There aren't any entertaining stories to share here today, just a few musings and moments of clarity that have been keeping me diverted. Completely diverted, I note, as the pile of work left unfinished stares balefully at me. I will be glad to get my attention span back once this is all over. And to rid my mouth of the taste of porcelain.
The countdown is upon me: yesterday was my penultimate chemo treatment. Despite how open I have been about the course of the follow-up, and how often I have said 'Yes, a FULL year of hospital trips', there are a few people (most of whom are highly unlikely to be reading this, but I shall still tread carefully) who are shocked that I am still having chemo. I have told two of these people this no fewer than four times, and still am made to feel like I am defrauding them somehow by not being finished yet. 'You're STILL having treatment?? When will this stop??'
P: We've been through this.
And to be fair, it doesn't interfere TOO much with the course of the day. I am only ever away from work for a few hours. I can't attest to the quality of the brain I bring back from hospital with me, but I am always at school afterwards.
So, as the plan stands, I have one more treatment- October 29th- and then go through the gamut of tests again during the last week of November (yes, the week of American Thanksgiving and a few days before my birthday) to make sure that all the nasties are gone.
How do I feel about all this? I am so glad you asked.
I feel odd. As I walk into the hospital, I find myself focusing keenly again on the people around me. The nurses and receptionists- all of whom startle other patients with their noisy exclamations when they see me, which is very touching- have become landmarks of a sort. I cannot say that I won't miss them, and find myself wondering how to say Thank You in a way that is adequate and appropriate. They were steady and efficient when I was bumping into hospital walls, baffled by processes and procedures and the impossibility of having cancer in Korea.
The oncologist and her Frau Farbissina bellowing and sticky-notes of useful advice and rough pinching of my breast and glands: I won't miss the pinching, but the year has been punctuated by her. And you all know how keen I am on good punctuation.
I also note that when I see other people waiting there, all grimly resigned and tired, I am better at reading them, and getting a sense for where they are in their treatment. I encountered someone trudging up the stairs yesterday, exactly as I was doing a year ago, determined and frustrated by the elevators (and really, who uses those things to come up two floors? A tiny metal box filled with sick people, hacking and wheezing and spitting on the floor- I ask you!) and shared a knowing look with her as I stepped out of her way.
And I am a little taken aback by how emotional I get by it, the closing of this chapter. Not because I will miss it- that would just be weird and sick. But perhaps because it has been such an integral part of the narrative of the Korean years, or because it all came cheek-by-jowl with the disaster of my marriage to Rich, or maybe because as it all comes to an end, so much else seems to be as well.
More of that another time.
Yesterday's treatment ended beautifully, with a text from my friend, Marieke, who also happened to have an appointment at the hospital in the morning. Just as I was getting the last drops of the magic juice, the phone pinged with an invitation to grab a taxi back with her. We arranged to meet across the road at Macdonalds, where, it being lunchtime, we shared a few guilty nuggets and fries. As we sat chatting, a large group of very small children came down the stairs, accompanied by several young women in matching pinnies. They lined up against the wall with one of the guardians, wide-eyed and serious, and carefully obeying her instructions to be still and wait while the other children were fetched down in stages. One boy darted back towards the stairs, to be stopped with a gently firm word. He rejoined his companions, threw a cheeky grin at the young woman, and skipped out of line again. Marieke and I laughed at him, catching the attention of the teacher and one of the little girls with her, who immediately bowed deeply to us. The teacher tried to get the others to greet us as well, but the other adults were now joining her with several other children and demanding her attention.
Marieke and I packed away our rubbish and left just after the group did, catching them up on the sidewalk outside. The little girl who had bowed earlier stopped in her tracks when she saw us, and the teachers noticed us approaching. They immediately halted the whole group- there must have been fifteen children, all of them about three years old- and had them greet us. Tiny, tiny, beautiful children, deep bows, 'Anyang-haseos' and shy smiles. We were enchanted.
In the taxi on the way back, we talked about the treatment coming to an end, and Marieke asked how I plan to commemorate it. I have been giving this some thought.
On Wednesday, October 29th, the evening of my last treatment, I would like to get my mates here together with a few cans and some wood. A friend has shown me an off-the-beaten-path place where we can start a fire without drawing too much attention to ourselves. I want us to cycle or walk out there, climb the fence (yes, it is probably illegal- don't tell the authorities or say you read it here) and burn all the cancer-related paraphernalia I have acquired over the last year- appointment cards and advice sheets and hospital bras- and send the smoke up to the skies with a toast to the end of it all. If you find yourself on the invitation list for this, please tuck a few pieces of wood into a rucksack and come with us. All a bit ritualistic. All a bit important.
And as we do this, we will also drink to the memory of some of the less lucky ones, and send love up with the smoke:
My Aunt Janet, whose fingernails used to fascinate me.
My mother's best friend, Colleen, who showed me how to put a lobster to sleep.
Kim Monroe, whose laugh I can still hear twenty years later, and in whose honour the cosmos winked.
My childhood friend, Dwayne White, with his laughing eyes.
Janet Grasse Parks, whose quiet friendship and microwave popcorn made the last years of my degree bearable.
There will be others. We will all have someone's memory to drink to.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Epilogues, Part II- The Return of the Dishy Deputy Ambassador
There are new readers amongst you- welcome! I am flattered and pleased. I am also aware that there have been a hellova lot of entries here, so the first entry regarding the DDA may not have been read by everyone. Seriously, it is my favourite story in here, so if you haven't read it yet, please look for the one entitled 'Shifting away from the melodrama...' and put the tale in some context. When I told my mother this story in July, she laughed until she cried, even though it included some language that she'd taught me a lady never uses.
For those of you who are too entrenched in Sunday morning ennui to look back at the other entry (no, really- get another coffee and just read the dang thing) let me give you a few words of back-story: I frequently pass Friday evenings at the British Embassy pub in Seoul. There is a range of social events available as a result, including dinners and dances, the most famous of which are the St Andrews' Ball each November and the Muckleshunter in the spring. Both involve Scottish country dancing, just with different levels of formality. This year's Muckleshunter was postponed because of the ferry disaster, and the re-scheduled event landed on the very day that school finished for the summer.
Also important for the story to make sense is some mention of the other main character in it: he who shall be henceforth known as the DDA. I hope that my previous descriptions of the man do him justice. Again, I stress that I have absolutely no interest in this extraordinary specimen- no more than seeing a stately home makes me want to buy one- nice thought, but who wants to pay to heat it? Admiration only, I promise you. Just unfortunately the sort of admiration that renders me practically incoherent. Again, look at the previous entry for details. (Small aside here- I hope that anyone who ever encounters this man will not let spill any beans about his appearances in these pages. I mortify myself quite enough when he is around- I do not require any help from others.)
The night of the Muckleshunter, I was due to meet my friends Lynne and Skip at the embassy pub, and was running just a few minutes late. I skidded into the main room in the basement just as the bagpipes were about to start, and spotted Lynne in the centre of the room. My first thought was that I was under-dressed; my second was to register that she was talking with the DDA's wife. Remember, I have been visiting the pub for some time. I know who is who, and of course knew who she was by sight. I had never been introduced to her before, however. I had no qualms about meeting her- there was no shame or embarrassment, again any more than there would be if I met the owner of the aforementioned stately home. So I headed over to join the two women. (I will interject here that the DDA's wife is also simply stunning- a statuesque brunette, dignified and graceful- they are physically a perfect match)
As I approached, Lynne spotted me, and attempted to begin the introductions at the very second that the lad on the bagpipes began to play. Those of you who have never been in a small room when bagpipes are wailing, you are missing something: a banshee-screech that fills the corners of your head and hammers at your skull from the inside. There was no way that we were going to hear each other speak, so I mouthed an apology and a promise to return when it was quieter, and headed to the bar to pick up a drink.
The bar was quieter- no bagpipes nearby. The bartender reached for the wine bottle at my request and was handing me a glass, when through a side door, in bounded the DDA. He was clearly coming from some business, and had about him the air of someone ready to grapple the evening to the floor. He stopped in his tracks at the bar as he noticed me.
DDA: Hello!
P: Hello! How are you?
Now, I was feeling FINE. I was calm and collected, and in total control of my situation. For once, I was not rambling or blushing or stammering. It was the end of the term, I had hair and nice lipstick, the wine was cool, and -for once- so was I.
The DDA cocked his head at me speculatively, and then suddenly was standing right beside me. He leaned forward-
DDA: May I kiss you?
Oh, gentle reader. It was all going so well. SO well. Up to that second, I had it all together. All my faculties were in order. Four words, and my equilibrium came crashing down.
P: (at volume) HELL, YES!!!!
