Time and circumstances are closing in on my cancerous ear this week. Louis is back in Bali from Australia for a couple weeks and is devoting herself to seeing that the ear is cut off. What else is an ex-wife good for? So, she has made an appointment out at Siloam Hospital, which we are to attend later today. In the meantime, the ear itself seems to be improving, with the outer wound shrinking and drying up; although, of course, the tumors within the skin are still palpable. So I don't know. I guess I'll just see what the doctor says later today and go from there.
Visits
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Monday, November 26, 2018
Old Jim
Jim was a white haired old gentleman who attended the same church as I back in Portland, Oregon. I was a new Christian back then, in the early '90's, while Jim had been a Christian, more or less, forever. He was not the sort of person I would have talked to in my life beforehand, because he was old, and usually rather rumpled, and sometimes smelled strong, like mothballs or mold; but church has a way of bringing unlikely people together, of challenging barriers, of exchanging sour with sweet, arrogance with humility, reticence with readiness.
Sometimes, the pastor would have us pray with whomever was sitting closest to us in the pew (with the caveat that you could not choose your own wife or child), and sometimes it would be Jim who was sitting closest to me.
Prayer breaks down barriers, too. It makes all people equal. And it makes them a little bit more human than usual.
After prayer one time, I struck up a conversation with Jim. I had always admired his full head of thick white hair, whereas I, at least 20 years younger than he, was already rapidly losing my own. So I complimented him on his hair, its ivory whiteness (with just the slightest yellow tinge) and how it seemed always so perfectly in place.
"That's because I leave the soap in," Jim explained.
"In … what, the dish? The bottle?"
"In my hair."
"Ah."
On another occasion, Jim commented on a band-aid I was wearing on my finger. I had cut myself the night before while making dinner.
"I should probably get some medicine for it, so it won't get infected," I said.
"You got a dog?" Jim asked.
"A dog? Well … yes."
"Well, sir, this is what my dog told me. I had cut my finger, just like you've done, and I was settin' out to put a bandage on the cut when my dog said, 'Hold on, Jim. Lemme see that cut.' So I showed the dog the cut and straightaway he set to licking it. Licked it till all the blood was washed off and it wasn't bleeding no more. 'That oughta fix it,' he said. And by God, it did. I've never since used any bandage or medicine for a wound, but just showed it to my dog and let him cure it with his tongue."
"Well, that'll sure save you the money for medicine or a doctor," I said.
"Yup. Long as I got that dog."
I thought it was funny back then, a story to share with my younger friends. But I'm old now, just like Jim was then--and though I don't have enough hair on my head to paste in place with soap, I do regularly talk to the dog. And the dog talks to me. Moreover, I'm not shy about admitting to it. Both dogs and people have a lot more to offer than one might imagine at first sight.
Sometimes, the pastor would have us pray with whomever was sitting closest to us in the pew (with the caveat that you could not choose your own wife or child), and sometimes it would be Jim who was sitting closest to me.
Prayer breaks down barriers, too. It makes all people equal. And it makes them a little bit more human than usual.
After prayer one time, I struck up a conversation with Jim. I had always admired his full head of thick white hair, whereas I, at least 20 years younger than he, was already rapidly losing my own. So I complimented him on his hair, its ivory whiteness (with just the slightest yellow tinge) and how it seemed always so perfectly in place.
"That's because I leave the soap in," Jim explained.
"In … what, the dish? The bottle?"
"In my hair."
"Ah."
On another occasion, Jim commented on a band-aid I was wearing on my finger. I had cut myself the night before while making dinner.
"I should probably get some medicine for it, so it won't get infected," I said.
"You got a dog?" Jim asked.
"A dog? Well … yes."
"Well, sir, this is what my dog told me. I had cut my finger, just like you've done, and I was settin' out to put a bandage on the cut when my dog said, 'Hold on, Jim. Lemme see that cut.' So I showed the dog the cut and straightaway he set to licking it. Licked it till all the blood was washed off and it wasn't bleeding no more. 'That oughta fix it,' he said. And by God, it did. I've never since used any bandage or medicine for a wound, but just showed it to my dog and let him cure it with his tongue."
"Well, that'll sure save you the money for medicine or a doctor," I said.
"Yup. Long as I got that dog."
I thought it was funny back then, a story to share with my younger friends. But I'm old now, just like Jim was then--and though I don't have enough hair on my head to paste in place with soap, I do regularly talk to the dog. And the dog talks to me. Moreover, I'm not shy about admitting to it. Both dogs and people have a lot more to offer than one might imagine at first sight.
Saturday, November 24, 2018
A Breath of Fresh Air
A consistent rain, starting during the night and continuing through this morning, has brought a sorely needed cooling to sun baked south Bali. Whew.
It is very difficult to describe the murderous humidity of this season in Bali. It presses down from the sky, presses in through your skin, wraps itself around your bones and muscles and lungs and then squeezes like a boa constrictor. There is the feeling that the atmosphere, unable to bear itself any longer, must at any moment explode and vanish in a great cloud of steam.
