Lord of the fly hitchhiking a ride
There was a fly sitting comfortably on my windscreen this morning. With all the opening and closing of the door and start of the engine, you thought it would've left. But after a good five minutes' drive, it was still there. Right in front of me. Like a king on its throne, scrutinizing its empire and its subjects below early in the morning. And I, was the chauffeur.
How long was it gonna stay there? Slightly annoyed, I perfunctorily swiped it off its feet. And just like that it was gone with the wind. No sooner than it got blown away behind the window that I gasped.
What if the fly had been my deceased grandfather coming back, in the form of an insect as widely believed by the Chinese especially my mum, on this particular morning to escort me to work? Perhaps something bad was going to happen that he hanged on to his dear life against the wind blowing at, at least, 80km an hour to protect me? Would I now get into troubles??
I wish I had never activated those wipers. But most of all, I wish that fly wasn't hurt.
I drove on and as I slowly emerged from my slightly sentimental and superstitious self, I couldn't help but wonder if all this was not an indication that my car (if you see it) is in a desperate need of a good thorough wash already.
Posted by manglish at 8:35 AM 4 comments
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 28, 2011
Medical check up
In May last year, I went for a medical check up. The doctor who examined me took my blood and several hours later, its result came back. It was found that my triglycerides - a sort of fat the body uses as energy - was ALARMINGLY high. It was not an exaggeration. It was biblical. The healthy level should range from 30-150; but my reading, as the doctor highlighted it on the computer screen in front of us, was 1101. In addition, she also pointed out that my cholesterol was too high. She looked concerned. I was, however, unfazed because a) I already knew that for many years and b) I approached the problem with a "why fix it when it's not broken?" gait. The doctor, before disposing me from her office, prescribed me with some pills which, after a couple of weeks when I returned to see her again, effectively cut the triglycerides level by a whooping fifty percent. She said,
"Watch your diet. Exercise, and continue taking the pills"
All of which I passed off as white noises, discarding the remaining pills along with other combustible rubbishes before moving back, until after lunch today.
My maternal grandfather had, literally, dropped dead before I was even borned. I heard that he was out running errands one day, fell from his bicycle and died. Many years later when I was 13, my maternal uncle had gone out dancing one night, fell and died on the dance floor. Just a few months ago, my maternal aunt fell to her death in the bathroom from a ruptured brain aneurysm; and my mother is hypertensive. But unlike me, she is -- when describing how well one follows prescribed treatment regimens in the medical profession -- compliance, which means she diligently takes her pills every morning. Connecting the dots of my relatives' past, I couldn't help but see the silhouette of my own future.
And therefore, I'd decided to modify the aforementioned (b), listened to the doctor and tried to save myself before it's too late by living more healthily.
On the way to work this morning, a clinical psychologist advised on air that we should all look into the rear mirror of our lives every now and then, remember our pasts in order to keep on the tracks of where we are going. I didn't get to the end of the session but I think it's supposed to make us happy, or something like that. And so, in order to make us healthy, perhaps we should all look into the family's past medical histories once in a while.
Posted by manglish at 4:18 PM 5 comments
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 2011
On the Go
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Malaysians behind the wheels must be in the possession of some evil nature. A couple of nights ago my friend and I witnessed such devil at work.
On our way back from dinner on the Kajang Highway, a car overtook ours and dogged another on the extreme right lane which was meant for cars driven below 110km/hr. But most Malaysians thought the speed limit was the minimum requirement to be on that lane. And so they usually drive at light-speed.
The Proton Kancil, which was being followed, was recalcitrant and refused to change lane. This made the driver behind it furious -- flashing frantically and tailgating ever so closely that even the air between both the cars felt suffocated. Other people would probably be worrying about the safety of everyone in both vehicles. But as Malaysians, we were expecting a scene which came out from Final Destination.
I looked over and found that I couldn't say anything about the driver since all the windows were heavily tinted. What sort of a person would do that? I wondered. And so, true to our Malaysian nature, my friend and I began to speculate things about the angry driver, judging only from the type of car.
He (most likely to be) must be someone who was
A) Successful; and important. Who, we imagined, to have endless high-profiled meetings to attend to and critical decisions to be made. Who tirelessly lamented how useless everyone else was in the company and how stressful his life was now that the entire team and/or company had to be dependent on him. And tonight was no different from the others; there was yet another highly significant deal to be closed somewhere. Which explained the manner in which he'd driven. We imagined.
B) Or, in short, a self-important S.O.T.B. who couldn't care less about the life of other people.
As we approached the toll station with our preconception about the driver, we'd expected important people like him to zoom through the SMART tag lane with the least time to be wasted. Less important people like my friend and I would wind down the window and pay with "Touch and Go". Even less important people queue up and pay cash.