The startled look on his face. The sudden realisation of what I had said. The air leaving the room, the mortification rising up like a groundswell, the absolute refusal of the earth to open up and swallow me down. There are simply not enough words.
Of course, the gracious man leaned in and delicately pecked me on each cheek, before saying 'It is lovely to see you again', picking up his drink and exiting into the main room. There I stood, stock still in horror as the bartender looked on, oblivious.
Long, silent seconds passed before I could gather enough of my wits together to go back into the other room. I went straight over to Lynne, who was now in the queue for the buffet.
P: LynneLynneLynneLynneLynne!
L: What happened?
To her credit, Lynne's expression did not alter. "I shouldn't worry about it', she said casually. 'I think that sort of thing happens to him all the time. Once I was shopping at the Commissary on base and I ran into him at the checkout. He leaned over and I thought he was going to give me a kiss so I kissed him back. Turns out he was just reaching for the divider to put between our groceries.'
Yes, that made me feel better.
Later that evening, as the dancers were setting and spinning and twirling around, and I was standing in my usual befuddled state at the centre of a group, chewing my lip in confusion and distress and wishing I had fewer left feet, the DDA caught my eye and grinned. As soon as the dance brought him within earshot, he came close and muttered, 'I've never seen anyone look so terrified in my life.'
Jerk.
For those of you who are too entrenched in Sunday morning ennui to look back at the other entry (no, really- get another coffee and just read the dang thing) let me give you a few words of back-story: I frequently pass Friday evenings at the British Embassy pub in Seoul. There is a range of social events available as a result, including dinners and dances, the most famous of which are the St Andrews' Ball each November and the Muckleshunter in the spring. Both involve Scottish country dancing, just with different levels of formality. This year's Muckleshunter was postponed because of the ferry disaster, and the re-scheduled event landed on the very day that school finished for the summer.
Also important for the story to make sense is some mention of the other main character in it: he who shall be henceforth known as the DDA. I hope that my previous descriptions of the man do him justice. Again, I stress that I have absolutely no interest in this extraordinary specimen- no more than seeing a stately home makes me want to buy one- nice thought, but who wants to pay to heat it? Admiration only, I promise you. Just unfortunately the sort of admiration that renders me practically incoherent. Again, look at the previous entry for details. (Small aside here- I hope that anyone who ever encounters this man will not let spill any beans about his appearances in these pages. I mortify myself quite enough when he is around- I do not require any help from others.)
The night of the Muckleshunter, I was due to meet my friends Lynne and Skip at the embassy pub, and was running just a few minutes late. I skidded into the main room in the basement just as the bagpipes were about to start, and spotted Lynne in the centre of the room. My first thought was that I was under-dressed; my second was to register that she was talking with the DDA's wife. Remember, I have been visiting the pub for some time. I know who is who, and of course knew who she was by sight. I had never been introduced to her before, however. I had no qualms about meeting her- there was no shame or embarrassment, again any more than there would be if I met the owner of the aforementioned stately home. So I headed over to join the two women. (I will interject here that the DDA's wife is also simply stunning- a statuesque brunette, dignified and graceful- they are physically a perfect match)
As I approached, Lynne spotted me, and attempted to begin the introductions at the very second that the lad on the bagpipes began to play. Those of you who have never been in a small room when bagpipes are wailing, you are missing something: a banshee-screech that fills the corners of your head and hammers at your skull from the inside. There was no way that we were going to hear each other speak, so I mouthed an apology and a promise to return when it was quieter, and headed to the bar to pick up a drink.
The bar was quieter- no bagpipes nearby. The bartender reached for the wine bottle at my request and was handing me a glass, when through a side door, in bounded the DDA. He was clearly coming from some business, and had about him the air of someone ready to grapple the evening to the floor. He stopped in his tracks at the bar as he noticed me.
DDA: Hello!
P: Hello! How are you?
Now, I was feeling FINE. I was calm and collected, and in total control of my situation. For once, I was not rambling or blushing or stammering. It was the end of the term, I had hair and nice lipstick, the wine was cool, and -for once- so was I.
The DDA cocked his head at me speculatively, and then suddenly was standing right beside me. He leaned forward-
DDA: May I kiss you?
Oh, gentle reader. It was all going so well. SO well. Up to that second, I had it all together. All my faculties were in order. Four words, and my equilibrium came crashing down.
P: (at volume) HELL, YES!!!!
The startled look on his face. The sudden realisation of what I had said. The air leaving the room, the mortification rising up like a groundswell, the absolute refusal of the earth to open up and swallow me down. There are simply not enough words.
Of course, the gracious man leaned in and delicately pecked me on each cheek, before saying 'It is lovely to see you again', picking up his drink and exiting into the main room. There I stood, stock still in horror as the bartender looked on, oblivious.
Long, silent seconds passed before I could gather enough of my wits together to go back into the other room. I went straight over to Lynne, who was now in the queue for the buffet.
P: LynneLynneLynneLynneLynne!
L: What happened?
To her credit, Lynne's expression did not alter. "I shouldn't worry about it', she said casually. 'I think that sort of thing happens to him all the time. Once I was shopping at the Commissary on base and I ran into him at the checkout. He leaned over and I thought he was going to give me a kiss so I kissed him back. Turns out he was just reaching for the divider to put between our groceries.'
Yes, that made me feel better.
Later that evening, as the dancers were setting and spinning and twirling around, and I was standing in my usual befuddled state at the centre of a group, chewing my lip in confusion and distress and wishing I had fewer left feet, the DDA caught my eye and grinned. As soon as the dance brought him within earshot, he came close and muttered, 'I've never seen anyone look so terrified in my life.'
Jerk.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Epilogues??
Probably not an accurate way to describe these next entries. While I was away for the summer, I ran into a few old friends who had been following this, and was chatting about a couple of things that had happened since I signed off in March. They suggested that the stories might make good reading, and of course I am pleased enough at the compliment that I figure I should open up shop again for a while.
Vanity, thy name is Patricia. Or at least it would be, if it weren't already 'Vanity.'
I've been pondering how best to tackle the telling. One story is rather entertaining, and I would generally choose to end on a light note; the other was far more profound, and was one of those moments when the cosmos seemed to wink at me. A wiser person would probably choose two separate entries. I will leave that decision to the editors.
Who do not, of course, exist.
Living so far away from home for so long has taught me many things: significant amongst them is just how very small the world is. Bert and I used to say when we were growing up that there was very little point in misbehaving anywhere in the Maritimes- any random town we would go in, someone was bound to stop us and ask 'Is Art Long your father?', to which we would open our mouths and remove all doubt. The same works for many Atlantic Canadians. If we are all six degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon, a Maritimer is just three degrees from her mother finding out that she'd been caught making out with a boy at the beach on Friday night at a village two and a half hours from home.
And that's all fine. But when one spreads one's wings beyond one's home province, one expects to be able to maintain a certain anonymity. Generally that works fairly well. However, if the frailties of humanity aren't enough to convince us of our connectedness, random meetings with people from home will soon do so. There were a couple of times in Seoul in the early days, when my most recent ex-husband would call me from the cathedral and ask things like 'Do we know any Guptills?'
P: 'Nova Scotia or New Brunswick Guptills?'
MREH- 'New Brunswick'
P: 'Yes, we went to college with one, and my niece's mother married one of his cousins, who I used to babysit for when he was with his first wife...'
MREH: 'One of them just walked into the Cathedral'.
P: 'Ask him how Timmy is.'
That sort of thing has no business happening in Korea, and yet happens with alarming regularity. You are never more than three conversations from home.
A truth that was proven again rather dramatically this last spring.
I work with scores of Canadians, something that was nicely unsettling for the first few months that I was here. I spent twenty years in the UK and could count on one hand the number of Canadians I'd encountered after finishing my post-grad, and here I have been completely surrounded by them. Most frequently they have been from Ontario, but lately a few Maritimers have been added to the mix. (including most recently, a girl from Lunenburg- as soon as I saw on the faculty list that we had a new teacher surnamed 'Wentzell', I knew it was someone from home) One of the most pleasant of these already-lovely colleagues was a girl from PEI, named Kelly MacDonald. Kelly is, and I hope she will forgive me for publicising this, RIDICULOUSLY fabulous. Not only is she funny, fit, smart as a whip and fantastic with children, but she is holy-mother-of-God beautiful. Seriously. She kinda makes your eyes ache. That is in no way relevant to the story, but could be an important feature of one that appears another time, so stash the information away.
Point is, Kelly Mac is an Islander, from Montague, which gained her the nickname 'Monty' within moments of meeting her. At this same first conversation, as people do, we went through the list of 'Do you know so-and-so?'s that accompany every greeting with someone from home. As Kelly is about twenty years younger than I am, we both knew that our circles were unlikely to collide directly, but we tacitly accepted that we could both call our dads to establish the chain of connectedness that was sure to exist.
