So, a day of action-packed adventure, and finally some news about what look likely to be the next steps. I mean, I've only got a two and a half centimetre fast-growing tumour in my bosom- what's the delay of a month between friends??
I admit to a certain impatience.
Stop snorting; it's rude.
I've admitted it, there is no jibe to be made.
I have found the round of tests and consultations and news-news-more-news to be rather tiring and perplexing. I don't think I'd have managed at all with my faculties intact if it hadn't been for Shelley and Connie along at these appointments, in some cases keeping me company through grim news and in others, acting as conduit for information. It has seemed like every visit has resulted in another detail to unravel or a different angle to consider. I do not know how people manage without another set of ears alongside them. I'm baffled most of the time, and that is WITH someone. Even Connie has said that there are pieces of very important information that seems to be covered only sketchily. I'm not much good, because I have no idea even what questions to ask, and often have just been hit by yet another grand pronouncement that has left me reeling- you might have cancer/you really do have cancer/you might have cancer somewhere else/you need a hysterectomy/Luke, I am your father...
Might have over-played that last one, but I really wanted to remind you of the light saber.
Point is, you NEED someone with you, preferably someone who knows you and knows the questions that ought to be asked. Because with news like all this, you are in no position to ask, let alone process the responses to, anything. The doctor may see a hundred people every day- he certainly did today. He may be totally clinical, or a man who thinks STUPID things like 'It's only a uterus, and you only need it for making babies', and he may just charge through the information like a bull, totally and unhelpfully inured to the sentence he has pronounced. He may not even know that to some, it is a sentence.
So, I was grateful for the extra ears. It made the mulling afterwards better.
I tend to take things away and process and think and listen to too many opinions about what I should do and worry about my mother and Annie and work and reports, and then spend several moments later at night looking at the empty space next to me thinking dark thoughts about why it is empty- then I try to come to decisions. Having previously decided to have surgery first, I then decided to have chemo first. Then yesterday, I decided to have surgery first. And today, after another consultation with the doctor, I decided to have chemo first.
So you see, it's all perfectly clear.
It may have been the doctor's insinuation that perhaps HE knew best (which is probably fair enough) that turned my mind. It is more likely to have been the threat that if they operate now, I will lose my nipple. Most likely, though, it was his smug assertion that, if getting back to work is my main concern, (and it's a pretty big one) then I should know that many Korean women would be back at work in just a few weeks, AND carry on through most of chemotherapy.
Well THAT did the trick. Competition?? On an international scale??
Let me just get this straight: I am going to recover from cancer and surgery- for my COUNTRY??
Oh, I am IN that race!!! Am Canadian. I can skin a bear with my teeth in minus 20 degrees with windchill factor thrown in for fun. I can bloody well be back at work within a month if I have to.
(Am also possibly rather optimistic. At home, we'd call it 'happy-go-lucky, eh?')
After much fiffing and faffing about, I eventually found myself in front of the oncologist. I needed to speak to her, because she will be managing my chemotherapy. (Yes, yes, I hear you- why am I only seeing this woman NOW?? As Ann used to say in college, 'You've got me dangling.')
I needed her to tell me what chemo meds they would be using, so that I could pass the information on to the insurers. Once again, I am struck by the barbarity of the industry. It's been a week since my last test, I am ill, tired and confused, and I am the one running around to find out what treatment I need and the meds required in order to persuade an insurance company that my treatment ought to be covered. There is no one coordinating it all, or making the appointments or just making it smooth and civilised. The National Health Service may not be perfect, but Lord, Lord- it is humane.
Tell you what, though- I liked the oncologist. She apologised first:
O: I have little English.
P: Well, I have no Korean, so we'll get along fine.
And then proceeded to tell me the answer to every question I didn't know I had. Here is the plan, and how it should play out:
- I will have a cardiofunction test on Tuesday. If all is well, I will speak to her again on Wednesday. If the pre-authorisation has come through, then I will start chemo immediately.
- The chemo will be administered via iv. I will be there for six hours, and then go home. I will be sick. I will have muscle pain. I will, after two weeks, begin to lose my hair.
- I will come back and do it again one week after that.
- After two cycles of this, they will do another MRI and see how it's going; they will probably decide then whether/when to schedule the surgery.
- After the operation, I will have three more rounds of chemo, depending, and then radiation.
Now THAT is what I've wanted someone to tell me. I really liked her!
The thing I most especially and particularly liked, though, was her demeanour. She looked me in the eye, concentrating on understanding every word I said. She did not rush me. She did not act like I was being silly or hysterical or foreign-and-therefore-a-bit-dumb.
What she ALSO did, when she wanted to get her receptionist to come in, was shriek like a flipping HARPY through the door at her. Do you remember Frau Farbissina from Austin Powers? Dr Evil's henchwoman and mother of Scott Evil? Those times when she throws her head back and shrieks 'SCOTT!!' or 'BRING IN THE FEMBOTS!!"?
Well that was my oncologist, yelling for her receptionist. Made me grin out loud.
And now, there is at last a plan. Assuming the insurers think it's all worth paying for, that is.
I will save for another day a post about my further interactions with the cranky lady from the international clinic. That will require some preparation. And some calming down.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
I can get pretty touchy about being touched.
My mother tells of one of the nurses in hospital the day I was born, who informed her that she had 'just given birth to a very determined young lady.' I remember a conversation with one of my own when Annie was born. I was baffled by the odd crying patterns of the little alien that had only recently been handed to me through a drug-induced haze. They went like this:
Put baby down- crying starts.
Pick baby up- crying stops.
This was repeated. Repeatedly. Interminably.
I asked the nurse whether there was something wrong with her.
Nurse: No. You've just got a cuddly baby.
P: But I'm not cuddly.
Nurse: You'd better learn to be.
I have not yet learned to be, not with anyone outside my very closest circle. The circle, at the moment, consists of one person. Ann. It has stretched to include various beaus and the occasional husband before contracting again, unfortunately, because there are some sorts of contact that I like rather alot, otherwise it is a very exclusive circle. When I hug people to say hello, the touch is quick and perfunctory, however much I like them. And I DO like them. I just don't like getting touched by them. I am happy holding babies and my mother's hand, and wrestling with my nephews and nieces, and ... well, that's about it. No problem with massages or manicures, and I'm sure the reason for that is buried somewhere in a few hours' worth of therapy. However, touching generally sets my teeth on edge.
Where is this going?
Here:
Cancer, like pregnancy, makes people think they can touch you. Or maybe that you need to be touched. Not sure which, and not sure that I care. I have had more arms put around me and back pattings and head strokings and hand holdings in the last three weeks than in the last three years.
Not even just from people who are really very nearly in the circle, and from whom I willingly accept contact because I understand that it is appropriate and affectionate and that I need to just wind in my neck about it, no.
