going on with Viana and Feby, hints of which I have noticed before. For instance, when Viana hears a motorbike on the street out front, she will duck out of sight and peek at who the driver is, sometimes standing and seeming relieved, sometimes not. Is there someone that they fear? Or have they been told not to come here to the villa? Or are they just playing some girls' game? Are they afraid to take the money with them because 1) it might be taken away or 2) they might get in trouble for taking it? I don't know. I've tried to ask Viana who she is looking for or if she is afraid of something, but she offers no comment whatsoever on the subject.
Oh well, I will keep the coins for them in any case.
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
Andropause
"I can deal with the sore throat," I told my doctor. I can deal with the sinus infection and the high pressure congestion. But I can't deal with this extreme feeling of heat in my neck and head!"
"Well," she said, "the good news is that it has nothing to do with the infection in your throat and sinuses."
Not really my idea of "good news".
"So what can we do?"
"Hmm. I don't know."
Later in the week I see the neurologist. I describe the heat which is at that very moment raging in my skull.
"Oh, that's probably male hot flashes … male menopause. We call it andropause."
Huh? Who has even ever heard of such a thing? Male menopause? Are you kidding me?"
No. No joke. It's actually 'a thing'.
Andropause arises from age-related changes in male hormone levels. The same group of symptoms is also known as testosterone deficiency and androgen deficiency. The symptoms are much like those experienced by menopausal women--a sense of extreme heat, sweating, extreme fatigue, mood instability, depression, etc.
Testosterone does more than fuel the male sex drive. It fuels changes during puberty, fuels your mental and physical energy, maintains your muscle mass, regulates your fight or flight response, and regulates other key evolutionary features.
Are we having fun yet?
Whereas all women will experience menopause, only about 21 percent of men will suffer symptoms of male menopause.
As always, I am one of the lucky few.
"Well," she said, "the good news is that it has nothing to do with the infection in your throat and sinuses."
Not really my idea of "good news".
"So what can we do?"
"Hmm. I don't know."
Later in the week I see the neurologist. I describe the heat which is at that very moment raging in my skull.
"Oh, that's probably male hot flashes … male menopause. We call it andropause."
Huh? Who has even ever heard of such a thing? Male menopause? Are you kidding me?"
No. No joke. It's actually 'a thing'.
Andropause arises from age-related changes in male hormone levels. The same group of symptoms is also known as testosterone deficiency and androgen deficiency. The symptoms are much like those experienced by menopausal women--a sense of extreme heat, sweating, extreme fatigue, mood instability, depression, etc.
Testosterone does more than fuel the male sex drive. It fuels changes during puberty, fuels your mental and physical energy, maintains your muscle mass, regulates your fight or flight response, and regulates other key evolutionary features.
Are we having fun yet?
Whereas all women will experience menopause, only about 21 percent of men will suffer symptoms of male menopause.
As always, I am one of the lucky few.
The Sad Saga Slogs On
It seems that the more I try to fix the problem with the fungal throat plague, the more problems the doctors find (without, of course, helping the throat plague any). Went to the neurologist yesterday, at the insistence of the ENT, and he discovered high blood pressure, “male hot flashes” (of all things), probably vitamin b deficiency, and possibly diabetes (yikes). Gave me a few pills and sent me for further blood work (and a further draining of my wallet). I have fasted all night (appropriate for Ramadan, I suppose, but backwards, as fasting is supposed to take place during the day), and now I have just gotten the first of two blood draws. It seems that I must eat now and return for the second in two hours. So I stopped by a nearby bubur warung, scarfed down a bowl of bubur ayam, and am now enjoying a water at the also nearby Starbucks at the Level 21 Mall. I am finding sipping a glass of water for two hours quite challenging.
Tuesday, May 14, 2019
Packing One's Bags
Tying up loose ends. Making final preparations. Packing my bags. Filling holes. Removing stones. Making peace. Restoring order. Is that what I'm doing? Healing the only things that can be healed, those things that will be left behind. Bestowing blessings. Forgiving and begging forgiveness. Remembering, repenting, doing the first works, for the first works were the best works, uncorrupted, untarnished by the world. Remembering and reclaiming first love. We've got to go back and do it over again. How does one best expend his final efforts? The sun is sinking, and the horizon, as when one saw the sun rise, is sharp and clear in the hour that is either early or late, untouched by the glare and commotion of mid-day. So much to do and so little time for the doing at the latter hour of the day. A thousand things to say, and a thousand to un-say. A life to reform, a skin to cleanse and groom before the shedding--not for the skin's sake, no; but for those who will look upon it. One must purchase the right to say Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.
Monday, May 13, 2019
Referral
The latest wrinkle in my ENT doctor's thus far ineffectual treatment of my incurable throat plague is her insistence that I see a neurologist before she will treat me any further, as she is afraid of causing havoc with my multiple sclerosis. The condition itself is causing sufficient havoc as things already stand--severe numbness and tingling in the right foot and leg, RLS every night, a burning hot sensation in the head and neck, extreme fatigue--and so I don't really see how more aggressive medication measures could cause that much more trouble than I already have, especially considering that the neurologist I am to see will probably know significantly less about MS than I myself know. But so it goes. More money on the way out of my bank account. But at this point I'll do anything. I'll see a witchdoctor if it will help. I'll stand on my head four hours a day. I'll eat yogurt only for the rest of my life. I'm just so sick of being sick!
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