My 'do you know?' was about a friend from many years ago, when I had not been in the UK for very long: Kim Monroe. The first time I saw Kim, she was trudging up towards the residences at the UEA in Norwich, bent against the weight of the enormous rucksack on her back. It had a maple leaf stitched on an outside pocket, so I did what any self-respecting Canadian would do: nudged my first ex-husband hard, and told him to carry her bag for her.
FEH: Why do I have to carry her bag?
P: It's enormous, she's Canadian, and I want to talk to her!
FEH: Canadians are weird.
Of course, Kim could hear the entire exchange, and told me later that she'd already decided to tell us to f**k off with our offers of help, but somehow the universe decided that she wouldn't, and a great friendship was born.
We spent a lot of time together that year. She was hilarious: a story-teller with a self-effacing eye for detail that would have me crying with laughter, falling off the small single bed in her cramped dorm room where we were drinking coffee as she was regaling me with stories of her travels to Australia- where she'd upset her hosts by cleaning the residue off the teapot- and Africa, where she'd learned the hard way that the men there are generally married and sometimes repeatedly- her words, not mine. (Kim also had an affinity for extraordinarily attractive African men, and was involved with one rather stunning incarnation while we were there- moody, taciturn, and embroiled in South African politics all around the time when the first free elections were being held.) I have great memories of many hours spent in Kim's company, including several on a visit to see her in Montague one summer while we were home. As is so often the case, unfortunately, once Kim returned home and Annie came along, contact dropped off. I still kept a picture of the two of us in a boat that summer, though, grinning hugely at the FEH reflected in the cabin glass behind him.
So this was the girl at the centre of my three-degrees-of-separation game with Kelly. She kinda thought that she maybe knew Kim's dad, Leonard, but would need to check with her own dad, and then wasn't sure of the name, etc, and as it was a long time ago and we were all too busy to follow up on the conversation, we let it drop.
Until Kelly's mum came to visit. As soon as I heard she was coming, I invited her over for dinner along with a lovely little gaggle of people. We had finished desert when Kelly told me to ask her mother about my Montague friend to see if she knew her, saying that she hadn't been able to figure out who she was. So I asked.
'Kim Monroe?' Kelly's mum said. 'The one who died?'
There was a full five-second silence. I gulped. 'Kim died?' I said.
Kelly's mum was stricken. 'Oh, well, I don't know. Who are her parents again? It might not be her.'
P: Leonard Monroe was her dad. I can't remember her mother's name. She was one of five daughters, all their names started with 'K'- Kim, Kendra, Kayla...
KM- I'm not sure- I think I had heard that... - I'm sorry, I don't...
I remembered that I had seen that old photo of me with Kim a few days previously, and grabbed the album to find it. Obviously, I was a bit shaken. Of course I realised that since nearly twenty years had passed, it was entirely possible that Kim would no longer be alive, but still. I went through the album, hands shaking a little, while Kelly's mum tried to recall details of the family to see if we were talking about the same person. For long minutes I searched, back and forth, cover to cover. The photo was not there. My frustration was mounting- I needed to confirm whether this was my Kim. The photo was not there. It was not stuck behind other pictures, it was not loose in the binding. The photo that I was so sure I had seen not even a week before was nowhere to be found. In exasperation, I slammed the album shut.
And a photo fluttered to the floor.
I picked it up. It was the picture of me with Kim.
Another silence fell, and Kelly's mum gave a shiver as she took the photo from me. 'Yes,' she said quietly. 'That's Kim.'
Now that there was no doubt, we spent a few moments filling in some gaps. Kelly's mum knew that family- in fact, had spoken to Leonard Monroe just a few days before coming to Korea. Kim had died of cancer- another shiver- several years before.
I told a few stories about my short time with Kim, and asked Kelly's mum if she would pass a message on to the family. I asked her to tell them, please, that while she was in Korea, she had met a woman who remembered Kim from her time in the UK, and who had spoken very highly of her. Kelly's mum promised.
It was about a week later when Monty came bounding up to me in the school cafeteria:
'Patti!' she gasped, 'I've been looking for you all day! I was talking to Mum on the phone and she wanted me to tell you something!'
Kelly then proceeded to tell me how her mother had nipped next door to see her neighbour upon her return from Korea, and was describing to her that evening at dinner- the connection, the missing photo and its sudden reappearance, my message to the Monroe family- when the neighbour stopped her. It turns out that this neighbour was actually Kim's mother's best friend. She immediately picked up the phone and called Kim's mother, asking her to come over. Kelly's mum was then able to deliver my message in person. Kim's mother remembered my visit clearly, even recalling how I had complimented her on the softness of her guest bed. When Kelly's mum passed on my message to her, letting her know that thousands of miles away there was someone who loved Kim, having met her decades earlier in ANOTHER place, more thousands of miles away and wholly unconnected to this one, AND heard of the coincidence of the missing photo being exactly the one to drop when confirmation was needed of Kim's identity, she grew quiet for a moment.
'Today is Kim's birthday' she said.
Now, the vagaries of the universe are unfathomable. You who have been here through this whole mad journey know how I have ranted at the skies and railed at whatever angry sky-gods may be standing stony-faced behind me- and far moreso behind a world afire- and you know that I really haven't got a clue about it all. But whatever set of coincidences that has been set a-spin here: whatever twists of the globe there are that let a grieving mother receive a message from her daughter's long-absent friend under circumstances like these, miles away and years later- whatever they are, they were well-played on that day.
And that is not the end.
A few weeks after Kelly and I spoke in the cafeteria, I was rooting through a drawer in the desk in the spare room. I was looking for a frequent-flier card, and knew that I has seen it most recently in there, along with a pile of business cards that I'd stashed alongside it just after Christmas. As I flipped my way through the stack of cards, I came upon the photo that I had ACTUALLY remembered finding all those weeks before. I had not seen it in the album, I had seen it in the desk. The fact of the matter- I did not know that I'd had two pictures with Kim. I was looking for her photo in the wrong place.
The other story can wait.
Vanity, thy name is Patricia. Or at least it would be, if it weren't already 'Vanity.'
I've been pondering how best to tackle the telling. One story is rather entertaining, and I would generally choose to end on a light note; the other was far more profound, and was one of those moments when the cosmos seemed to wink at me. A wiser person would probably choose two separate entries. I will leave that decision to the editors.
Who do not, of course, exist.
Living so far away from home for so long has taught me many things: significant amongst them is just how very small the world is. Bert and I used to say when we were growing up that there was very little point in misbehaving anywhere in the Maritimes- any random town we would go in, someone was bound to stop us and ask 'Is Art Long your father?', to which we would open our mouths and remove all doubt. The same works for many Atlantic Canadians. If we are all six degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon, a Maritimer is just three degrees from her mother finding out that she'd been caught making out with a boy at the beach on Friday night at a village two and a half hours from home.
And that's all fine. But when one spreads one's wings beyond one's home province, one expects to be able to maintain a certain anonymity. Generally that works fairly well. However, if the frailties of humanity aren't enough to convince us of our connectedness, random meetings with people from home will soon do so. There were a couple of times in Seoul in the early days, when my most recent ex-husband would call me from the cathedral and ask things like 'Do we know any Guptills?'
P: 'Nova Scotia or New Brunswick Guptills?'
MREH- 'New Brunswick'
P: 'Yes, we went to college with one, and my niece's mother married one of his cousins, who I used to babysit for when he was with his first wife...'
MREH: 'One of them just walked into the Cathedral'.
P: 'Ask him how Timmy is.'
That sort of thing has no business happening in Korea, and yet happens with alarming regularity. You are never more than three conversations from home.
A truth that was proven again rather dramatically this last spring.
I work with scores of Canadians, something that was nicely unsettling for the first few months that I was here. I spent twenty years in the UK and could count on one hand the number of Canadians I'd encountered after finishing my post-grad, and here I have been completely surrounded by them. Most frequently they have been from Ontario, but lately a few Maritimers have been added to the mix. (including most recently, a girl from Lunenburg- as soon as I saw on the faculty list that we had a new teacher surnamed 'Wentzell', I knew it was someone from home) One of the most pleasant of these already-lovely colleagues was a girl from PEI, named Kelly MacDonald. Kelly is, and I hope she will forgive me for publicising this, RIDICULOUSLY fabulous. Not only is she funny, fit, smart as a whip and fantastic with children, but she is holy-mother-of-God beautiful. Seriously. She kinda makes your eyes ache. That is in no way relevant to the story, but could be an important feature of one that appears another time, so stash the information away.