This is from those who have barely shared a conversation with me throughout the whole of our acquaintance, or those who are slightly nearer, but who start the patting/stroking/hand-holding and then seem to be unable to detach from me, and either do it with a rueful smile as they talk about all the lovely hats I shall be able to wear when I am bald (and this fascinates SO many people) or with the sympathetic grimace and furrowed brow of feigned understanding.
This is from those who are NOT reading this, because I have not shared the link with them. And I do not know what to do with it. I do not like it. I also do not want to be rude and respond with what is in my head when it happens. That noise starts with a cat's hiss and collapses into an ugly, screeching, banshee howl. I wish to upset no one, but am on the verge of getting rather upset myself. Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me. I honestly don't mind the talk about hats, and can bear the sympathetic grimaces, but please please please- don't stroke me. Unless you are a gorgeous, strapping 6 footer without commitment issues or mommy issues or ex-wife issues or hysterectified, half-bosomed women issues or issues issues. I would consider strokes from you if you are that guy. And if you are that guy, then you are obviously not reading this anyway. Because there is no 'that guy'.
I accept that I am not the same as everybody else in this regard. Some people want to be touched. I understand that I need to be more willing to engage with this and sometimes, need to offer the hug and the pat and the stroke myself. But Lord, it's difficult. It feels like an invasion, and that makes me uncomfortable.
How should you respond, then if you can't offer a comforting hug? First, don't worry about the damned hug. Tell me how to fix it, maybe. Tell me that I'm gorgeous, maybe, and that I won't look like Uncle Fester when my hair falls out. Laugh at me a bit. Laugh at my black jokes and understand that I will be completely irreverent about the whole process, except for those bleak moments when I can't seem to breathe or stop crying. And when I can't breathe or stop crying, hand me a tissue and step back. It will pass and I will get it back together and start laughing again. And I will be so much more grateful for it.
The touches are less helpful than the touching demonstrations of real support. Filling my freezer so that I don't have to cook? Girls, you are flipping fanTAStic!! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Helping me move house and making sure the apartment is clean before I go? I love you!! Offering to fetch my mother from the airport and loan Bert a car when he's here? So much better than patting my hand! So much less likely to receive a pop in the nose or a banshee howl than patting my hand!!
Ah, my wonderful friends. Forgive my untouchy-ness, and my touchiness about it. Please. If you ever want a hug, ask. I barely know alot of people who seem to be happy to oblige.
My mother tells of one of the nurses in hospital the day I was born, who informed her that she had 'just given birth to a very determined young lady.' I remember a conversation with one of my own when Annie was born. I was baffled by the odd crying patterns of the little alien that had only recently been handed to me through a drug-induced haze. They went like this:
Put baby down- crying starts.
Pick baby up- crying stops.
This was repeated. Repeatedly. Interminably.
I asked the nurse whether there was something wrong with her.
Nurse: No. You've just got a cuddly baby.
P: But I'm not cuddly.
Nurse: You'd better learn to be.
I have not yet learned to be, not with anyone outside my very closest circle. The circle, at the moment, consists of one person. Ann. It has stretched to include various beaus and the occasional husband before contracting again, unfortunately, because there are some sorts of contact that I like rather alot, otherwise it is a very exclusive circle. When I hug people to say hello, the touch is quick and perfunctory, however much I like them. And I DO like them. I just don't like getting touched by them. I am happy holding babies and my mother's hand, and wrestling with my nephews and nieces, and ... well, that's about it. No problem with massages or manicures, and I'm sure the reason for that is buried somewhere in a few hours' worth of therapy. However, touching generally sets my teeth on edge.
Where is this going?
Here:
Cancer, like pregnancy, makes people think they can touch you. Or maybe that you need to be touched. Not sure which, and not sure that I care. I have had more arms put around me and back pattings and head strokings and hand holdings in the last three weeks than in the last three years.
Not even just from people who are really very nearly in the circle, and from whom I willingly accept contact because I understand that it is appropriate and affectionate and that I need to just wind in my neck about it, no.
This is from those who have barely shared a conversation with me throughout the whole of our acquaintance, or those who are slightly nearer, but who start the patting/stroking/hand-holding and then seem to be unable to detach from me, and either do it with a rueful smile as they talk about all the lovely hats I shall be able to wear when I am bald (and this fascinates SO many people) or with the sympathetic grimace and furrowed brow of feigned understanding.
This is from those who are NOT reading this, because I have not shared the link with them. And I do not know what to do with it. I do not like it. I also do not want to be rude and respond with what is in my head when it happens. That noise starts with a cat's hiss and collapses into an ugly, screeching, banshee howl. I wish to upset no one, but am on the verge of getting rather upset myself. Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me. I honestly don't mind the talk about hats, and can bear the sympathetic grimaces, but please please please- don't stroke me. Unless you are a gorgeous, strapping 6 footer without commitment issues or mommy issues or ex-wife issues or hysterectified, half-bosomed women issues or issues issues. I would consider strokes from you if you are that guy. And if you are that guy, then you are obviously not reading this anyway. Because there is no 'that guy'.
I accept that I am not the same as everybody else in this regard. Some people want to be touched. I understand that I need to be more willing to engage with this and sometimes, need to offer the hug and the pat and the stroke myself. But Lord, it's difficult. It feels like an invasion, and that makes me uncomfortable.
How should you respond, then if you can't offer a comforting hug? First, don't worry about the damned hug. Tell me how to fix it, maybe. Tell me that I'm gorgeous, maybe, and that I won't look like Uncle Fester when my hair falls out. Laugh at me a bit. Laugh at my black jokes and understand that I will be completely irreverent about the whole process, except for those bleak moments when I can't seem to breathe or stop crying. And when I can't breathe or stop crying, hand me a tissue and step back. It will pass and I will get it back together and start laughing again. And I will be so much more grateful for it.
The touches are less helpful than the touching demonstrations of real support. Filling my freezer so that I don't have to cook? Girls, you are flipping fanTAStic!! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Helping me move house and making sure the apartment is clean before I go? I love you!! Offering to fetch my mother from the airport and loan Bert a car when he's here? So much better than patting my hand! So much less likely to receive a pop in the nose or a banshee howl than patting my hand!!
Ah, my wonderful friends. Forgive my untouchy-ness, and my touchiness about it. Please. If you ever want a hug, ask. I barely know alot of people who seem to be happy to oblige.
Friday, May 24, 2013
I have always been a bit jealous of my brother, Bert.
Not for reasons one might imagine- I think I am prettier, for example, and suspect that I may be able to hit a baseball further. However, he is the sharpest person I know. I am one of those unfortunates who always thinks of the PERFECT comeback at two o'clock the next morning. Bert has the right thing to say at his fingertips. He is never at a loss for words, and can verbally drop-kick any unthinking buffoon or smart ass into next week with an aplomb that leaves me shaking my head in wonder.