The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire; and the earth and everything done in it will be laid bare (2 Peter, 3:10).
Yeah. Kind of like that.
So, it was with thankfulness and relief this morning that I headed out on my motorbike through a light sprinkle, the breath of a delicious breeze washing my brow and ruffling my shirt-sleeves. I entered Starbucks to the cheery sound of Jingle Bells on their music system, ordered the customary latte, and then took it to one of the tables outside to continue to bathe in the fresh, unburdened air. Festive!
I find that the intensity of the pain in my neck and shoulder is also decreased. Is this something that is exacerbated by heat intolerance? It's a thought.
It is very difficult to describe the murderous humidity of this season in Bali. It presses down from the sky, presses in through your skin, wraps itself around your bones and muscles and lungs and then squeezes like a boa constrictor. There is the feeling that the atmosphere, unable to bear itself any longer, must at any moment explode and vanish in a great cloud of steam.
The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire; and the earth and everything done in it will be laid bare (2 Peter, 3:10).
Yeah. Kind of like that.
So, it was with thankfulness and relief this morning that I headed out on my motorbike through a light sprinkle, the breath of a delicious breeze washing my brow and ruffling my shirt-sleeves. I entered Starbucks to the cheery sound of Jingle Bells on their music system, ordered the customary latte, and then took it to one of the tables outside to continue to bathe in the fresh, unburdened air. Festive!
I find that the intensity of the pain in my neck and shoulder is also decreased. Is this something that is exacerbated by heat intolerance? It's a thought.
Friday, November 23, 2018
Believe it or Not
Today from the 'Believe it or Not' file:
"In Tangerang village, open defecation still way of life" [Jakarta Post].
"For most people living in cities and big towns," the article begins, "defecation is a relatively simple matter, involving getting to a toilet, doing the business, and then flushing it away with running water."
Not so for the folks in Tangerang Regency, where residents must wait in lines to visit the only communal toilet in the area.
It should be pointed out at this juncture that Tangerang is not an obscure settlement on an isolated island. It is located on the western border of Jakarta, Indonesia's largest city.
The toilet facility itself was built 12 years ago and has been damaged. "The water tank is broken and someone stole the pump", the Post reports. Those who do not like to wait in line may "go to a cassava garden" (where fertilization of the cassavas takes place at the same instance, one presumes), or they may go to nearby Cisadane Creek, which is also a popular bathing spot.
Women who live in the neighboring community also bring their family's laundry to this creek. One resident, Risna, commented that while her family actually does have a toilet and running water at home, she prefers to do her washing in the creek, as she has washed her clothes in the creek for decades.
One assumes that the family does not wear a lot of white. Or not for very long, anyway.
Despite knowing the waters to be polluted with human excreta, Risna brushed off any concerns, claiming that her skin had become immune. While acknowledging that locals still bath and openly defecate in the creek, she noted that some simply feel more comfortable going there, as it had been their common practice for years.
"It's okay as long as we don't use the water for drinking," she explained.
Well, different strokes for different folks, I guess. Some people, protective of the 'purity' of their culture, use bows and arrows to shoot lone missionaries. Others just openly defecate.
"In Tangerang village, open defecation still way of life" [Jakarta Post].
"For most people living in cities and big towns," the article begins, "defecation is a relatively simple matter, involving getting to a toilet, doing the business, and then flushing it away with running water."
Not so for the folks in Tangerang Regency, where residents must wait in lines to visit the only communal toilet in the area.
It should be pointed out at this juncture that Tangerang is not an obscure settlement on an isolated island. It is located on the western border of Jakarta, Indonesia's largest city.
The toilet facility itself was built 12 years ago and has been damaged. "The water tank is broken and someone stole the pump", the Post reports. Those who do not like to wait in line may "go to a cassava garden" (where fertilization of the cassavas takes place at the same instance, one presumes), or they may go to nearby Cisadane Creek, which is also a popular bathing spot.
Women who live in the neighboring community also bring their family's laundry to this creek. One resident, Risna, commented that while her family actually does have a toilet and running water at home, she prefers to do her washing in the creek, as she has washed her clothes in the creek for decades.
One assumes that the family does not wear a lot of white. Or not for very long, anyway.
Despite knowing the waters to be polluted with human excreta, Risna brushed off any concerns, claiming that her skin had become immune. While acknowledging that locals still bath and openly defecate in the creek, she noted that some simply feel more comfortable going there, as it had been their common practice for years.
"It's okay as long as we don't use the water for drinking," she explained.
Well, different strokes for different folks, I guess. Some people, protective of the 'purity' of their culture, use bows and arrows to shoot lone missionaries. Others just openly defecate.