Point is, Kelly Mac is an Islander, from Montague, which gained her the nickname 'Monty' within moments of meeting her. At this same first conversation, as people do, we went through the list of 'Do you know so-and-so?'s that accompany every greeting with someone from home. As Kelly is about twenty years younger than I am, we both knew that our circles were unlikely to collide directly, but we tacitly accepted that we could both call our dads to establish the chain of connectedness that was sure to exist.
My 'do you know?' was about a friend from many years ago, when I had not been in the UK for very long: Kim Monroe. The first time I saw Kim, she was trudging up towards the residences at the UEA in Norwich, bent against the weight of the enormous rucksack on her back. It had a maple leaf stitched on an outside pocket, so I did what any self-respecting Canadian would do: nudged my first ex-husband hard, and told him to carry her bag for her.
FEH: Why do I have to carry her bag?
P: It's enormous, she's Canadian, and I want to talk to her!
FEH: Canadians are weird.
Of course, Kim could hear the entire exchange, and told me later that she'd already decided to tell us to f**k off with our offers of help, but somehow the universe decided that she wouldn't, and a great friendship was born.
We spent a lot of time together that year. She was hilarious: a story-teller with a self-effacing eye for detail that would have me crying with laughter, falling off the small single bed in her cramped dorm room where we were drinking coffee as she was regaling me with stories of her travels to Australia- where she'd upset her hosts by cleaning the residue off the teapot- and Africa, where she'd learned the hard way that the men there are generally married and sometimes repeatedly- her words, not mine. (Kim also had an affinity for extraordinarily attractive African men, and was involved with one rather stunning incarnation while we were there- moody, taciturn, and embroiled in South African politics all around the time when the first free elections were being held.) I have great memories of many hours spent in Kim's company, including several on a visit to see her in Montague one summer while we were home. As is so often the case, unfortunately, once Kim returned home and Annie came along, contact dropped off. I still kept a picture of the two of us in a boat that summer, though, grinning hugely at the FEH reflected in the cabin glass behind him.
So this was the girl at the centre of my three-degrees-of-separation game with Kelly. She kinda thought that she maybe knew Kim's dad, Leonard, but would need to check with her own dad, and then wasn't sure of the name, etc, and as it was a long time ago and we were all too busy to follow up on the conversation, we let it drop.
Until Kelly's mum came to visit. As soon as I heard she was coming, I invited her over for dinner along with a lovely little gaggle of people. We had finished desert when Kelly told me to ask her mother about my Montague friend to see if she knew her, saying that she hadn't been able to figure out who she was. So I asked.
'Kim Monroe?' Kelly's mum said. 'The one who died?'
There was a full five-second silence. I gulped. 'Kim died?' I said.
Kelly's mum was stricken. 'Oh, well, I don't know. Who are her parents again? It might not be her.'
P: Leonard Monroe was her dad. I can't remember her mother's name. She was one of five daughters, all their names started with 'K'- Kim, Kendra, Kayla...
KM- I'm not sure- I think I had heard that... - I'm sorry, I don't...
I remembered that I had seen that old photo of me with Kim a few days previously, and grabbed the album to find it. Obviously, I was a bit shaken. Of course I realised that since nearly twenty years had passed, it was entirely possible that Kim would no longer be alive, but still. I went through the album, hands shaking a little, while Kelly's mum tried to recall details of the family to see if we were talking about the same person. For long minutes I searched, back and forth, cover to cover. The photo was not there. My frustration was mounting- I needed to confirm whether this was my Kim. The photo was not there. It was not stuck behind other pictures, it was not loose in the binding. The photo that I was so sure I had seen not even a week before was nowhere to be found. In exasperation, I slammed the album shut.
And a photo fluttered to the floor.
I picked it up. It was the picture of me with Kim.
Another silence fell, and Kelly's mum gave a shiver as she took the photo from me. 'Yes,' she said quietly. 'That's Kim.'
Now that there was no doubt, we spent a few moments filling in some gaps. Kelly's mum knew that family- in fact, had spoken to Leonard Monroe just a few days before coming to Korea. Kim had died of cancer- another shiver- several years before.
I told a few stories about my short time with Kim, and asked Kelly's mum if she would pass a message on to the family. I asked her to tell them, please, that while she was in Korea, she had met a woman who remembered Kim from her time in the UK, and who had spoken very highly of her. Kelly's mum promised.
It was about a week later when Monty came bounding up to me in the school cafeteria:
'Patti!' she gasped, 'I've been looking for you all day! I was talking to Mum on the phone and she wanted me to tell you something!'
Kelly then proceeded to tell me how her mother had nipped next door to see her neighbour upon her return from Korea, and was describing to her that evening at dinner- the connection, the missing photo and its sudden reappearance, my message to the Monroe family- when the neighbour stopped her. It turns out that this neighbour was actually Kim's mother's best friend. She immediately picked up the phone and called Kim's mother, asking her to come over. Kelly's mum was then able to deliver my message in person. Kim's mother remembered my visit clearly, even recalling how I had complimented her on the softness of her guest bed. When Kelly's mum passed on my message to her, letting her know that thousands of miles away there was someone who loved Kim, having met her decades earlier in ANOTHER place, more thousands of miles away and wholly unconnected to this one, AND heard of the coincidence of the missing photo being exactly the one to drop when confirmation was needed of Kim's identity, she grew quiet for a moment.
'Today is Kim's birthday' she said.
Now, the vagaries of the universe are unfathomable. You who have been here through this whole mad journey know how I have ranted at the skies and railed at whatever angry sky-gods may be standing stony-faced behind me- and far moreso behind a world afire- and you know that I really haven't got a clue about it all. But whatever set of coincidences that has been set a-spin here: whatever twists of the globe there are that let a grieving mother receive a message from her daughter's long-absent friend under circumstances like these, miles away and years later- whatever they are, they were well-played on that day.
And that is not the end.
A few weeks after Kelly and I spoke in the cafeteria, I was rooting through a drawer in the desk in the spare room. I was looking for a frequent-flier card, and knew that I has seen it most recently in there, along with a pile of business cards that I'd stashed alongside it just after Christmas. As I flipped my way through the stack of cards, I came upon the photo that I had ACTUALLY remembered finding all those weeks before. I had not seen it in the album, I had seen it in the desk. The fact of the matter- I did not know that I'd had two pictures with Kim. I was looking for her photo in the wrong place.
The other story can wait.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Closing the book
It feels like the time has come to wrap this up. It has been ten months since I found the lump and nine since I started chemotherapy. My last radiation treatment has long since come and gone and the burns have started to fade. As far as I am aware, the cancer is gone. Other than the follow-on chemo and the hormones, treatment appears to be finished. So too does the bloggin'. There isn't much else to be said. I can't say that things are getting back to normal because I'm not entirely sure what normal looks like, especially considering how distinctly ABnormal these Korean years have been. Also, apart from trips to the hospital and stabs and jabs and operations and chemicals and insurance companies and hair loss and depression and insomnia and a couple of broken hearts thrown in for good measure- well, nothing seemed especially unusual while it was happening. What are you gonna do? Hide under the duvet? Na.
So, what is happening, as the threads are being tied up? I am getting to the gym six mornings a week, and the workouts are up to an hour. I am not seeing any visible benefits: my jeans are no looser (according to my oncologist, I will gain weight while I'm on the hormones, the nasty woman) but I feel stronger, like my heart and lungs are stretching and yawning as they wake up. I think the endorphins are helping with the depression, and I am sleeping better. All good.
Annie is so busy that if anything, I see less of her. Her university applications seem to have been productive, as she's had responses from all the schools she applied to. We are waiting for a firm answer from her second choice, and for an interview with her first. I have three and a half months left before she heads off. I think of all the fall out of the move to Korea- house, career, tribe, all- the thing that I really resent losing is time with her- these years when she should have been home with me. There. That's my gripe on that topic, and nothing to do with being ill.
Work ticks over. Plans are afoot for changing to the MYP, which I think is good. Lots of people are moving on this year, which I think is bad. We're taking a group of students to the UK in three weeks for Spring Break, and the preparations are taking alot of time. Good fun, though, as it's been a long time since I was able to organise anything on this scale. Considering some of the things I used to sort out on a regular basis it seems fairly low-key, but that is how things are now.
The follow on chemo will still happen every three weeks, up until October. The latest one was on Thursday- fairly uneventful, apart maybe from the reaction of the oncology department reception staff when I arrived, two minutes late and panting. They all looked up at once, and shouted 'Patree-cha' almost in unison. Then they promptly fell about, laughing. I can't imagine what all the other patients thought of it. Otherwise, nothing worth reporting on happened at the hospital. I have noticed that one or two colleagues seem to find conversations immediately after treatment pretty entertaining. My brain is generally a little left of centre for a few hours when I get back to school, though, which could explain it.