So when I was with the gynecologist on Tuesday, and he blithely informed me that he wanted to do a hysterectomy, and after all, 'The uterus is only for having babies, and you aren't going to do that any more', I should have said, 'If you're all done making babies with your wife, I guess we can just lob off your testicles, can't we?'
Bert would have said that.
As I have now made the decision about the treatment, it seems like the right time to start talking about the family. This may take a while. And if you tell Mum I said any of it, I will come after you.
As the final outcome will be basically the same, I have chosen the chemo-surgery-chemo-radiation option after all. I will have the tumour shrunk first, not specifically because it will mean a less intrusive operation (With the hysterectomy thrown into the mix, all worry about the scale of the surgery seems academic now) but because it will give some time before the surgery for my mother to arrange to be here. And my mother needs to be here. Yes, because I will need full-time care in the hospital, but moreso because she is my mother. It is what SHE needs.
I knew that she would struggle. I am a mother myself, and know beyond doubt that if Annie were ill, I would be an absolute wreck. I did not know fear until I became a mother. The daft tricks and stunts I used to pull: free-climbing up waterfalls, hitch-hiking, walking home by myself after dark, playing cat-and-mouse with Dwayne and Nick and Keith around the Liverpool side streets- it never occurred to me that any of it was dangerous until I had Annie. Now I shake my head at my own stupidity and realise that I actually am only really afraid of two things:
- that something will happen to her
- that something will happen to me before she is ready to be without me.
And I think those are really the only things that any parent fears. Of course, facing the latter of those now, I am determined to turn the world on its arse to avoid that 'something'. She's not ready for me to go yet.
But, yes, I understand Mum's anxiety. She nursed her best friend during her last, awful days, and she knows that this thing can actually kill. She does not want me to hide anything from her, but she also gets herself completely worked up because of the information. She wants to know everything, even before I am able to tell her. I am not hiding any of it, but I am twelve hours out of synch with her, and am not able to tell her things that have not yet been discovered, or disclose details of conversations that have not been had. Also, her hearing is not good, and she does not always accurately recall the things that I have said. I am here, dealing with this: having the appointments, looking out for Annie, and carrying on with work, and she has too much time to think. And she thinks I am alone.
She and dad have taken Rich's decisions very badly, and believe that I have no support network here. This is not true. Yes, he left, and the whole business been VILE but the universe has ways of compensating. There is grace. Sometimes it feels like there is rather more yan than yin, oh, yes. Many times lately I have wondered about why the fickle finger of fate has decided to poke ME in the eye so repeatedly, but then it occurs to me: It could be worse. I could live in Syria. And maybe the cosmos doesn't revolve around me. Maybe.
But I have people. I am surrounded by lovely people I work with and who Annie lives with and who- how did this happen??- seem to like me enough to be simply wonderful. Fabulous, funny, loving, wise people with strong shoulders and good wine and big cars- all of which I have need, and shall use unapologetically in the coming months. People to give my daughter houseroom, or call to check that she's eating her vegetables and teach her to mix the perfect martini; others to release her from school early to give her breathing space, or give her an intern job so that she can be under the same roof as me. People to feed me steaks and take me to sushi restaurants in the middle of nowhere and talk about their new boyfriends just so that I can disapprove. People who arrange for the band to play in assembly because they know I'm upset about missing the last gig, and others who stay in the theatre to listen long after everyone else has gone. People who let me cook for them and watch Gavin and Stacey with them and then leave the second I say I'm tired and want to go to bed; who drive me all across the country looking for plants, or who drink warm beer in the park with me, or come with me to doctors' appointments to laugh in the face of danger. People who email just to swear at life's perfidy and perversity, and to tell me that I'm strong and brilliant and brave. People that I had forgotten were friends, who message with advice and love and reminders of just the sorts of antics I once didn't have the sense to be frightened by. I have people thousands of miles away, across enough different time zones that I have someone - somewhere- to call if I need to, twenty-four hours a day.
Somethings I have learned across two decades of trotting the globe: Home is where ever you choose to hang your shingle. Family is the folk who would bleed for you, not just the ones who share your blood. I am not alone, mother. I am so fabulously blessed.
So she should stop worrying, right?
Ha!! Have you met my mother?
More later.
Not for reasons one might imagine- I think I am prettier, for example, and suspect that I may be able to hit a baseball further. However, he is the sharpest person I know. I am one of those unfortunates who always thinks of the PERFECT comeback at two o'clock the next morning. Bert has the right thing to say at his fingertips. He is never at a loss for words, and can verbally drop-kick any unthinking buffoon or smart ass into next week with an aplomb that leaves me shaking my head in wonder.
So when I was with the gynecologist on Tuesday, and he blithely informed me that he wanted to do a hysterectomy, and after all, 'The uterus is only for having babies, and you aren't going to do that any more', I should have said, 'If you're all done making babies with your wife, I guess we can just lob off your testicles, can't we?'
Bert would have said that.
As I have now made the decision about the treatment, it seems like the right time to start talking about the family. This may take a while. And if you tell Mum I said any of it, I will come after you.
As the final outcome will be basically the same, I have chosen the chemo-surgery-chemo-radiation option after all. I will have the tumour shrunk first, not specifically because it will mean a less intrusive operation (With the hysterectomy thrown into the mix, all worry about the scale of the surgery seems academic now) but because it will give some time before the surgery for my mother to arrange to be here. And my mother needs to be here. Yes, because I will need full-time care in the hospital, but moreso because she is my mother. It is what SHE needs.
I knew that she would struggle. I am a mother myself, and know beyond doubt that if Annie were ill, I would be an absolute wreck. I did not know fear until I became a mother. The daft tricks and stunts I used to pull: free-climbing up waterfalls, hitch-hiking, walking home by myself after dark, playing cat-and-mouse with Dwayne and Nick and Keith around the Liverpool side streets- it never occurred to me that any of it was dangerous until I had Annie. Now I shake my head at my own stupidity and realise that I actually am only really afraid of two things:
- that something will happen to her
- that something will happen to me before she is ready to be without me.
And I think those are really the only things that any parent fears. Of course, facing the latter of those now, I am determined to turn the world on its arse to avoid that 'something'. She's not ready for me to go yet.
But, yes, I understand Mum's anxiety. She nursed her best friend during her last, awful days, and she knows that this thing can actually kill. She does not want me to hide anything from her, but she also gets herself completely worked up because of the information. She wants to know everything, even before I am able to tell her. I am not hiding any of it, but I am twelve hours out of synch with her, and am not able to tell her things that have not yet been discovered, or disclose details of conversations that have not been had. Also, her hearing is not good, and she does not always accurately recall the things that I have said. I am here, dealing with this: having the appointments, looking out for Annie, and carrying on with work, and she has too much time to think. And she thinks I am alone.
