Tag Archives: hospital

For little H, the long-fingered one.

First day Raya: no more sneak-smoking and playing hide and seek with the cleaning ladies at school. Back to afternoon coffee and something resembling an output of creativity hence this entry after a loooong hiatus. Happy Raya suckers!

With Ish now at a coffee joint. Damn this latte is good given the conditions within it is consumed: in broad daylight. After one-handed eating whilst driving all throughout September, I need to readjust to normal meal configurations ie. table, chair, cutlery and the absolute absence of shame and guilt.

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I was with P at the hospital, in front of the delivery hall, staring at a set of decorative lighting blinking in primary colours for a good 8 hours or so. Waiting for the nurses to call him in to witness the birth of his first-born daughter. As calm as he looked, I knew P was scared shitless. The same kind of fear and anxiety I had experienced during A’s time delivering our S.

The relief on his face after the baby was delivered. A speechless moment after announcing to me (on the floor, against the wall, reading last year’s GQ) that the baby’s born and his wife is being stitched up. The weary eyes and the knees giving-in as he sank down and joined me on the floor. Brothers sharing a quiet moment of joy and thanks.

H: welcome to the family. It ain’t the best of families but it surely ain’t the worse either. Buckle up for the ride.

Addendum: As of 20th August 2008, Kuburan Dakwat is 2 years old. Happy Anniversary!

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Goodness Gracious Great Ball of Fire.

High spirits and good humour were abound during our (A and I) visit to a local specialist hospital today. I’d noticed that my left testicle had begun to develop some sort of swelling 2 days ago. A, ever an alarmist, called-up her doctor friend, Dr. S, who then gave her a quick over-the-phone quasi-diagnosis of my condition being either orchitis or testicular torsion. This was after a quick self-examination, as instructed by the good doctor, whereupon I had to feel around the afflicted area and gauge its temperature as compared to its neighbouring appendage, while driving. Incidentally, I wished Dr. S a happy birthday via the facebook inbox and her reply was “Thank you. I hope your ball is feeling much better today”. Well, thank you Dr. S, my ball is recuperating nicely, I hope.

So there we were, A and I, in the specialist’s (a certain Dr. Huz) waiting room. A had earlier called the centre to book an appointment at 11.00. At 11.45, a disgruntled A was beginning to consider to give the attendant at the desk a piece of her mind. We’ll be paying good money for this and we shouldn’t have been kept waiting 45 minutes. Although beginning to get annoyed myself (“Dr. Huz, telurku menunggumu“), I discouraged her from reprimanding the poor girl who might’ve not been informed of the doctor’s itinerary that given day. So we amused ourselves with more testicular humour and pictures of piles-afflicted rectums in the brochures.

Dr. Huz gave me a quick, gloveless (I’m impressed) examination upon his inspection table and agreed to our (unsolicited and unprofessional) opinion that it was either of the two conditions aforementioned. A blood test was hence scheduled to advise him of my white blood-count as well as an ultrasound scan. The blood test was an uneventful affair where an attendant took a whole vial of the stuff.

The ultrasound exam was a more sordid episode when I was dutifully led by a female attendant to the examination room and told to take off my jeans and drawers, get on the bed, and cover myself up with the blanket provided. Before I could confirm my expectation that she was going to touch me up, she gave me a magazine (Health Today) and with a bored expression told me that the doctor will be with me shortly.

So there I was, testicles snugly tucked beneath the blanket, reading about the advantages of taking fish oil, and waiting for the doctor while my exposed feet were freezing in the polar air-conditioning. After about 15 minutes, a burly Punjabi doctor in a smart black striped shirt came in and said “Let’s have a look at your testes shall we?” He proceeded to lube-up the contraption through which images of my ball will be projected upon a small screen. The unfortunate result being my balls got all slobbered up with the ky-like substance.

The doctor then told me grab hold of my penis (was he impressed?) which was in the way, i guess, and proceeded to rub and prod away at my jewels, all the while asking whether it hurt. It didn’t physically, but quite daunting emotionally as I laid there with my dick in my hand, not knowing where to look, stifling coughs for fear of wet testicular explosion. 15 minutes of that and he just said ‘Okay, finished’ and simply upped and went, leaving me feeling used and violated while I wiped my sodden organ with tissue paper. I bet he won’t even remember my name.