My hair is long enough to require both styling product and regular trims. I am undecided about letting it grow, so in the meantime, it stays short. I have taken to telling people that I'm experimenting to see how much favourable masculine attention it gets me before making up my mind. I can pretend to collect data on that for some time, as there is a very limited research pool.
So, with the return to health and well-being, my reason for keeping up with this has disappeared. That really can only be a good thing. It has been a good way of recording events- it was a dismal failure at preventing people from asking how I am feeling, which was part of its original intent. It also failed to act as a psychic prod to the two or three people who continue to inflict unwelcome touch on me. Might just have to actually DEAL with them. Sigh.
And with that, gentle readers, I sign out. Thanks for following, and for the love and encouragement over these months. I am grateful.
So, what is happening, as the threads are being tied up? I am getting to the gym six mornings a week, and the workouts are up to an hour. I am not seeing any visible benefits: my jeans are no looser (according to my oncologist, I will gain weight while I'm on the hormones, the nasty woman) but I feel stronger, like my heart and lungs are stretching and yawning as they wake up. I think the endorphins are helping with the depression, and I am sleeping better. All good.
Annie is so busy that if anything, I see less of her. Her university applications seem to have been productive, as she's had responses from all the schools she applied to. We are waiting for a firm answer from her second choice, and for an interview with her first. I have three and a half months left before she heads off. I think of all the fall out of the move to Korea- house, career, tribe, all- the thing that I really resent losing is time with her- these years when she should have been home with me. There. That's my gripe on that topic, and nothing to do with being ill.
Work ticks over. Plans are afoot for changing to the MYP, which I think is good. Lots of people are moving on this year, which I think is bad. We're taking a group of students to the UK in three weeks for Spring Break, and the preparations are taking alot of time. Good fun, though, as it's been a long time since I was able to organise anything on this scale. Considering some of the things I used to sort out on a regular basis it seems fairly low-key, but that is how things are now.
The follow on chemo will still happen every three weeks, up until October. The latest one was on Thursday- fairly uneventful, apart maybe from the reaction of the oncology department reception staff when I arrived, two minutes late and panting. They all looked up at once, and shouted 'Patree-cha' almost in unison. Then they promptly fell about, laughing. I can't imagine what all the other patients thought of it. Otherwise, nothing worth reporting on happened at the hospital. I have noticed that one or two colleagues seem to find conversations immediately after treatment pretty entertaining. My brain is generally a little left of centre for a few hours when I get back to school, though, which could explain it.
My hair is long enough to require both styling product and regular trims. I am undecided about letting it grow, so in the meantime, it stays short. I have taken to telling people that I'm experimenting to see how much favourable masculine attention it gets me before making up my mind. I can pretend to collect data on that for some time, as there is a very limited research pool.
So, with the return to health and well-being, my reason for keeping up with this has disappeared. That really can only be a good thing. It has been a good way of recording events- it was a dismal failure at preventing people from asking how I am feeling, which was part of its original intent. It also failed to act as a psychic prod to the two or three people who continue to inflict unwelcome touch on me. Might just have to actually DEAL with them. Sigh.
And with that, gentle readers, I sign out. Thanks for following, and for the love and encouragement over these months. I am grateful.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Korean New Year- health and faring well
Lunar New Year has rolled around again. My resolution to accept any and all social invitations (within moral bounds) has meant that I've been pretty nicely occupied. Last Friday night was the faculty Christmas Dinner (Yes, I know), at which the band performed for the first time in ages. The music was well-received and I was complimented on how well I'm looking ('Honestly, Patti- I thought you were sick!') which was nice. Saturday morning I went into Seoul with my friend Lynn for errands and brunch, and then headed to see Annie for a few hours before the Robert Burns Dinner. It was my third year at the dinner, and I genuinely do not tire of it. Several work-mates came in, and there was haggis and poetry and high jinks and dancing afterwards. Lovely fun. If there is some dispute over the best poem in the competition, then far be it from me to suggest that the contest was fixed.
A short week at work followed, topped off with Happy Hour Tuesday evening at one of the new local restaurants. It would be nice to have more such events, as the three school divisions so seldom have opportunity to mix socially. We are hoping to have a few gigs in the coming weeks, so perhaps will be able to begin rectifying the situation.
Wednesday I moved the radiation treatment to the morning, and had dinner with friends in the evening. We ate fabulous Mexican food, and put to rest a very nice bottle of tequila that I had been given on my birthday weekend and that had remained untouched in my freezer in the hope that the giver would return to help consume it. I toasted the absent giver with affection and goodwill- that will have to suffice.
Yesterday's planned road trip with Tamarisk and Casey was postponed in the face of bad weather, but was satisfactorily replaced by brunch and martinis; the evening was spent wading my way through the first series of The Walking Dead. Once I reached the end, I looked up the episode guide and the latest seasons and have decided not to invest any more in it. Spoilers spoiled it.
As someone who doesn't watch much telly, I have had a few other series recommended by friends and am keen to start watching them. However, I am jiggered if I can remember what they are. This brings me smoothly into the latest note-worthy radiation side effects, starting with the memory gaps. I'm not losing my memory exactly, but there are definite spaces where I can see that the sun has bleached the wallpaper around the picture frames, if you understand my meaning. I know, for example, that I had a conversation last week in the faculty lounge about going on a ski weekend. I am pretty sure that I agreed to go, and possibly to share accommodation. I cannot, however, try as I might, remember who it was I was speaking to about it. I generally try to keep track of who I agree to share rooms with- it seems a good policy- but in this case, I haven't a clue. I may need to start writing these things down. The gaps are usually around conversations- either I remember the content of the discussion but not the characters in it, or I have perfect recollection of speaking to people and not the foggiest what it was about. I have taken to sending myself emails with messages and instructions just to make sure I don't neglect important reminders. I also found myself staring in bewilderment into the dryer the other morning, wondering why the clothes I expected to find there had disappeared. Only when I went into my room and saw my sweaters folded up on the dresser did I remember that I had spent several minutes the evening before folding and hanging the clean laundry. And clearly, not putting my sweaters into the drawer.
So far, however, the brain bumps haven't been too dramatic. Seven treatments left, though, so there is still time.
Otherwise, I have an interesting ache in the middle of my chest, and my breathing is definitely more laboured. I mentioned this to the radiologist when we spoke on Monday. He did not seem especially concerned, even though he is the one who warned me to be on the lookout for signs of pneumonia. He, too, had told me weeks ago that my heart and lung function would be impeded. I had been attributing all the wheeziness to this, not unreasonably, in my view. He seemed to think differently, as he ponderously explained again that my left lung would suffer 20% functionality loss (please recognize the accommodations I am making here for his English limitations), but that because lungs work pretty well at compensating for each other, this is not likely to be the cause of the changes to my breathing. Instead, he said:
'It is probably because of the menopause.'
My response was pronounced.
'What? Something else from the menopause? No! Nope. Not having it. I have had quite enough nonsense from the menopause. I am not having anything else!'
He could only laugh. I felt better about that, at least, having found him very humourless throughout our meetings and having managed to muster at least a wry grin from all the other medical professionals I've encountered there. Well, apart from the gynecologist. That man is beyond both my help and my ken. He says things about the usefulness and utility of various body parts associated with the hysterectomy that render me spitting and disinclined to make our encounters more pleasant. He doesn't deserve to laugh at me. The others? Ah, I'm hilARIous, as far as they are concerned.
Aaaanyway, back to it. I am, as usual, relatively side-effects free otherwise. The burns that I was told to expect have not appeared. (Do you suppose that they are giving me weak radiation, in addition to the weak cancer drugs that they apparently gave me while I was having the first version of chemo? Eye roll) I am still a little wobbly- as if my brain is somewhere left of centre. This is not too troublesome, as it also matches my politics. I have not fainted or been sick, despite some of the warnings I've received. The doctor has even told me that I can begin exercising again. This is great, but completely contrary to what I was told by the technician. Once again therefore, in the face of opposing or unclear advice from the people in charge, I have decided to do what I want. They also cannot agree on side effects, therefore, I shall not have any worth worrying about.
And bonus: having the convenience of TWO New Years upon which one can make resolutions, I can renew my vows to get back into a pattern of health and exercise that will not only combat the weebles-wobble-but-they-don't-fall-down sturdiness that I have acquired, but will prepare me for the reconstruction (+) surgery that I hope to arrange for June. Yep. Will be aaaaaalll about the health and exercise from now on. Starting Monday.
Well, it is the holiday, isn't it?
A short week at work followed, topped off with Happy Hour Tuesday evening at one of the new local restaurants. It would be nice to have more such events, as the three school divisions so seldom have opportunity to mix socially. We are hoping to have a few gigs in the coming weeks, so perhaps will be able to begin rectifying the situation.