She and dad have taken Rich's decisions very badly, and believe that I have no support network here. This is not true. Yes, he left, and the whole business been VILE but the universe has ways of compensating. There is grace. Sometimes it feels like there is rather more yan than yin, oh, yes. Many times lately I have wondered about why the fickle finger of fate has decided to poke ME in the eye so repeatedly, but then it occurs to me: It could be worse. I could live in Syria. And maybe the cosmos doesn't revolve around me. Maybe.
But I have people. I am surrounded by lovely people I work with and who Annie lives with and who- how did this happen??- seem to like me enough to be simply wonderful. Fabulous, funny, loving, wise people with strong shoulders and good wine and big cars- all of which I have need, and shall use unapologetically in the coming months. People to give my daughter houseroom, or call to check that she's eating her vegetables and teach her to mix the perfect martini; others to release her from school early to give her breathing space, or give her an intern job so that she can be under the same roof as me. People to feed me steaks and take me to sushi restaurants in the middle of nowhere and talk about their new boyfriends just so that I can disapprove. People who arrange for the band to play in assembly because they know I'm upset about missing the last gig, and others who stay in the theatre to listen long after everyone else has gone. People who let me cook for them and watch Gavin and Stacey with them and then leave the second I say I'm tired and want to go to bed; who drive me all across the country looking for plants, or who drink warm beer in the park with me, or come with me to doctors' appointments to laugh in the face of danger. People who email just to swear at life's perfidy and perversity, and to tell me that I'm strong and brilliant and brave. People that I had forgotten were friends, who message with advice and love and reminders of just the sorts of antics I once didn't have the sense to be frightened by. I have people thousands of miles away, across enough different time zones that I have someone - somewhere- to call if I need to, twenty-four hours a day.
Somethings I have learned across two decades of trotting the globe: Home is where ever you choose to hang your shingle. Family is the folk who would bleed for you, not just the ones who share your blood. I am not alone, mother. I am so fabulously blessed.
So she should stop worrying, right?
Ha!! Have you met my mother?
More later.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Curve ball!
The plan yesterday was just to go in and make a decision about what treatment option I'd follow, once we'd received the last of the test results. Connie came with me, which immediately put the consultant at ease. (Why should him being at ease matter, you ask. Well, would YOU want your cancer surgeon to be nervous and uncomfortable around you?)
We hunkered down in the little chairs across from his desk, me fully expecting him to tell me that the cancer was everywhere, that the pain in my chest was a sign that I was doomeddoomed, and in fact I really shouldn't go back to school now because I may pop my clogs at any second. Plan for the worst, I reckon.
(There is a certain perversity and truth here- whenever I think all will be well, something seems to be waiting around a corner to kick me in the shin. My knee op, for example: I reckoned I was just going in to get some cartilage removed, and they informed me I've got the knees of a 65 year old. Well she can bloody well have them back, I don't want them! No more impact sports, no more trekking, knee replacements within ten years... And there I was thinking I'd be running again in a couple weeks. More fool, me.)
But you don't care about that: where was I? Ah, yes. Doomeddoomed.
So he starts by saying that it hasn't metastasised. Oh? Great! It isn't in my lungs or liver or heart- which is fabulous.
So the next step is...?
Dr- However, we noticed something about your uterus.
P- Eerrrr, riiiiiight. What did you notice?
Dr- The lining seems to be very thick.
P- And it isn't supposed to be?
He then asks a whole series of questions that would, if he were speaking to me in a bar, have got him popped in the nose, and tells me that I need to see the gynecologist for another ultrasound before we decide what the next step will be. He once again outlines those possible next steps, and indicates that whichever treatment I choose, the main part of it will last six months. He tells me that my cancer has responded positively to the hormones they had tested out on it- aw, isn't that lovely- and that means that they will be using hepceptin as part of the therapy. He may have said 'pepceptin', of course. His English is pretty good, but his accent is still strong. And he may still think that I am Russian.
He also said that they will be inducing the menopause. I was not happy about that.
Connie: But that's all part of the treatment.
P: But I'm going to be working with your team, Connie, and I am going to be a heinous COW during the menopause.
Connie: (eye roll)
I asked about how severe the side effects of the chemo are likely to be. I want to be well enough to go into work whenever possible, and after conversation with my friend and former colleague Deb, remembered that she'd been able to come back to school occasionally and had become hopeful. The doctor eyed me up speculatively:
Dr- You seem like the sort that will be ok. Let me ask, though: you have a child?
P- Yes, a 17 year old.
Dr- Did you suffer from morning sickness when you were pregnant with her?
Now, let me exit the dialogue for a second, here. 'Suffer' is too small a word. It is woefully inadequate. It is so feeble when it comes to describing just how very sick I was when I was pregnant that I am generally forced to ring bells and bang drums and wave my arms around when I describe it just to make sure that the gravity of my morning sickness is understood fully. I knew every pullover spot on the 25 mile journey down the A140 between Norwich and Diss so well that I could have found them blindfolded. My students were so used to me bolting from the room, green-faced, that they barely looked up from their desks with an 'Oh, are you back then, Miss?' on my return. I had blood vessels burst in my eyes from the force of my retching, gentle readers. I started being ill at six weeks, and did not stop fully until week 37.
P- Yes.
Dr- Ah. No, then, you are going to have a bad time.
P- Bugger.
While I didn't fully understand the correlation between my morning sickness and my likely response to the chemo, I knew that I was able to work while I was pregnant. It just wasn't much fun. I was now expecting severe sickness, strange milk cravings, and an aversion to the soup aisle at the supermarket. I was hoping to avoid the indigestion, bloating, and stretch marks that make my hips look like a relief map of Africa. Connie clarified that the two were not going to be the SAME, just that my illness during pregnancy was an indicator that my body was not likely to respond... gently, shall we say, to the chemo.
So, all this being dispensed with, and an instruction to see the gynecologist and then let Dr Cho know the path forward, I let Connie help me with registering at the desk, and waved her off back to work.
And then I waited in the crowded reception room (Why do so many Korean women get cancer?) in the stifling heat (Why can't they turn on the air conditioning?) on the plastic covered chair (Why did I wear jeans that will show the sweat when I stand up?) for about an hour.
Now, this is the time for the reader warnings. I do not especially like graphic descriptions of medical procedures, especially those related to women's parts, but in the interest of a good story, I plan to proceed into the gynecologist's office with you in tow. If you would rather turn away and not follow, this is the time to depart. You have been warned.
The consultant, another man, was slight and angular with glasses resting halfway down his nose as he peered at me over the top of them. He asked me a few cursory questions about previous operations, most of which I answered badly- I need some time to remember these things, so inevitably recall something long after the conversation has moved on: 'Oh, yes, hang on- there was the frontal lobotomy in 1976!' (That never happened. I wrote it for effect) He then directed me around the curtain for disrobing and flowery cotton skirt putting-on. I do not want to think about how many other people had been wearing that skirt.