I looked around for the car as my friend wound down the window and stopped to pay. And guess where it was?
Stuck behind three cars in the CASH-ONLY lane!
Posted by manglish at 12:44 PM 8 comments
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2011
Coming home
It's amazing how the writing muscle can deteriorate rapidly from rather-sinewy to complete-atrophy in just a few months of not exercising it diligently. It's as if I had verbal constipation just now trying to put down the first sentence for today's entry.
Yesterday, while it was raining cats and dogs outside, my professor stormed into the room and said, "They'd decided that you passed. Now go thank the other professors."
Huzzah! I'd passed. This chapter of my life is coming to an end soon. In less than a month, I'll be coming home, with a luggage and a doctorate degree, to a brand new life and career.
Instead of amalgam fillings, I'll be teaching. I'll be a lecturer. I'll be imparting my experiences/knowledge to future dentist-wannabes. Students will look up to me. People will think that I am smart. My family will be proud of me. It's invigorating. Joyous. Exciting. I was floating graciously in the air, ascending to the top of the world, until I realized, later in the evening, that, except for cancer biology, I'd lost touch with most of the more complicated oral diseases and fell, head first, out of my reverie. I panicked and immediately downloaded an oral pathology textbook from my Vietnamese colleague, P. The responsibility can be intimidating.
For the last several days, I've been telling my sister what I wanna do when I get home. And there are so many. I wanna have the best nasi lemak in town. The bakuteh. Curry mee. Chicken rice. Wanton mee. Cendol. Roti telur. Toasts with kaya and butter. Half-boiled eggs sprinkled generously with white pepper powder and a tad of soya sauce. KFC. Redecorate the storeroom at home. Attend a writing course. Learn a musical instrument. Preferably guitar. Karaoke-ing. Meet up with my secondary school friends. Travel. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
The list is endless. But, it'll have to start with the first chapter of the pathology textbook for now.
Posted by manglish at 9:58 AM 19 comments
THURSDAY, JULY 21, 2011
Reading retreats
After reading an article about reading retreats yesterday, I turned green. It is the sort of things I've always imagined myself doing: going away to somewhere recluse, bringing with me absolutely nothing -- not even the thoughts of family or work -- but books. In my reverie, I'd stay in a little hut, small but furnished with everything I need to live - food, drinks, and air-conditioning preferably -- nearby a beach. And I'd spend nights and days doing nothing but read, until my eyes shoot out of their sockets.
At the end of the article, I felt a tsunami of jealousy sweeping across me. Why can't the person going on the retreat be ME?! My inner voice was beginning to whine like a petulant 5 year-old denied of his favorite ice-cream or the latest 3D Nintendo gamer when I suddenly realized, I'd been on my own retreats for the last three years. Even though it is not as exclusive as Bill Gates's week-long reading retreat, I've been spending most of the my weekends reading, and being transported into different worlds -- with an assortment of sandwiches, rice dumpling and rice crackers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner provided by a 7-11 nearby, for the last few months.
Just a couple of days ago, I finished reading Bossypants by Tina Fey and The Bells: A novel by Richard Harvell.
The Bells was a serendipitous find. I was reading the NYTimes one day when my eyes caught sight of the animated banner. As soon as I clicked on it, 45 pages of the first section of the book was there for free. At the end of the free trial, I was captivated, hooked and intrigued. The rest was history. The way R.H told of the story read a lot like any C.Dickens' books, which is probably why I am riveted because, to me, C.Dickens is the best storyteller among all of the classical writers. Everything in the story was laid out vividly in details throughout the book. It felt as if I'd just came out of a theater as I turned the last page.
Bossypants, on the other hand, was funny. Tina Fey is a funny woman. But only in the beginning from the time when she was a kid with a slashed wound across her face right up to before she started working at Saturday Night Life. (Work is never fun, is it?) After that, I was lost. To love Bossypants is to have watched SNL or 30 Rock, none of which I had. Reading that section of the book felt a lot like listening to an old secondary school friend, you've not met in ages, chronicling her life -- it is interesting, fun and exciting, but to the narrator only. For the most part of it, you just pretend to be interested. You cannot relate to any of the joyous moments because you have since lived a separate life and were not there to witness/share those moments.
After these two books, I was looking for something light to read. Something which will really tickle my funny bones. I was agonizing between Sophie Kinsella's "Can you keep a secret?" and the "Twenties Girls" when I found "Matilda". It said on the Amazon website -- under Product Details -- Reading Level: Ages 9-12. Hmmm...The beginning of the book was rather bitchy, really. Which made me very very happy. Anyway, children's book or not, I shall now march into the world of little Matilda and when I come out of it, I hope my is a different one.