Wednesday I moved the radiation treatment to the morning, and had dinner with friends in the evening. We ate fabulous Mexican food, and put to rest a very nice bottle of tequila that I had been given on my birthday weekend and that had remained untouched in my freezer in the hope that the giver would return to help consume it. I toasted the absent giver with affection and goodwill- that will have to suffice.
Yesterday's planned road trip with Tamarisk and Casey was postponed in the face of bad weather, but was satisfactorily replaced by brunch and martinis; the evening was spent wading my way through the first series of The Walking Dead. Once I reached the end, I looked up the episode guide and the latest seasons and have decided not to invest any more in it. Spoilers spoiled it.
As someone who doesn't watch much telly, I have had a few other series recommended by friends and am keen to start watching them. However, I am jiggered if I can remember what they are. This brings me smoothly into the latest note-worthy radiation side effects, starting with the memory gaps. I'm not losing my memory exactly, but there are definite spaces where I can see that the sun has bleached the wallpaper around the picture frames, if you understand my meaning. I know, for example, that I had a conversation last week in the faculty lounge about going on a ski weekend. I am pretty sure that I agreed to go, and possibly to share accommodation. I cannot, however, try as I might, remember who it was I was speaking to about it. I generally try to keep track of who I agree to share rooms with- it seems a good policy- but in this case, I haven't a clue. I may need to start writing these things down. The gaps are usually around conversations- either I remember the content of the discussion but not the characters in it, or I have perfect recollection of speaking to people and not the foggiest what it was about. I have taken to sending myself emails with messages and instructions just to make sure I don't neglect important reminders. I also found myself staring in bewilderment into the dryer the other morning, wondering why the clothes I expected to find there had disappeared. Only when I went into my room and saw my sweaters folded up on the dresser did I remember that I had spent several minutes the evening before folding and hanging the clean laundry. And clearly, not putting my sweaters into the drawer.
So far, however, the brain bumps haven't been too dramatic. Seven treatments left, though, so there is still time.
Otherwise, I have an interesting ache in the middle of my chest, and my breathing is definitely more laboured. I mentioned this to the radiologist when we spoke on Monday. He did not seem especially concerned, even though he is the one who warned me to be on the lookout for signs of pneumonia. He, too, had told me weeks ago that my heart and lung function would be impeded. I had been attributing all the wheeziness to this, not unreasonably, in my view. He seemed to think differently, as he ponderously explained again that my left lung would suffer 20% functionality loss (please recognize the accommodations I am making here for his English limitations), but that because lungs work pretty well at compensating for each other, this is not likely to be the cause of the changes to my breathing. Instead, he said:
'It is probably because of the menopause.'
My response was pronounced.
'What? Something else from the menopause? No! Nope. Not having it. I have had quite enough nonsense from the menopause. I am not having anything else!'
He could only laugh. I felt better about that, at least, having found him very humourless throughout our meetings and having managed to muster at least a wry grin from all the other medical professionals I've encountered there. Well, apart from the gynecologist. That man is beyond both my help and my ken. He says things about the usefulness and utility of various body parts associated with the hysterectomy that render me spitting and disinclined to make our encounters more pleasant. He doesn't deserve to laugh at me. The others? Ah, I'm hilARIous, as far as they are concerned.
Aaaanyway, back to it. I am, as usual, relatively side-effects free otherwise. The burns that I was told to expect have not appeared. (Do you suppose that they are giving me weak radiation, in addition to the weak cancer drugs that they apparently gave me while I was having the first version of chemo? Eye roll) I am still a little wobbly- as if my brain is somewhere left of centre. This is not too troublesome, as it also matches my politics. I have not fainted or been sick, despite some of the warnings I've received. The doctor has even told me that I can begin exercising again. This is great, but completely contrary to what I was told by the technician. Once again therefore, in the face of opposing or unclear advice from the people in charge, I have decided to do what I want. They also cannot agree on side effects, therefore, I shall not have any worth worrying about.
And bonus: having the convenience of TWO New Years upon which one can make resolutions, I can renew my vows to get back into a pattern of health and exercise that will not only combat the weebles-wobble-but-they-don't-fall-down sturdiness that I have acquired, but will prepare me for the reconstruction (+) surgery that I hope to arrange for June. Yep. Will be aaaaaalll about the health and exercise from now on. Starting Monday.
Well, it is the holiday, isn't it?
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Am I glowing yet?
I have now had five radiation treatments, and I am still waiting to explore the full range of side effects. I am wheezy, most definitely, and found the recent heavy yellow dust day to be rather more uncomfortable than usual. Welcome to Korea. Occasionally, there are gripping pains in my chest or side, which I have been told to expect, and the skin around my nipple feels hot and a bit tender. I had a lovely cwtch with Phavana's boy, Santi, yesterday, and needed to shift positions more than usual due to discomfort. Walking the stairs at school without gasping is slightly challenging, but I am determined not to take the elevator, as it is really the only exercise I am getting at the moment. Four flights- gak, choke, pant... I am spending much more time in the faculty lounge on the second floor these days, so as not to need to trek up to the office so frequently.
Otherwise, I think that I am again getting off lightly. We will see. It could get worse. I have picked up a daily ritual with my classes: I shut off all the lights and ask them whether I glow in the dark. They assure me that I do not. I shall keep you informed of any changes in this, and shall provide photos.
The sessions themselves are uneventful: I take a taxi to the hospital, head to radiology, disrobe to my waist, put on a short cotton hospital jacket- pink, because clearly I am a girl- tuck my belongings into a locker and head round the corner to the seats that line the corridor. A lab-coated young man pokes his nose around the edge of a door and calls a pretty close approximation to my name, and I follow him to the far end of the hall, where an automatic sliding wooden door hisses open. Another few steps through an antechamber, and I turn the corner into the treatment room, where I drop my locker key and my phone into a plastic box and I clamber gracelessly onto the platform on the other side of the room. At the head of the platform is a dome, in some ways resemblant of the magical burrito from the MRI machine. My legs are placed on a prop, designed, I think, just to keep them still. I am laid out with my head on a second prop, and the young man is joined by a colleague. The two of them open my jacket and expose my chest. They tut a little, to see that the grid marks placed there previously have faded, and then manhandle my hips and torso into exactly the right position. When I am assembled to their satisfaction, they flip the sides of the jacket back up over me and stride out of the room.
Music is playing in the background. On weekdays, it seems, orchestral numbers are on the playlist. Yesterday, it was rockier and Korean. Above my head, there is a picture panel with blue skies, clouds and cherry blossoms; all very soothing. There is a click and a whir, and the platform raises about a foot. Surrounding it are two oddly shaped attachments: one with an end that resembles a probe, the other with a large circular end that lies parallel to the platform, but that moves around me throughout the process. I think that this it the device that actually zaps me. There is also a set of cameras in the room. One is directly above the platform, another is off to my left. I have not seen this one, but I know it is there because I have spotted a photograph of myself in the technicians' room as I have exited the corridor.
Another click. The platform shifts several times as somewhere off in the distance, the technicians remotely re-adjust my position. Then another whir and a bell. The contraptions around me start to move, the circular plate shifting to my left while the probe moves above my chest. It sounds like it is being wound up. I cannot really feel anything, but I am strangely aware that something is taking place. More clicks, and the plate moves up over my chest while the probe shifts to the right. At the centre of the circular plate is a large rectangular window. Through it, I see what look like long, thin metal teeth- they most closely resemble the metallic teeth on the mechanism of a music box. However, instead of being twanged by the ridges on a rotating wheel, they slide apart from each other in a strange, non-linear pattern of openings and closings. The winding lasts for about a minute, there is a snap and a re-adjustment as the teeth close, and then the motion is repeated. This happens three times, the whole process taking about five minutes. After a final click, I hear the air in the antechamber shift, and one of the technicians bustles back into the room. He pushes a button and the platform sinks back to its original position and he helps me sit up. I offer a cheery 'thank you!' and head out of the room, tying the jacket shut as I go. Everything is so business-like that I feel compelled to move quickly.
I throw 'See you tomorrow!' to the other technicians, return to the locker room to dress, and exchange farewells with the receptionists before leaving the department and taking the escalator to the main floor. Taxis await outside, I show the cabbie the card with the school address on it, and sit back for the fifteen minute ride back to Songdo. The cab journey is longer than the treatment has taken. My mouth tastes like porcelain on the ride back and my face feels flushed. Any other reactions wait, and I only really notice them absentmindedly. Perhaps I have a bit of a dizzy turn, or the room shifts a little when I look at my feet. So far, it does not feel any worse than that.