He was kinder than many men who have examined my wotsits. He at least apologised for the discomfort he was about to cause. I have had some examinations where the doctor has dashed in, had a good root around, and then run from the room without any conversation at all. On one such occasion, about 19 years ago, the nurse walked in afterwards to find me sitting on the edge of the bed, visibly shaken:
Nurse: What's the matter, love?
P: Who was that man?
Nurse: You mean the doctor?
P: Oh, he was the doctor?? He never said...
Nurse: (tight-lipped) Just excuse me one moment...
Several minutes and a few raised voices later, the man came back and sheepishly introduced himself.
So, even though this consultant technically never told me his name, he was positively polite by many standards.
He performed a physical examination first, and then reached for the camera. Please - PLEASE- imagine this like a light saber. It was not precisely like a light saber- it looked much more like an implement one would generally find in a naughty shop and about which I should have absolutely no knowledge, so it is much better if you imagine it like a light saber. He wielded it like one, of that I am sure. It swooped and swung around in there as if he were gripped in an epic space battle.
VVVVV! Swoop.
VVVVVVV! Swish.
'Ah, the force is strong in this one...'
Yes, go ahead and indulge yourself in that image. It is not wholly inaccurate.
I was allowed then to reassemble my dignity before sitting back down across from him. In the tradition of Korean medical practitioners, he was direct:
Dr- You have a seven centimetre tumour on your uterus.
P- Bugger.
He then qualified the whole thing by saying that it had appeared on the PET CT scan because of the radiation, which is what got their attention and meant that it could be cancerous. I was not taking chances with conditionals any more, having learned my lesson with the other doctor:
P- What do you mean, 'could'?
He replied that it has a one in four chance. I actually sighed with relief.
Dr- (confused) But that is not good news, really.
P- Honey, the other one IS cancer. This one has a 75% chance of NOT being cancer. That is actually good news after my last two weeks.
Good news or not, he says it must come out. Not prepared to mess around with biopsy nonsense, he wants to take the whole thing out. When I say the whole thing, I mean the whole uterus. In addition to the chemo and the operation on my breast, he wants to do a hysterectomy.
P: Bugger.
The plan yesterday was just to go in and make a decision about what treatment option I'd follow, once we'd received the last of the test results. Connie came with me, which immediately put the consultant at ease. (Why should him being at ease matter, you ask. Well, would YOU want your cancer surgeon to be nervous and uncomfortable around you?)
We hunkered down in the little chairs across from his desk, me fully expecting him to tell me that the cancer was everywhere, that the pain in my chest was a sign that I was doomeddoomed, and in fact I really shouldn't go back to school now because I may pop my clogs at any second. Plan for the worst, I reckon.
(There is a certain perversity and truth here- whenever I think all will be well, something seems to be waiting around a corner to kick me in the shin. My knee op, for example: I reckoned I was just going in to get some cartilage removed, and they informed me I've got the knees of a 65 year old. Well she can bloody well have them back, I don't want them! No more impact sports, no more trekking, knee replacements within ten years... And there I was thinking I'd be running again in a couple weeks. More fool, me.)
But you don't care about that: where was I? Ah, yes. Doomeddoomed.
So he starts by saying that it hasn't metastasised. Oh? Great! It isn't in my lungs or liver or heart- which is fabulous.
So the next step is...?
Dr- However, we noticed something about your uterus.
P- Eerrrr, riiiiiight. What did you notice?
Dr- The lining seems to be very thick.
P- And it isn't supposed to be?
He then asks a whole series of questions that would, if he were speaking to me in a bar, have got him popped in the nose, and tells me that I need to see the gynecologist for another ultrasound before we decide what the next step will be. He once again outlines those possible next steps, and indicates that whichever treatment I choose, the main part of it will last six months. He tells me that my cancer has responded positively to the hormones they had tested out on it- aw, isn't that lovely- and that means that they will be using hepceptin as part of the therapy. He may have said 'pepceptin', of course. His English is pretty good, but his accent is still strong. And he may still think that I am Russian.
He also said that they will be inducing the menopause. I was not happy about that.
Connie: But that's all part of the treatment.
P: But I'm going to be working with your team, Connie, and I am going to be a heinous COW during the menopause.
Connie: (eye roll)
I asked about how severe the side effects of the chemo are likely to be. I want to be well enough to go into work whenever possible, and after conversation with my friend and former colleague Deb, remembered that she'd been able to come back to school occasionally and had become hopeful. The doctor eyed me up speculatively:
Dr- You seem like the sort that will be ok. Let me ask, though: you have a child?
P- Yes, a 17 year old.
Dr- Did you suffer from morning sickness when you were pregnant with her?
Now, let me exit the dialogue for a second, here. 'Suffer' is too small a word. It is woefully inadequate. It is so feeble when it comes to describing just how very sick I was when I was pregnant that I am generally forced to ring bells and bang drums and wave my arms around when I describe it just to make sure that the gravity of my morning sickness is understood fully. I knew every pullover spot on the 25 mile journey down the A140 between Norwich and Diss so well that I could have found them blindfolded. My students were so used to me bolting from the room, green-faced, that they barely looked up from their desks with an 'Oh, are you back then, Miss?' on my return. I had blood vessels burst in my eyes from the force of my retching, gentle readers. I started being ill at six weeks, and did not stop fully until week 37.
P- Yes.
Dr- Ah. No, then, you are going to have a bad time.
P- Bugger.
While I didn't fully understand the correlation between my morning sickness and my likely response to the chemo, I knew that I was able to work while I was pregnant. It just wasn't much fun. I was now expecting severe sickness, strange milk cravings, and an aversion to the soup aisle at the supermarket. I was hoping to avoid the indigestion, bloating, and stretch marks that make my hips look like a relief map of Africa. Connie clarified that the two were not going to be the SAME, just that my illness during pregnancy was an indicator that my body was not likely to respond... gently, shall we say, to the chemo.
So, all this being dispensed with, and an instruction to see the gynecologist and then let Dr Cho know the path forward, I let Connie help me with registering at the desk, and waved her off back to work.
And then I waited in the crowded reception room (Why do so many Korean women get cancer?) in the stifling heat (Why can't they turn on the air conditioning?) on the plastic covered chair (Why did I wear jeans that will show the sweat when I stand up?) for about an hour.
Now, this is the time for the reader warnings. I do not especially like graphic descriptions of medical procedures, especially those related to women's parts, but in the interest of a good story, I plan to proceed into the gynecologist's office with you in tow. If you would rather turn away and not follow, this is the time to depart. You have been warned.
The consultant, another man, was slight and angular with glasses resting halfway down his nose as he peered at me over the top of them. He asked me a few cursory questions about previous operations, most of which I answered badly- I need some time to remember these things, so inevitably recall something long after the conversation has moved on: 'Oh, yes, hang on- there was the frontal lobotomy in 1976!' (That never happened. I wrote it for effect) He then directed me around the curtain for disrobing and flowery cotton skirt putting-on. I do not want to think about how many other people had been wearing that skirt.
