Going for gastroscopy today, throat narrowed due to acid reflux due to hiatal hernia. In case they do not allow me to go home till I am over the sedative, I am bringing A dog’s year by Jon Katz to read. I read a paragraph and it is very good. He writes in an easy to read chatting style. If only I could put my gift there to work and earn some money that way, spotting good book and writing. I can tell within five minutes if a book is good, well written or not. If a book does not pass me in under five minutes, it is not a good seller.

It was actually an ebook publisher who drew that talent out and made me realize I have it as also a knack for writing reviews. He would come after me for reviews till I got tired of writing them. I used to buy ebooks from him and started commenting on the books. One day he got tired of gauging authors and started sending me books to gauge. There were a few I did not relate to. He went ahead and published them. I must have hit it right on target because after a few of those, he brought me all his new authors. It was empowering in a way. I could get their dreams of publishing realized or crashed. It was easier for me, I do not know them and do not deal directly with them. He later sold the company and started another and recommend me to the new publisher. The new publisher continues it but not as much. He is young and able to do it. He did ask me if I could edit his books. I declined, I write English like a musician playing organ by ear, without notes.

When I write here, I do not take time to edit. Editing for me is like a musician listening to notes. I could tell where the writing has discordant note. The day I was able to feel my way around writing, and learned writing in a craft was the day when I know I have a gift at writing.

It is like cooking. I was held as a good cook. I never felt it that way. One day it came to me, a good cook is able to visually see the end product, how the dish should end up in and in the process of cooking work toward that. For instance stir frying button mushroom with garlic. End product should be mushroom that is not watery. To effect that, one has to wait till the wok is hot, put in butter and then garlic. When the garlic turns a bit brown, put the mushroom in, leaving the heat hot and continously stirring the mushroom. The garlic coated the mushroom giving it a garlicky taste and the high heat prevent water to ooze from the mushroom. End product is a plate of mushroom, with a little sauce running from the mushroom and mushroom very garlicky in taste. I never use any water with it. Mushroom has enough water in itself. I do the same with bean sprouts, by that means getting crisp cooked green sprouts.

Writing reviews is something else. It has to be just right, not too much and not too little. For instance ad, too much, it is over selling. Too little it does not sell. Every word should count, not a single word redundant.

…….

So much for believing I could go there, have my gastroscopy done, wait an hour or two if it so requires and then drive home.  They did not allow that and told me unless I get a ride, they have to reschedule. They offered to call a cab. I hesitated. I have never called a cab and know one could get hit with surprises and I do not like surprises. At the same time, it could help me retain my independence, one I held onto ever since G. passed away. I have done everything on my own and rely little on anyone except for a couple of very close friends to take care of my house when I am gone. One of them is a friend and tenant and would readily work for ten an hour. My mind went instantly to my neighbor. I know she is free in the morning. I would prefer the money to go to her than to a cab, same way I feel about my friend and tenant. I managed to get hold of her and she came. It was very hard for me to impose on anyone that way.

I entered, worried look on my face. The technicians took at look at me and must thought I was worried about the procedure. I told the young man, it is not the procedure I was fretting about but having to get my neighbor there at the last minute and she having to wait till I am through. One of the nurses told me I was lucky. It was a good day and will be over very soon. I was glad to hear that.

They wheeled me inside. The male nurse called out to the other nurse, “She is an upper.” I smiled inwardly, I am an upper all right. I went for such procedure without any anxiety or worries even when I had a D and C done which required a little cut. It was however the first time I heard that remark. It came to me they could have patients like my mother. She is something else.

Her hand hurt terribly from carpal tunnel syndrome. I brought her for surgery. As I looked at the technicians at the operation theater and the lights, I remember her account and laughed to myself.

When we brought her back into the house, my sis-in-law and I, my youngest sister, Etty was there waiting for us with her daughter, Phine. We gathered around my mother and she started, “Ai yo, I had such a fright. They brought me into a room and transferred me to a strange table. They tied my hands and feet down. I looked around, the doctor was not there. Instead they were a bunch of ‘lok sok kiang’, gangsters, dressed in green with funny caps on their head. One of them came to me and joke, ‘mau potong…’ Potong who, kill who? It would only be me. I grew very fearful. What are they going to do? What are they going to cut? Why are they tying both my arms when only one hand needs surgery.

I told the young man in Malay, ‘only one hand needs surgery, please do not cut the other also.’ He assured me they would.

And then it started, I could hear the clip clip cutting of flesh. I was terrified and called out, ‘stop, stop, enough, enough. I do not want anymore. You can stop now. It is all right.’

When they did not, I shouted louder in Malay, English, Hokkien, Foochow, in every language I know. They still would not stop. I started crying and cried louder and louder. I figured if I cry loud enough, they will stop. I guess they could not stop. They did it right to the end.”

We listened and as we listened to her embellishing the tale, we laughed till our sides split and tears ran down our faces. I told her, “Ma, those were not lok sok kiang. Those were operating room nurses and technicians. And one of them is the surgeon.”

“The surgeon was not there,” she insisted, “Just a bunch of lok sok kiang.” Every time she said that, I burst into laughter. She enjoyed seeing her laugh and went into it again and again sending us into peels of laughter. It was one of those moments I will always remember. And then I know why my mother is a published and recognized author. She does know how to tell a story and tell it with all its embellishment.

Getting back to it. The anestheologist told me he has injected something into me and if I was feeling the effect. I told him, no, not yet. When I continued being aware, I thought, oh lord, he might not have put in enough. They put the oxygen on me and asked me to turn onto my right. I did and that was the last thing I knew. I woke up and it was done.

And everything was fine, my throat is fine also. I was relief and surprised. Why then do pills get stuck in my throat? I could not convince myself I would not die if a pill get stuck there and panic every time it got stuck.