So, all that being comparatively uneventful, what else is happening? Well, the promotion I was lined up for at work has fallen through. We were going to open residences and I was going to be directing the program. You're clever- you can see that the use of the past tense indicates a shift. There will now be no new residences, for reasons that I shall not go into here. I have been told that if they do ever happen, that I will be running them, which is only small comfort, considering how excited I was about the prospect of getting back into administration (management, Brit-types). Honestly, it felt like my lungs were able to fill up with air properly again. Now, the brief hope is extinguished- no promotion. So, what will I do next year? I cannot yet leave Korea. As much as I try to come up with a route out, none really exists yet. There is no school anywhere that would pick up a candidate with three months remaining of her cancer treatment, and mine is set to continue until October. So, I stay another year for my health. The risk is that I will never get back into leadership after four years out of it, therefore, I will finish the damned Masters, making myself marginally more attractive as an employment prospect. Then, I will see how it goes. Next year, I will resign. I will attend as many job fairs as I need to to find another job, preferably a promoted post. If I do not find one, well, then I will take a year out. I will get yet another Masters, in a subject that I LIKE, such as creative writing or literature or history or some such, whether it will do my career any good or not. I will then start applying again for international jobs, because it's actually rather fun working overseas, and I can quite clearly not go back to the UK.
Then I will see what happens next.
In all that, I maintain what Rich used to call a 'rigid commitment to flexibility'. 'Cause if the last year has taught me nothing else, it is that making plans is like spitting in the wind- you have no idea where it will end up, but likely it will be on your face. Let the dice fly high!
Otherwise, I think that I am again getting off lightly. We will see. It could get worse. I have picked up a daily ritual with my classes: I shut off all the lights and ask them whether I glow in the dark. They assure me that I do not. I shall keep you informed of any changes in this, and shall provide photos.
The sessions themselves are uneventful: I take a taxi to the hospital, head to radiology, disrobe to my waist, put on a short cotton hospital jacket- pink, because clearly I am a girl- tuck my belongings into a locker and head round the corner to the seats that line the corridor. A lab-coated young man pokes his nose around the edge of a door and calls a pretty close approximation to my name, and I follow him to the far end of the hall, where an automatic sliding wooden door hisses open. Another few steps through an antechamber, and I turn the corner into the treatment room, where I drop my locker key and my phone into a plastic box and I clamber gracelessly onto the platform on the other side of the room. At the head of the platform is a dome, in some ways resemblant of the magical burrito from the MRI machine. My legs are placed on a prop, designed, I think, just to keep them still. I am laid out with my head on a second prop, and the young man is joined by a colleague. The two of them open my jacket and expose my chest. They tut a little, to see that the grid marks placed there previously have faded, and then manhandle my hips and torso into exactly the right position. When I am assembled to their satisfaction, they flip the sides of the jacket back up over me and stride out of the room.
Music is playing in the background. On weekdays, it seems, orchestral numbers are on the playlist. Yesterday, it was rockier and Korean. Above my head, there is a picture panel with blue skies, clouds and cherry blossoms; all very soothing. There is a click and a whir, and the platform raises about a foot. Surrounding it are two oddly shaped attachments: one with an end that resembles a probe, the other with a large circular end that lies parallel to the platform, but that moves around me throughout the process. I think that this it the device that actually zaps me. There is also a set of cameras in the room. One is directly above the platform, another is off to my left. I have not seen this one, but I know it is there because I have spotted a photograph of myself in the technicians' room as I have exited the corridor.
Another click. The platform shifts several times as somewhere off in the distance, the technicians remotely re-adjust my position. Then another whir and a bell. The contraptions around me start to move, the circular plate shifting to my left while the probe moves above my chest. It sounds like it is being wound up. I cannot really feel anything, but I am strangely aware that something is taking place. More clicks, and the plate moves up over my chest while the probe shifts to the right. At the centre of the circular plate is a large rectangular window. Through it, I see what look like long, thin metal teeth- they most closely resemble the metallic teeth on the mechanism of a music box. However, instead of being twanged by the ridges on a rotating wheel, they slide apart from each other in a strange, non-linear pattern of openings and closings. The winding lasts for about a minute, there is a snap and a re-adjustment as the teeth close, and then the motion is repeated. This happens three times, the whole process taking about five minutes. After a final click, I hear the air in the antechamber shift, and one of the technicians bustles back into the room. He pushes a button and the platform sinks back to its original position and he helps me sit up. I offer a cheery 'thank you!' and head out of the room, tying the jacket shut as I go. Everything is so business-like that I feel compelled to move quickly.
I throw 'See you tomorrow!' to the other technicians, return to the locker room to dress, and exchange farewells with the receptionists before leaving the department and taking the escalator to the main floor. Taxis await outside, I show the cabbie the card with the school address on it, and sit back for the fifteen minute ride back to Songdo. The cab journey is longer than the treatment has taken. My mouth tastes like porcelain on the ride back and my face feels flushed. Any other reactions wait, and I only really notice them absentmindedly. Perhaps I have a bit of a dizzy turn, or the room shifts a little when I look at my feet. So far, it does not feel any worse than that.
So, all that being comparatively uneventful, what else is happening? Well, the promotion I was lined up for at work has fallen through. We were going to open residences and I was going to be directing the program. You're clever- you can see that the use of the past tense indicates a shift. There will now be no new residences, for reasons that I shall not go into here. I have been told that if they do ever happen, that I will be running them, which is only small comfort, considering how excited I was about the prospect of getting back into administration (management, Brit-types). Honestly, it felt like my lungs were able to fill up with air properly again. Now, the brief hope is extinguished- no promotion. So, what will I do next year? I cannot yet leave Korea. As much as I try to come up with a route out, none really exists yet. There is no school anywhere that would pick up a candidate with three months remaining of her cancer treatment, and mine is set to continue until October. So, I stay another year for my health. The risk is that I will never get back into leadership after four years out of it, therefore, I will finish the damned Masters, making myself marginally more attractive as an employment prospect. Then, I will see how it goes. Next year, I will resign. I will attend as many job fairs as I need to to find another job, preferably a promoted post. If I do not find one, well, then I will take a year out. I will get yet another Masters, in a subject that I LIKE, such as creative writing or literature or history or some such, whether it will do my career any good or not. I will then start applying again for international jobs, because it's actually rather fun working overseas, and I can quite clearly not go back to the UK.
Then I will see what happens next.
In all that, I maintain what Rich used to call a 'rigid commitment to flexibility'. 'Cause if the last year has taught me nothing else, it is that making plans is like spitting in the wind- you have no idea where it will end up, but likely it will be on your face. Let the dice fly high!
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Something old, something new.
School has been back in session for a week now. I am trying to avoid answering questions about the break because I am so glad to see people again that I tend to overshare about how it all went. Ok, perhaps my lack of appropriate boundaries or internal monologue are the reasons why I overshare, but the issue remains the same: I'd rather be at work.
The shocking discovery this summer that I am actually more extroverted than I'd ever suspected (What?? I LIKE people???) was confirmed again over the Winter Break. I timed the operation so as not to interfere with school, which remains good reasoning in my mind, and there were people around while I was here so that I was not utterly cut off from human contact. There were some very pleasant hours, in fact. Christmas Eve was spent with friends and their newborn, and I had Christmas dinner with a lovely bunch of colleagues- and another newborn, as it happens. It wasn't great having Annie away, though, and I was certainly aware of my solitary status- uncomfortably so.
The visit to the surgeon was on Christmas Eve, and as you know, contained all good news. Seven months after him telling me that I 'could' have cancer, he was smugly affirming that the margins were now clear, and admiring the bandage that I'd put on over the drain; he even suggested that I could come and work for him. Ah, how far we've come.
We shook hands solemnly when I departed, and I pointed out that it was the last time I'd see him. 'Come back anytime you want!' he exclaimed. Which was nice. And a little odd.
The Herceptin treatment on Boxing Day was as standard as it could be. I gave the oncologist and the cancer ward techies some candy canes, and all the next appointments were made without incident. I wasn't as knocked flat by this treatment as the one on Thanksgiving, so was able to... Lord, I can't remember what I did afterwards on Boxing Day! The action and adventure is so non stop, that I clearly can't keep track of it all. I may have gone to buy some new dishes or something. I have some new dishes, and obviously I got them somehow. Maybe that's when I picked them up.
The next evening I left for Bali. Again, a completely non-eventful departure and journey. The airport in Denpasar has undergone huge renovations, but the queues were horrendous- far worse than I'd seen them before. It honestly wasn't until I was standing in one that it occurred to me that it was just two years ago that I was honeymooning there. At that point, surrounded by all the laughing twenty-somethings and couples and families, I made the first of my New Year's resolutions:
I will never honeymoon in Bali again.