He was kinder than many men who have examined my wotsits. He at least apologised for the discomfort he was about to cause. I have had some examinations where the doctor has dashed in, had a good root around, and then run from the room without any conversation at all. On one such occasion, about 19 years ago, the nurse walked in afterwards to find me sitting on the edge of the bed, visibly shaken:
Nurse: What's the matter, love?
P: Who was that man?
Nurse: You mean the doctor?
P: Oh, he was the doctor?? He never said...
Nurse: (tight-lipped) Just excuse me one moment...
Several minutes and a few raised voices later, the man came back and sheepishly introduced himself.
So, even though this consultant technically never told me his name, he was positively polite by many standards.
He performed a physical examination first, and then reached for the camera. Please - PLEASE- imagine this like a light saber. It was not precisely like a light saber- it looked much more like an implement one would generally find in a naughty shop and about which I should have absolutely no knowledge, so it is much better if you imagine it like a light saber. He wielded it like one, of that I am sure. It swooped and swung around in there as if he were gripped in an epic space battle.
VVVVV! Swoop.
VVVVVVV! Swish.
'Ah, the force is strong in this one...'
Yes, go ahead and indulge yourself in that image. It is not wholly inaccurate.
I was allowed then to reassemble my dignity before sitting back down across from him. In the tradition of Korean medical practitioners, he was direct:
Dr- You have a seven centimetre tumour on your uterus.
P- Bugger.
He then qualified the whole thing by saying that it had appeared on the PET CT scan because of the radiation, which is what got their attention and meant that it could be cancerous. I was not taking chances with conditionals any more, having learned my lesson with the other doctor:
P- What do you mean, 'could'?
He replied that it has a one in four chance. I actually sighed with relief.
Dr- (confused) But that is not good news, really.
P- Honey, the other one IS cancer. This one has a 75% chance of NOT being cancer. That is actually good news after my last two weeks.
Good news or not, he says it must come out. Not prepared to mess around with biopsy nonsense, he wants to take the whole thing out. When I say the whole thing, I mean the whole uterus. In addition to the chemo and the operation on my breast, he wants to do a hysterectomy.
P: Bugger.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
So tomorrow is the day when, or so I believe, decisions will be made about treatment. I must admit to a certain apprehension. My reports aren't done, the stack of marking is growing, if anything, and I do not quite know how surgery/after-care/yadda will all pan out. I know that the words 'after care' are somewhat euphemistic in Korea, where there is an assumption that everybody has somebody to come and help them out in hospital- the nurses get paid to jab and stab, and that's about it. Seriously, home-bods, there is an expectation that you have a companion in hospital with you to take care of, well... the care.There are a few decisions to be made about how that will be managed.
So I will worry about it tomorrow. For now, let me pick up on the tale as we have left it:
I advise against research. Not all research, obviously, but when one is facing an illness that could actually kill one, it does one no good to know too much.
While I was in Jeju, waiting to be required to go out in the middle of the night and yell at the girls for tearing around the corridors and smoking and sneaking boys into their rooms (Have been too long in public education. It never happened. I told the girls to go to bed at ten, and Lord help me, they did it without a peep. I shake my head...) I spent half an hour looking up Stage II breast cancer on the Internet. And then I stopped. According to the first two of the sites there, the survival rate is 73%.
Now, this is a little mis-leading, I have since been told by the very wise Connie K. This number does not mean that I have a 73% chance of living. Instead, it means that out of every hundred people with what I have, 73 of them are still alive ten years after treatment.
Ah. Well that's much more reassuring, then, isn't it? There I was, the teacher that I am, thinking that it was like a score on a report card:
A C????? They're only giving me a C?????? (Ann would point out here that at her school, they'd already have put me on academic probation, a 73% being a D grade at SFS)
But no, Connie says. It is not like a grade on a report card. It is nothing like that. You don't improve your grade by working really hard and memorising your vocabulary.
It was enough to make me stop looking things up on the internet, I can tell you, though!
So when we're sitting back at the consultant's desk, he confidently opens up his own Internet page (the doctor is looking this stuff UP???? HUH??) and finds his own website, and tells me with some confidence that the odds are actually 82%, after treatment.
P: Hey! That's a B-!
Connie: We've been through this.
(Connie, I know you are likely to be reading this, and I know that you are being subjected to a great deal of editing in my recounting of our conversations. Please forgive the liberties I am taking for the sake of advancing the narrative. I promise that you will always be presented as I have found you to be through these last two years: fabulous, patient, oh-so-very-wise, and deeply kind. And possibly exasperated when it comes to dealing with my vacillations. I am more grateful than you know for your presence at these consultations.)
But STILL: a slightly better percentage than my website gave me. I am inclined to like his website rather more than my own. I am also inclined to play those odds.
82 is higher than 73.
Roll on, tomorrow. Let's get this nasty thing out.
So I will worry about it tomorrow. For now, let me pick up on the tale as we have left it:
I advise against research. Not all research, obviously, but when one is facing an illness that could actually kill one, it does one no good to know too much.
While I was in Jeju, waiting to be required to go out in the middle of the night and yell at the girls for tearing around the corridors and smoking and sneaking boys into their rooms (Have been too long in public education. It never happened. I told the girls to go to bed at ten, and Lord help me, they did it without a peep. I shake my head...) I spent half an hour looking up Stage II breast cancer on the Internet. And then I stopped. According to the first two of the sites there, the survival rate is 73%.
Now, this is a little mis-leading, I have since been told by the very wise Connie K. This number does not mean that I have a 73% chance of living. Instead, it means that out of every hundred people with what I have, 73 of them are still alive ten years after treatment.
Ah. Well that's much more reassuring, then, isn't it? There I was, the teacher that I am, thinking that it was like a score on a report card:
A C????? They're only giving me a C?????? (Ann would point out here that at her school, they'd already have put me on academic probation, a 73% being a D grade at SFS)
But no, Connie says. It is not like a grade on a report card. It is nothing like that. You don't improve your grade by working really hard and memorising your vocabulary.
It was enough to make me stop looking things up on the internet, I can tell you, though!
So when we're sitting back at the consultant's desk, he confidently opens up his own Internet page (the doctor is looking this stuff UP???? HUH??) and finds his own website, and tells me with some confidence that the odds are actually 82%, after treatment.
P: Hey! That's a B-!
Connie: We've been through this.
(Connie, I know you are likely to be reading this, and I know that you are being subjected to a great deal of editing in my recounting of our conversations. Please forgive the liberties I am taking for the sake of advancing the narrative. I promise that you will always be presented as I have found you to be through these last two years: fabulous, patient, oh-so-very-wise, and deeply kind. And possibly exasperated when it comes to dealing with my vacillations. I am more grateful than you know for your presence at these consultations.)