Thursday, November 22, 2018
A Dubious Feast
I ended up with a decidedly less than festive Thanksgiving meal. Couldn't find any yams or sweet potatoes. Couldn't find any pumpkin pie. And there ain't no turkeys in these parts. So I had a hunk of chicken, a can of peas and carrots, and mashed potatoes. And an ice cream sandwich for dessert. My guest for dinner was the big fat brown dog, who did quite enjoy the chicken (which she said tasted just like turkey to her), but turned down the potatoes, complaining that they didn't even taste like potatoes. And she was right, for they were powdered potatoes.
I couldn't help but apologize. It's just not like Thanksgiving, I said.
Well, she observed, there's no place like home for the holidays.
'cause no matter how far away you roam,
if you want to be happy in a million ways,
for the holidays you can't beat home sweet home.
I couldn't help but apologize. It's just not like Thanksgiving, I said.
Well, she observed, there's no place like home for the holidays.
'cause no matter how far away you roam,
if you want to be happy in a million ways,
for the holidays you can't beat home sweet home.
Child Marriage
More off-beat news from Indonesia, this from today's issue of the Jakarta Post:
In West Java, Child Marriage Turns Fatal.
"A teenage girl from West Java," the article tells us, "has died after allegedly being a victim of domestic abuse in what appears to be a court approved child marriage."
The girl was 15. Her husband 16. The girl died from "multiple head injuries and wounds all over her body".
The husband was held in police custody for 24 hours, but has been released due to "lack of evidence".
?
Research done by Gadjah Mada University in 2011 showed that 44 percent of child brides are subject to frequent abuse in their marriage. In 2012, a national survey showed that 220,000 girls had been married at least once in West Java.
In this case, the parents of the children decided to marry them off out of concern that they might commit pre-marital sex, which is deemed sinful in Islam.
This sin, therefore, was avoided. Unfortunately, the solution seems to have led to murder. Which I'm pretty sure is also a sin.
In West Java, Child Marriage Turns Fatal.
"A teenage girl from West Java," the article tells us, "has died after allegedly being a victim of domestic abuse in what appears to be a court approved child marriage."
The girl was 15. Her husband 16. The girl died from "multiple head injuries and wounds all over her body".
The husband was held in police custody for 24 hours, but has been released due to "lack of evidence".
?
Research done by Gadjah Mada University in 2011 showed that 44 percent of child brides are subject to frequent abuse in their marriage. In 2012, a national survey showed that 220,000 girls had been married at least once in West Java.
In this case, the parents of the children decided to marry them off out of concern that they might commit pre-marital sex, which is deemed sinful in Islam.
This sin, therefore, was avoided. Unfortunately, the solution seems to have led to murder. Which I'm pretty sure is also a sin.
Thanks to My Ear
Thanksgiving morning. Just spending some quality time together with my ear, from which, it seems, I will soon be parted. The plan now is to arrange the "amputation" in the next couple weeks, to be done at Siloam Hospital in Kuta, which I like better than Kasih Ibu in Denpasar because it seems cleaner, more modern, and more professional.
My ear and I have had a long history together, having been inseparable for nearly 65 years now. It has heard many things in its lifetime and done its best to relay all it has received to me. It has never made its own judgements, but merely conveyed information through sound, to be sorted out with widely varying degrees of faithfulness in my brain, for the ear itself has never been tainted by its own wants or expectations. I have received, through the properties of the ear, sounds both sweet and bitter, lovely and unlovely. And of late I have heard a lot of ringing, which is not the fault of the ear itself but of an inappropriate neurological process.
Of course, the removal of a portion of the flesh of my ear will have no affect on my hearing (or I wouldn't think so, anyway). Still, I can't help but think that the ear henceforth hearing things will not be the same ear as it was before and therefore may not hear in the same manner. Will it not feel a bit shy in the future? Will it tend to turn away and let its brother, the left ear, do all the hearing? Will it feel self-conscious and unworthy?
Ah well, we shall see. I am, in any case, appreciating its presence, albeit a cancerous one, while it is yet present--giving thanks for this ear which has, in general, done me good.
My ear and I have had a long history together, having been inseparable for nearly 65 years now. It has heard many things in its lifetime and done its best to relay all it has received to me. It has never made its own judgements, but merely conveyed information through sound, to be sorted out with widely varying degrees of faithfulness in my brain, for the ear itself has never been tainted by its own wants or expectations. I have received, through the properties of the ear, sounds both sweet and bitter, lovely and unlovely. And of late I have heard a lot of ringing, which is not the fault of the ear itself but of an inappropriate neurological process.
Of course, the removal of a portion of the flesh of my ear will have no affect on my hearing (or I wouldn't think so, anyway). Still, I can't help but think that the ear henceforth hearing things will not be the same ear as it was before and therefore may not hear in the same manner. Will it not feel a bit shy in the future? Will it tend to turn away and let its brother, the left ear, do all the hearing? Will it feel self-conscious and unworthy?
Ah well, we shall see. I am, in any case, appreciating its presence, albeit a cancerous one, while it is yet present--giving thanks for this ear which has, in general, done me good.
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