Seems reasonable, and pretty easy to keep. It was not the last resolution of the week.
The driver, Surya, was waiting for me outside the gates. Feels like we go way back now, as he drives for me whenever I go. We toddled out to the villa and he left me there with instructions to rest and relax for the next two days, and that he'd pick me up in time for dinner on Monday evening. Rest? Relax?
By the end of the first day I was twitching. I have never been very good at resting.
Actually, let's take that whole rather long, dull story and make it short, shall we? Bali is beautiful. I did not have a great time, however. I think, in honesty, that the break may have pushed me near the edge of a place I don't want to visit- and I am not talking about Indonesia. Blame the medication, perhaps, or the (still very recent) hysterectomy, or the fact that it has been a pretty flipping tough year. Whatever it is- yikes. It shouldn't be a surprise that things are a struggle at the moment, should it? The hormone issues on their own would be enough to excuse a certain amount of... Lord, what is this?
I have the attention span of a cocker spaniel. Even typing this entry has taken me three days so far, and I'd planned to submit it as soon as I returned from Bali. I am constantly anxious. My heart seems jittery, and loud noises are intensely irritating- not great when working with middle schoolers. I remain hurt and saddened by a failed relationship that I ought to have recovered from by this time. I am so pleased to see people that I talk over top of them in my enthusiasm, and can sense them pulling away. My moods are all over the place- I can be giggling inappropriately one minute and sobbing the next. I either sleep for ten hours or three and a half. I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat; when I wake up again, it is in a hot flash. If this is all down to the cancer treatment, then fine- but I would love to know that it will pass!
On the plus side, my hair looks great. Whether I will keep it this short, I do not know.
Radiation treatment starts Tuesday. I went in on Thursday for a CT scan and to get some bright blue grid marks mapped out all over my chest, with the instructions not to remove them. I am trying, honestly, but they are all wearing off regardless of my best efforts. The radiologist has told me that I will have thirty-three treatments, as opposed to the twenty I was scheduled for the last time they'd planned them. Also, each treatment will take twenty minutes, and not the five he'd indicated last time. I'll just show up, I think, and they'll let me go when I'm finished. The good thing about the radiation is that I can pop along at my convenience. Well, and that it will keep the cancer from coming back. That will also be a good thing.
It all should be wrapped up, then, the first week in March. There really is no way that I'm going to keep those grid marks in place until then! I guess that once it's all finished, I won't have any excuse to continue writing this. Life will return to a wonderful normality, whatever that will now look like. In another few months, Annie will be heading off to university (if the little minx ever gets her UCAS forms completed), and I'll be here waiting out the next year, hopefully with a new job nicely underway. What happens after that is anybody's guess. All the plans I've been making have been quite decisively thrown out the window, so it feels foolish to pick up and make many new ones now.
I guess I'm just adrift at the moment, trying to get used to the changes in my system and the crazy shifts in the path. Things will settle down; things will become clearer. I hate hearing my constant complaints- and they are louder inside my head, believe me. I received word this week that a very good friend from college died from breast cancer on the second of January. A few months my junior, we met when I transferred to Moncton during my third year. She made the last year and a half of my degree a far more pleasant place to be. She was simply a wonderful human being, and I do not understand the vagaries of a universe that allows someone as lovely and necessary as she was to suffer so much more, let alone not live, when I have emerged so unscathed. No bullshit here about how there's a bigger plan afoot for me, or that I have been spared for a reason. It feels like a lottery- a big, cosmically perverse lottery.
The shocking discovery this summer that I am actually more extroverted than I'd ever suspected (What?? I LIKE people???) was confirmed again over the Winter Break. I timed the operation so as not to interfere with school, which remains good reasoning in my mind, and there were people around while I was here so that I was not utterly cut off from human contact. There were some very pleasant hours, in fact. Christmas Eve was spent with friends and their newborn, and I had Christmas dinner with a lovely bunch of colleagues- and another newborn, as it happens. It wasn't great having Annie away, though, and I was certainly aware of my solitary status- uncomfortably so.
The visit to the surgeon was on Christmas Eve, and as you know, contained all good news. Seven months after him telling me that I 'could' have cancer, he was smugly affirming that the margins were now clear, and admiring the bandage that I'd put on over the drain; he even suggested that I could come and work for him. Ah, how far we've come.
We shook hands solemnly when I departed, and I pointed out that it was the last time I'd see him. 'Come back anytime you want!' he exclaimed. Which was nice. And a little odd.
The Herceptin treatment on Boxing Day was as standard as it could be. I gave the oncologist and the cancer ward techies some candy canes, and all the next appointments were made without incident. I wasn't as knocked flat by this treatment as the one on Thanksgiving, so was able to... Lord, I can't remember what I did afterwards on Boxing Day! The action and adventure is so non stop, that I clearly can't keep track of it all. I may have gone to buy some new dishes or something. I have some new dishes, and obviously I got them somehow. Maybe that's when I picked them up.
The next evening I left for Bali. Again, a completely non-eventful departure and journey. The airport in Denpasar has undergone huge renovations, but the queues were horrendous- far worse than I'd seen them before. It honestly wasn't until I was standing in one that it occurred to me that it was just two years ago that I was honeymooning there. At that point, surrounded by all the laughing twenty-somethings and couples and families, I made the first of my New Year's resolutions:
I will never honeymoon in Bali again.
Seems reasonable, and pretty easy to keep. It was not the last resolution of the week.
The driver, Surya, was waiting for me outside the gates. Feels like we go way back now, as he drives for me whenever I go. We toddled out to the villa and he left me there with instructions to rest and relax for the next two days, and that he'd pick me up in time for dinner on Monday evening. Rest? Relax?
By the end of the first day I was twitching. I have never been very good at resting.
Actually, let's take that whole rather long, dull story and make it short, shall we? Bali is beautiful. I did not have a great time, however. I think, in honesty, that the break may have pushed me near the edge of a place I don't want to visit- and I am not talking about Indonesia. Blame the medication, perhaps, or the (still very recent) hysterectomy, or the fact that it has been a pretty flipping tough year. Whatever it is- yikes. It shouldn't be a surprise that things are a struggle at the moment, should it? The hormone issues on their own would be enough to excuse a certain amount of... Lord, what is this?
I have the attention span of a cocker spaniel. Even typing this entry has taken me three days so far, and I'd planned to submit it as soon as I returned from Bali. I am constantly anxious. My heart seems jittery, and loud noises are intensely irritating- not great when working with middle schoolers. I remain hurt and saddened by a failed relationship that I ought to have recovered from by this time. I am so pleased to see people that I talk over top of them in my enthusiasm, and can sense them pulling away. My moods are all over the place- I can be giggling inappropriately one minute and sobbing the next. I either sleep for ten hours or three and a half. I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat; when I wake up again, it is in a hot flash. If this is all down to the cancer treatment, then fine- but I would love to know that it will pass!
On the plus side, my hair looks great. Whether I will keep it this short, I do not know.
Radiation treatment starts Tuesday. I went in on Thursday for a CT scan and to get some bright blue grid marks mapped out all over my chest, with the instructions not to remove them. I am trying, honestly, but they are all wearing off regardless of my best efforts. The radiologist has told me that I will have thirty-three treatments, as opposed to the twenty I was scheduled for the last time they'd planned them. Also, each treatment will take twenty minutes, and not the five he'd indicated last time. I'll just show up, I think, and they'll let me go when I'm finished. The good thing about the radiation is that I can pop along at my convenience. Well, and that it will keep the cancer from coming back. That will also be a good thing.
It all should be wrapped up, then, the first week in March. There really is no way that I'm going to keep those grid marks in place until then! I guess that once it's all finished, I won't have any excuse to continue writing this. Life will return to a wonderful normality, whatever that will now look like. In another few months, Annie will be heading off to university (if the little minx ever gets her UCAS forms completed), and I'll be here waiting out the next year, hopefully with a new job nicely underway. What happens after that is anybody's guess. All the plans I've been making have been quite decisively thrown out the window, so it feels foolish to pick up and make many new ones now.
I guess I'm just adrift at the moment, trying to get used to the changes in my system and the crazy shifts in the path. Things will settle down; things will become clearer. I hate hearing my constant complaints- and they are louder inside my head, believe me. I received word this week that a very good friend from college died from breast cancer on the second of January. A few months my junior, we met when I transferred to Moncton during my third year. She made the last year and a half of my degree a far more pleasant place to be. She was simply a wonderful human being, and I do not understand the vagaries of a universe that allows someone as lovely and necessary as she was to suffer so much more, let alone not live, when I have emerged so unscathed. No bullshit here about how there's a bigger plan afoot for me, or that I have been spared for a reason. It feels like a lottery- a big, cosmically perverse lottery.
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