Notable Omissions: a story from the lacunae

Very few posts of late, I know.

There's been very little worth saying.  

But maybe a story of the things unsaid will convey sufficient impressions:

No mention of the three days of teaching summer school it took before I knew what I would be teaching in summer school.

Or the boss whose English is almost as good as my Thai, a scary-looking disciplinarian of a battle ax teacher who dives away from any foreigners she sees.  

No mention of the desperate shuffle from class to find a bathroom.

Nor the "after" photo from "Why farangs shouldn't use squat toilets."

I also didn't mention that the energy, enthusiasm, spark, life, love, and emphatic withitness of the 4th graders is amply sufficient to counteract the abdominal distress in preparation for round 8 of the morning.  

No mention of the anti-diarrheal solution that solidified into a concrete-like plug that ripped holes in things as it went (or at least increased the bleeding).

No mention of how much more the edemas hurt without the bike wrecks, or how they kick off sympathetic pains in the healed ribs, shoulders, elbows, knees, and vertebrae.  

No mention of jumping out of a minivan at a red light and spending two hours trying to get registered to get in line to sign up for a medical appointment (despite being confirmed by phone), nor that those two hours made the three hours of un-airconditioned maniacal pursuit of universal carsickness look like a joyride.  

I really should've mentioned that the doctor, for the first time since I came to this country, thought my skinniness most abnormal and certainly concerning.  

I might've mentioned that converting to dollars is dangerous for one living on the Thai economy: sure, it only cost $600 to spend two days exploring the reaches of diagnostic procedures, one day on an IV drip after sidestepping a gallbladder removal, and a final counsel to receive the diagnosis "skin infection."

Not bad, in American terms.  

Another story when, in universal terms, that's 60% of your subsistence income.

Did I mention how relieving it is to have a doctor say that it looks like something is seriously askew?

I know I should've crowed the praises of outside funding.

Or that after experiencing street food on the Gangetic Plain, the prep for a colonoscopy will be proverbial cake?

No mention of the grilling I've received since taking off my shirt and playing in the river with the kids.  

Also no mention of the blackness accompanying the response to, "If you're my boss telling me this is how it is, okay; I'll suck it up and enjoy it.  But if you're asking whether I'm interested in teaching Literature, English, and Grammar to EP grades 7-8-9 in the new campus across town, no way in hell."  

But what the hell, right?  The teeth are already numb while other parts of the body scream louder from more intensive kickings, so why hope to duck out of it now?

Here's hoping the doc doing the triple-level -oscopy doesn't use too much general anesthetic for me to survive bisecting the city on the back of a mototaxi.