Posted by manglish at 10:07 AM 3 comments
WEDNESDAY, JULY 13, 2011
BERSIH 2.0
When it comes to politics, I am apathic. But when you are several thousands of miles away from home, and the only life support system you have is the Facebook, it is inevitable I too -- no matter how politically apathic -- get caught of the recent "yellow fever" bug spreading epidemically in and outside of Malaysia.
After watching the many video-clips posted on Facebook, the uber-massive, history-making, chaotic demonstration last Saturday looked so reminiscent of what had taken place in Thailand not too long ago. One of them even reminded me of the Tiananmen Square incidence, when a Muslim guy, face covered in Jihad-style, stood amid the thick cloud of tear gas and began performing his prayer alone while a troop of FRU trucks with its water cannons came down the same street head-on. But that old chinese lady, drenched in chemically tainted rain, with a stalk of flower in her hand, she reminded me of no one.
A national heroine after July 09, she refused to back away from the chemical insults. When people asked her to run, she said, "If I leave now, how are we gonna go on in the future?" and stood firm in her path and what she believed in. Frankly, I am not sure what she believes in. In fact, I am not sure if she, or the million of my countrymen in that gargantuan mess, truly knew what they were fighting for. (Because....they love their country?)
No doubt many things in the country need to be corrected. Electoral system reformed. Justice uprighted. Corruption nipped. Special privileges scrapped. Public transport bettered. A meeker weather. But correct me if I am wrong, in their long march, in bright yellow T-shirts, on the black tarred road, has the opposition offered clear directions of how to get to a better Kuala Lumpur city of the future? Yes? No? Or are they just a group of people who only criticizes incessantly but never contributes constructively like that irritating, trouble-making colleague in a meeting? As a political renegade, I don't know.
But what I know is that I grew up disliking Dr.M. Not the way he looks but his administration. Personal preferences aside, despite all its shortcomings, his long tenure proved to all that he was the I-Did-It-My-Way Frank Sinatra of Prime Ministers. He turned the country into part of the "East Asia Miracle" with his original remedies concocted especially for Malaysia. It was all glorious until, of course, the financial crisis in 1998. Many might not be able to, even up to today, accept the way he had treated his then heir apparent ,but every physician knows best, when handled carefully, sometimes a little poison is the best cure. And hasn't the country got out of trouble relatively unscathed as compared to the other SEA countries? Even though I still don't like him championing for special privileges so vehemently, I am learning to swallow the bitter pill prescribed in The Constitution. It's very much like loving someone unconditionally -- you accept them, warts and all. And with all his originalities, no one could have loved the country more than Dr.M. The tumultuous demonstration last weekend was a totally unnecessary way of displaying one's love for the country. It's so not our style.
Anyway, deep inside, I know the country will be fine, with or without demonstrations. After all, we are Malaysia Boleh, aren't we?
Posted by manglish at 1:40 PM 10 comments
FRIDAY, JUNE 24, 2011
subarachnoid hemorrhage
Last night, I took out the pouch, my dad had prepared before I left for Japan, containing a rosary and a mantra booklet, sat cross-legged facing east, and began to chant.
Earlier, I was on YM with my sister discussing how to best help my aunt who is now in ICU, intubated in every possible way to help her stay alive. Last week, she was admitted to the hospital for subarachnoid hemorrhage due to a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. It snapped while she was in the bathroom. Subarachnoid hemorrhage is a grisly condition with high mortality. Some died before arriving at the hospital. Looking back, that was perhaps how her dad and brother died many, many years ago, a time when most of us were still ignorant about medical conditions.
After three emergency operations to relieve the pressure ratcheting up inside her head from the pooled blood, she lapsed into a coma. Her pupils were no longer responding. She had infection. She had fever. And her vital signs roller-coastered. Yesterday afternoon, the doctor gathered everyone and mentally prepped the family for the worst -- even if she'd made it through, it is very likely that she would be vegetative for the rest of her life.
My sister asked me if the doctors were going to remove all the tubes when they said they were "giving up". I have no idea. I only knew, at that moment, that my sister and I weren't ready to give up. And so, we decided to pray.
Five minutes into my monotonous recital last night, however, I couldn't help but wondered: What was is it that I was praying for? Was I praying for a medical miracle? For her to wake up and recovered as if the aneurysm had not touched her at all? Or was I praying for her soul? For a smooth transition from one phase of life that we all know into one which is obscure to all? Or was it my own unwillingness to face up to the reality that I was really praying for, my own clinging? A couple of nights ago, I dreamed of her and she was radiant, calm and smiling in it. They told me, like her bleak prognosis, it was a bad sign.
My sister said she is praying so that my aunt would regain her consciousness again, even if ephemerally, to say her last words. A concept I couldn't quite know how to apply to my aunt who perhaps belongs to a generation of oriental women living through life behind an invisible niqab.
