No Melanoma!

The biopsy results are out.

That patch on my arm is a bundle of spindle cells, what the doc diagnosed as micro-fibroma. Benign but recommended to be taken out sonnest possible.

Yay.

But I would have to refrain from using my left arm for another month after the operation on 12th April. Which means no swimming or driving until mid-May. :(

Still, I am happy its not melanoma.

Some Skin Less

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A couple of weeks ago I went for a skin biopsy and MRI one day apart from each other. For me, it was a first time for both procedures, although I had a biopsy done few years ago prior to a lumpectomy. The skin biopsy was done at the dermatologist's request since there was a strange mole growing at the back of my underarm near the shoulder joint. The procedure involved extracting a slice of skin where the mole is, and sewing the incision shut.

I hadda go under local anaesthetic for this, so I promptly arrived at the hospital's minor operating theatre one cheerful weekday morning, aptly armed with Michael Griffith's "Take My Life". (That is a good book to read should you want to get serious with your faith).

The dermatologist called me in, told me to change into the hospital gown, took photos of the mole and told me to lie down on my side on the operating table. She then spread the big sheet of surgical paper on the mole and started to poke it.

"Does this hurt?"

"Yeah."

"OK, I'll give you the jab now."

"Ouch."

She started poking the other parts and it hurt too, so she gave me a second jab. By the time the second injection sank in, I lost all sensation and wouldn't have realised she was cutting away at my skin had it not been for the scraping noises.

Well, there was an uncomfortable silence. I was lying on my side with a paper covering my shoulder and dermatologist behind me carving out my skin. So I did what I always do when I am nervous / bored. I asked questions.

"What's that red socket on the wall for, eh?"

"What red socket?" asked the dermatologist, amid scraping noises.

"The one next to the normal white one."

"Oh, that's for blackout emergencies." the staff nurse butted in.

"Really?" asked the dermatologist.

"Yeah, all operating theatres have an alternate energy supply."

"Oh, I didn't know that," said dermatologist.

Well, I sure hope she knew what she was doing to my skin. When she was done, I had three stitches which came off two days ago, leaving three rather ugly needle holes. The biopsy results will be out tomorrow.

POV inside a Coffin

"Oh, oh... what did I get myself into?" I wondered as the nurse clapsed a cage across my face, locked my head in position and began to press a button to slide me into the MRI tunnel. All around me were crackling and buzzing noises. I was strapped to the sliding table, hands and feet unable to move. Can't even scratch my nose or slide my bangs. Felt like a science-fiction movie gone terribly wrong.

"Don't worry about the noises inside, ok? It's normal" the nurse coo-ed in her most reassuring tone. *Sure, now where have I heard that before?*

"How long am I supposeda be in there?" I asked.

"Thirty minutes."

What? Thirty minutes immobilised inside a coffin contraption? What kinda nonsense is this? Why wasn't I told this earlier? I waited three months for this appointment, and in between that the hospital called me twice and made me wait another 90 minutes in the waiting room prior to the procedure and no one told me it would be like this???

Somehow I didn't think the nurse / radiologist would be jumping in eager anticipation to hear what's on my mind, so I kept quiet, swallowed hard and hoped that my nose wouldn't itch for the next half an hour.

"Hold on to this," she said, pushing a call-button device into my hand, "press if you need anything."

It was so cold. Sterile. The nurse spread a blanket over me. I started to slide into the sinister machine that opened up to swallow me whole. The examination room disappeared into the far horizon at my feet. I was totally inside the belly of the machine. Tunneled-in. Trapped.

Man, if I were to ever have a first-eye POV (point of view) of what its like to lie inside a closed coffin, this would come really close. It is deadly silent. For a moment. Then a buzz pierced the air. Then humming. Crackling. Then all at once there were noises all around me! It was deafening, and I admit, unnerving.

I started to think about being inside a real coffin. Death is a reality for all, but no one really cares to think seriously about it. It is a certainty that we move closer to everyday, whether we like it or not.

I thought about death that day inside the MRI machine, and I am thankful that I know for sure I could still crawl out of that tunnel when the 30 minutes are up. But what about those who may not even have the 30 minutes to live?

Life is too short. Like vapour. When it is my turn to lie in a real coffin, I don't want to be leaving behind a trail of regret and sorrow of what might have been. And I am really grateful I still have the time to play my cards right.

The results of the MRI came out.

Everything's normal.

Watch the Lamb

The first time I heard this song I was in a cabin onboard the Doulos in '96. Some crewmates were miming to it, and my first thought was: "I have to listen to it again!" The lyrics were strong, powerful and piercing. I quickly decided that I wanted to learn to mime this song too. I did.

I don't remember how many ports we stopped and the number of times we performed it, but it seems like this haunting melody has been with me forever. Everytime I sing it (we have to know the lyrics before we can mime), I am brought back to the cross. Again and again.

The song is sung from the perspective of Simon of Cyrene, whom the Bible described as the person who carried Jesus' cross for him on the way to Golgotha where the crucification took place. (One little thing here is that, although no one is actually able to attest to the racial origin of Simon of Cyrene, he was believed to be darker-skinned as Cyrene was part of North Africa). It is also believed that his two young sons Alexander and Rufus later became well-known in the Christian community in Rome.

To me, this song is a slice of an ordinary life colliding with a great and painful moment in world history. It brings out, blow-by blow, the cruelty of the cross and the terrible price it exacted on Jesus. May we never forget what it cost Jesus to bring us back to God.