But STILL: a slightly better percentage than my website gave me. I am inclined to like his website rather more than my own. I am also inclined to play those odds.
82 is higher than 73.
Roll on, tomorrow. Let's get this nasty thing out.
Monday, May 20, 2013
The MRI dispensed with, all that remained was the wait.
Well, that isn't strictly true: alot more remained than waiting, but I needed to wait for everything that remained. I don't know whether it was the funky gunk that they had injected into me or not, but I definitely felt a bit de-railed after the test: my lips blistered a bit and the inside of my mouth felt lumpy and swollen, like I was having an allergic reaction of some sort. I felt squidgy enough that I gave the Middle School dance a miss, as well as the faculty bowling afterwards, and instead found the bottom of a couple bottles of wine with a friend.
The next day was the Jeju trip. Lovely. A group of fabulous eighth graders and three very lovely colleagues on a sunny weekend away with minimal supervision effort. Very restorative. Only ended up coaching one game (during which the girls were totally annihilated) and kicked back for the rest of the weekend. Did the grocery shopping on base on Sunday, and then went back to the grind.
What I did notice was some discomfort where I hadn't registered it before. I wasn't sure whether it was all psychosomatic or not: I'd had quite a few pokes and prods and samples taken by this time, so maybe the aches were because of that- or maybe it had been there for a while and because I'm a CHICK and we don't always acknowledge every twinge, I just hadn't credited it. I also have a tendency to carry too much in awkwardly managed bags, so it was hard to say whether it was real or just in my now-foetid imagination. There was definitely discomfort, though. I got growled a bit by the doctor when I mentioned it on the Tuesday that the MRI results came in because I hadn't said anything before the test:
Doctor: we'd have checked everything and not just the breasts if we'd known!
P: Yes, but I didn't know it myself.
I'm not deliberately being awkward. It just kinda happens.
There is nothing like a full boob scan to let you know just how pathetic they really look. The lump did seem to be pretty localised, and he didn't think that it had spread. They needed to run more tests as part of the pre-op process to be sure, but he was feeling pretty confident.
The treatment options were now outlined:
1- Three courses of chemo to try and shrink the tumour, then surgery, then radiation.
2- Surgery, then chemo, then radiation
3- Mastectomy.
Option 3 still seems rather dramatic. I shall think about that later. Option one sounded nice- less invasive, and it was clearly his personal favourite. However, when I asked about how long it would take, it sounded interminable. Nine weeks, then the op, then another nine weeks before additional zapping treatment? How long are we talking about, here? He could not/would not say. Hm.
The second option would be more dramatic, but could possibly be finished earlier.
So here's my thinking, and I accept that it all may change after the appointment on Thursday:
I'd rather get it done. I want to be strong when I have the surgery, and I am strong-like-bull at the moment. Who wants to go to hospital when they're sick??
I know that removing a two centimetre tumour is more dramatic than removing a one centimetre one, and that there would be the possibility of it disappearing altogether, but it might be quicker, and I really don't want to miss any more time from work than I have to.
Connie: Are you crazy?
P: Maybe.
But the thing is, I need to work. Not just to pay the bills, but because not working makes me get a bit squirrelly- ask anyone who remembers my knee operation three years ago.
Yes, I know, I need to get better. But I will not get better if I cannot see that I can return to business as usual. There has to be a 'when I am healthy' result in this, and that needs to include normality and productivity. Besides which, I have these crazy school fees to pay for Annie, and going to Seoul Foreign School has been SO good for her. Really don't want her to go somewhere else, especially not after everything we sacrificed to get her there. Timing has, for once, worked in our favour: I have four months on full pay, apparently. Perhaps I can get the worst of it out of the way over the summer, and can get back in the saddle soon, while she starts the new term.
Yes. I know. I know nothing about how bad this is going to get. Well, I will just jolly well find out, won't I? So, damn the torpedoes. Let's storm in.
And, nobody is lining up to check out my bosoms at the moment anyway, are they? A great, ugly hole in one of them won't make any difference.
Well, that isn't strictly true: alot more remained than waiting, but I needed to wait for everything that remained. I don't know whether it was the funky gunk that they had injected into me or not, but I definitely felt a bit de-railed after the test: my lips blistered a bit and the inside of my mouth felt lumpy and swollen, like I was having an allergic reaction of some sort. I felt squidgy enough that I gave the Middle School dance a miss, as well as the faculty bowling afterwards, and instead found the bottom of a couple bottles of wine with a friend.
The next day was the Jeju trip. Lovely. A group of fabulous eighth graders and three very lovely colleagues on a sunny weekend away with minimal supervision effort. Very restorative. Only ended up coaching one game (during which the girls were totally annihilated) and kicked back for the rest of the weekend. Did the grocery shopping on base on Sunday, and then went back to the grind.
What I did notice was some discomfort where I hadn't registered it before. I wasn't sure whether it was all psychosomatic or not: I'd had quite a few pokes and prods and samples taken by this time, so maybe the aches were because of that- or maybe it had been there for a while and because I'm a CHICK and we don't always acknowledge every twinge, I just hadn't credited it. I also have a tendency to carry too much in awkwardly managed bags, so it was hard to say whether it was real or just in my now-foetid imagination. There was definitely discomfort, though. I got growled a bit by the doctor when I mentioned it on the Tuesday that the MRI results came in because I hadn't said anything before the test:
Doctor: we'd have checked everything and not just the breasts if we'd known!
P: Yes, but I didn't know it myself.
I'm not deliberately being awkward. It just kinda happens.
There is nothing like a full boob scan to let you know just how pathetic they really look. The lump did seem to be pretty localised, and he didn't think that it had spread. They needed to run more tests as part of the pre-op process to be sure, but he was feeling pretty confident.
The treatment options were now outlined:
1- Three courses of chemo to try and shrink the tumour, then surgery, then radiation.
2- Surgery, then chemo, then radiation
3- Mastectomy.
Option 3 still seems rather dramatic. I shall think about that later. Option one sounded nice- less invasive, and it was clearly his personal favourite. However, when I asked about how long it would take, it sounded interminable. Nine weeks, then the op, then another nine weeks before additional zapping treatment? How long are we talking about, here? He could not/would not say. Hm.
The second option would be more dramatic, but could possibly be finished earlier.
So here's my thinking, and I accept that it all may change after the appointment on Thursday:
I'd rather get it done. I want to be strong when I have the surgery, and I am strong-like-bull at the moment. Who wants to go to hospital when they're sick??
I know that removing a two centimetre tumour is more dramatic than removing a one centimetre one, and that there would be the possibility of it disappearing altogether, but it might be quicker, and I really don't want to miss any more time from work than I have to.
Connie: Are you crazy?
P: Maybe.