Back to Dr. Huz’s office and his final diagnosis was epididymitis which is thankfully treatable by antibiotics. So that’s where P. Diddy got his name from. No wonder he changed it again.

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Tentang Mati

Seorang ibu mertua yang sedang bertarung dengan maut, asap rokok insomnia ku dan azan subuh yang baru selesai berkumandang. Resepi mutlak bagi blog-blog yang digelar seorang rakan pemblog sebagai blog-blog assalamualaikum.

Aku di Klang lagi kurang 24 jam kepulangan kami ke Kuantan tempohari. Semalam aku dikejutkan dari tidur oleh A yang pulang ke rumah dengan tangisan dari pejabat membawa berita bahawa ibunya dimasukkan kembali ke wad kritikal. Lewat sebuah panggilan telefon dari Papanya yang menangis (dan dia tidak pernah menangis) memberitakan keterdesakan keadaan Mama.

Mengemaskan pakaian yang masih berada dalam beg-beg kami mengambil masa cuma 10 minit. Tiada tangisan bantahan dari SNA yang barangkali sudah puas meragam dan menjerit malam sebelumnya dan aku dan A berada di Klang selepas 3 jam di lebuh raya.

Bapa Mama berasal dari tanah besar China datang ke tanah Melayu dan anaknya itu memeluk agama dari tanah Arab untuk menghalalkan cintanya dengan Papa. Secara ringkas, seorang casual believer, sekurang-kurangnya daripada apa yang aku perhatikan dari amalan ritualisticnya. Belum sempat (dan aku percaya tidak pernah bercadang) untuk mengerjakan ibadat Haji dan tidak pernah aku lihat dalam pakaian solat.

Tapi demi Tuhan dia seorang ibu yang penyayang. Tidak pernah mengabaikan kedua orang anaknya. Seorang isteri yang taat dan ibu keduaku yang menerimaku masuk ke rumahnya seperti aku datang dari perutnya sendiri.

Dan sekarang dia separuh sedar di hospital berhadapan masjid pernikahanku. Meracau dalam kesakitan, Mama memanggil mamanya.

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Mati itu terlalu sakit,

Di dalam kubur terlalu sempit

Atau lain-lain lirik nasyid yang sempat aku hafali di mussola sekolah menengah. Lagu-lagu yang mengingatkan kita tentang siksa kubur dan persiapan sebelum menempuh ajal. Mati bukan sahaja tanda henti hubungan kita dengan dunia tetapi kemungkinan menempuh keperitan di dunia yang satu lagi.

Barangkali mati yang menjanjikan kebahagiaan hanya bagi mereka yang berketayap bertudung litup. Yang hidup di atas sejadah dan yang tidak berhenti bertasbih. Aku tidak membantah atau mencemburui golongan sebegini. Tapi tempatkan ibuku di Syurga kerana memang di situ tempatnya!

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Text Message to A

I wrote:

 “The way I’ve acted has been disgraceful. I know you need to be near her and it’s wrong for me to be selfih. Please forgive me. Anytime and every time we need to go, we’ll go together. Like a family should. Just bear with me if I sulk. I’m a bitch I know.”

She replied:

“You’re my favorite bitch! Now let me sleep this off so I can be a better person for you. Love you biotch! He he.”

Postscript

The above texts were exchanged after a quiet disagreement I had with A regarding the current and impending frequency of our travels back to Klang.

A’s mother has been hospitalised and is still in the critical ward. Her liver has been leaking water into her stomach cavity. Yesterday they poked a little hole and drew out 2 litres of water. We’ve been told that it’s not really serious but the condition is causing very serious discomfort.

Groggy on antibiotics and Malaysian hospital conditions, she needs her only daughter by her side to provide what little comfort she can.

And I’m doing all this bitching about only having two weeks off from school, missing my guitar and not being able to enjoy my newly-fixed (after 1 whole hellish week) modem.

When I die  I’d probably end up in bad son-in-law hell. I’d be smoking a stinking hell cigarette with the other bad son-in-laws who conspire to kill or destroy the business of their mother-in-laws in day time Malay soap operas.

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