Tickets and A Theological Moment...

A credit card company was giving out free movie tickets in return for usage above a certain amount, at a roadshow I helped organise last year. The tickets were admission for the premiere screening of a summer blockbuster, and hence were much coveted.

I saw how people queued up early and rushed to redeem the tickets, even to the point of carelessly charging their cards just to get a shot at the screening. And I saw how their faces fell when they were told the tickets had all been given out. They walked away with their heads lowered. Just because they missed the window timeframe for the redemption.

Redemption is of course a commercial term, used in ancient times for the buying and selling of commodity, mainly for the transaction involving slaves. It particularly refers to the purchase of a slave in order to set the slave free. In that sense, it is the most wonderful word in all Christian vocabulary. Jesus' redemption of us from our sins have made us free from the slavery of sin and death.

As I looked at the crowd who thronged the movie ticket redemtion counter that day, I saw faces lined with hope, anticipation and excitement. They wanted the tickets, they were willing to wait, beg, steal or borrow for them!

What a stark contrast to people's reaction when the offer of Christ's redemption is made to them. (No clambering here for the first place). Truly we do not value nor desire God, eternal life and all those invisible things promised in the Bible. We don't care for the free ticket to heaven. We have lost all sense of affinity for those things, being conditioned by the flesh. We make excuses and console ourselves, all the while headed for hell. And we chose to do so.

American theologian Jonathan Edwards opined that our choices are determined by what we think is the most desirable course of action. So why don't men choose God? Has sin has so blurred their vision that they do not consider righteousness to be the way of personal fulfillment?

I am a movie freak. So I fall into the category of the lesser beings who would 'kill and maim' for the movie tickets. And it is a constant battle to choose between what my minds thinks is most desirable, to what the Word says is best.

And yes, I did manage to get tickets to the premiere screening. They were given to me without being asked.

Surviving Spiritual Responsibility

What happens when you become a parent?

Ask any parent and they will tell you how their lives had been turned upside -down (in a good way) in that irreversible rite of passage.

But what happens when you become spiritual parent to your parents?

Ah.

(This is not a trick question).

What I find amazing about following Jesus is that life continues to throw curveball surprises. Never a dull moment with God. So I find myself in this situation where I am (reluctantly) a spiritual parent to my mom and dad. By spiritual parenting I mean being the person who is concerned and overseeing their spiritual state and a constant presence around them where they are reminded of their allegiance to Christ.

The great thing about this is that I can be myself in speech, behaviour and responses while attempting to live my life in Jesus the best I can. They see my struggles, outbursts and failures and they witness first-hand how Jesus catches me everytime I fall. A real-life drama played out daily at home. With no commercial breaks. Reality shows don't get any more original than this!

The suckky thing is that they have strong opinions formed over their collected lifetimes of over 100 years... and lifelong habits are hard to change. I have to remind myself of that everytime I get frustrated when they don't seem to register that God's ways are worth following. Everytime I try to prod, encourage and persuade I get this retort: "So now you think you know more than us about (whatever)...?" At which point I usually just clam up after feeling the futility of it all. (I really shouldn't... God's word has the power to change people... but in reality I often wonder if it works with my family).

I think the best way to survive spiritual parenthood to your own parents, esp if they are really old, is not to expect too much. Expect God to work in them somehow, but don't even put a timeframe where results are concerned. If God has called to such a role, the burden is His and He will bring along the real, lasting transformation.

Mole in the Arm

"Hey, what's that thing on your arm?" my friend asked over lunch two weeks ago.

"Nothing, it's just a mole." I replied.

"Looks like an awfully big mole..." he continued.

"Yeah, it grew."

He suddenly turned and looked at me, concerned. "You better get it looked at."

"OK."

Of course I forgot all about it. It was just a tiny mole about a year ago when I first discovered it... or maybe slightly longer, I don't remember. Anyways it is tucked on the far end back side of my arm and usually would not be noticeable unless I have a sleeveless shirt on. To my surprise, it had grown to about an inch in diameter.

Yesterday another friend saw it and asked the same question. When I replied her, she turned grave. She has had surgery to remove a neck tumour, a hysterectomy and now discovered another tumour on her jugular. She insisted I saw a doctor about the growing, painless, hairless mole on my left arm.

So I called my doctor friend. He sounded worried when I told him my symptoms and will help me locate a dermatologist at the hospital. I'll speak to him again tomorrow, and hopefully find out how to maneuveur my way around this derma-adventure.

I thought about dying. I imagined various scenarios - bedridden, sick, funeral. I could visualise it... only up to the point where I know Jesus would open his arms and welcome me Home. Nothing beyond that.

I cannot imagine heaven. What it would be like... what the colours would be, what kind of songs would be sung there, how the saints of old would look like, what my new body would be... and what would Jesus be wearing.

Isn't it weird that people think Jesus walks around in a long, white flowing robe? We are so conditioned by the impressions of artists throughout the ages. I won't be surprised the Jesus I finally meet looks nothing like what I have seen. In the same vein, here is a piece on the relevance and dangers of religious movies. "...films cannot be used to present the Scriptures visually without becoming idolatrous. Not only are the images historically false (they are conjured up from the imagination of a screenwriter of director) but they must also conform to the mechanics of the medium (acting, cinematography, art direction, music, sound effects, etc) which are designed to manipulate the senses and emotions for dramatic purposes..."

Jesus can only be whom He is described to me in the Word.