But the thing is, I need to work. Not just to pay the bills, but because not working makes me get a bit squirrelly- ask anyone who remembers my knee operation three years ago.
Yes, I know, I need to get better. But I will not get better if I cannot see that I can return to business as usual. There has to be a 'when I am healthy' result in this, and that needs to include normality and productivity. Besides which, I have these crazy school fees to pay for Annie, and going to Seoul Foreign School has been SO good for her. Really don't want her to go somewhere else, especially not after everything we sacrificed to get her there. Timing has, for once, worked in our favour: I have four months on full pay, apparently. Perhaps I can get the worst of it out of the way over the summer, and can get back in the saddle soon, while she starts the new term.
Yes. I know. I know nothing about how bad this is going to get. Well, I will just jolly well find out, won't I? So, damn the torpedoes. Let's storm in.
And, nobody is lining up to check out my bosoms at the moment anyway, are they? A great, ugly hole in one of them won't make any difference.
Friday, May 17, 2013
So I was told to expect the biopsy results in a week, and duly accepted an appointment for the next Tuesday. Went into Seoul then and endured the divorce. All was on an even keel on Wednesday- a light teaching day in which I got precious little done, as usual.
Thursday, I had a PD day with the ESoL team, with whom I will be working in the new academic year. We were just putting our bags down in the conference room, when I had a call from the hospital:
H: Can you come in for your results this morning?
P: They're in already?
H: Yes, they came quickly.
P: Well, I'm supposed to be in meetings all day. Can I come Monday?
H: Uh, yes, that's ok.
P: Great; see you Monday.
Connie Kim (Vice Principal) Are you crazy?
So within fifteen minutes, I was in a taxi on the way to the hospital. Another fifteen minutes, I was back in front of the consultant who had told me two days previously that the edges of my tumour were 'irregular', which could mean cancer, and that the white flecks on the ultrasound were probably carcino-something-or-other, which could mean cancer.
Doctor: It's cancer.
P; Oh. Right.
Doctor; We need to discuss the treatment process now. You will need surgery and chemo and radiation and blah and blah and words and fuzz...
P: Um. Sorry, I'm just missing a bit there. It's a bit of a surprise.
Doctor: Why a surprise? I told you Tuesday you had cancer.
P: No, you told me it COULD be cancer!
I had been riding on the conditional. Mistake. Am an English teacher, and pedantic. Say what it is, people, not what it could be.
So he got a bit shirty with me when I suggested that I might want someone else to look at the results. I have been barraged by information and advice from the very beginning, all of which has been prefaced with 'get a second opinion'. Well, I don't NEED a second opinion to tell me that tumour ain't right. A trained monkey could look at the mammogram and ultrasound and say 'Oooh, that doesn't look good.' I know this. I am neither trained nor a monkey and it's exactly what I did. I have a tumour. It is cancerous.
What I really needed was some time to think about how treatment would play out. I don't want to go back to Canada for it- oh, for myriad reasons!- and I can't go back to the UK, as my residency status has expired. So Korea. But which hospital? Seoul? Incheon? Close to home, or close to Annie?
He was offended, though, clearly.
The reason was revealed in a later conversation with the woman at the International Clinic. She'd had many dealings with people from my school who had required hospital help, and was somewhat surprised when I said that I was planning on being treated in Korea. She said 'Why do foreigners not trust Korean doctors? Why do they always go home?'
I replied that I do not believe that it is because we don't trust Korean doctors (Though let's be honest- how much do we trust ANY doctor?) but because when we feel weak, we want to be somewhere familiar and where we can be surrounded by people we know. Natural to head for the home hearth. Natural for everybody but me, evidently.
So, the offended doctor ordered the MRI test, to be done the next day. I said that we would make any treatment decisions after the results of that came through, the following Tuesday. Otherwise, all plans were still in place: I was still fit and well; you know, OTHER than the great, festering tumour in my breast- and had things to do. There was a basketball tournament on Saturday in Jeju, and I was to be the female chaperone. I had company coming round on Friday, and very important take-out orders to be placed. Business as usual until the business has to stop, thank you very much.
The day of the MRI dawned clear and bright.
Actually, I can't remember how it dawned, I just wanted to set some sort of stage for the test. My friend Shelley was coming with me- she'd been there on the Tuesday, laughing with me at the Korean soap opera on the telly and sharing a filthy Macdonalds meal afterwards. We were told that the test would take about half an hour. No. Not half an hour.
We wrangled with the lady at the International Clinic for a few minutes before going in. There were questions about insurance- having always been resident in lovely socialist countries before, where nationalised healthcare is a sign of civilisation, not a sign of an impending apocalypse (yes, that was a poke at conservatism. I'm sick. I'm allowed to poke.) the whole business was rather astonishing.
P: You mean the test won't go ahead if the company says I can't have it?
Cranky International Clinic lady: They need to confirm that they are paying for it.
P: How much will it cost if they don't confirm it before the test is supposed to start?
CICL: (pause, type, squint at the screen) About 10, 500, 000 won. (Ten THOUSAND dollars)
P: Yikes.
Authorisation came, and down I went to the clinic. They gave me the very-nearly-too-small hospital issue clothes (Aside here- I am a Western woman, carrying about 20 extra pounds. In Korea, that is an XL. Sigh) and an injection. Something to make all the nasties show up under the MRI. Now, if I am not mistaken, this stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging. Or something like that. I was assuming, therefore, that I had been injected with some kind of funky liquid metal that would allow the machine, like Magneto from the X-Men, to suck it back out of me and get a picture of what the problem was. Or, to turn it into a cool metal surfboard to allow it to escape from the high security prison cell where it had been held since the first film.
One's mind does odd things in the MRI machine.
The machine is exactly what it looks like on the telly: like a giant, metallic burrito. You lie down on the little platform, and it retracts into the tube, whereupon you are subjected to bells and bangs and whistles for an hour, while lying perfectly still. The noises are very loud, so they give you a set of headphones so you can listen to music while you wait. The music was English, with the exception of 'La Vie en Rose'. It also seemed to have been compiled by someone who did not actually SPEAK English, but had been tasked with finding music that would be soothing to the nervous cancer patient during this first stressful test. I say this because the playlist included things that a more, shall we say, FLUENT speaker might have recognised as unlikely to be in any way soothing at all. 'The Rose', for example, or- God help me, Simon and Garfunkel's 'The Sound of Silence':
'Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again.'
How on earth do they expect me to lie still when I am laughing so hard at the sound-track of the doomed?
When they started playing Elaine Page, I was ready to shoot myself and save the bloody insurance company the aggro. Luckily, the machine stopped before I could do myself any harm.
Thursday, I had a PD day with the ESoL team, with whom I will be working in the new academic year. We were just putting our bags down in the conference room, when I had a call from the hospital:
H: Can you come in for your results this morning?
P: They're in already?
H: Yes, they came quickly.
P: Well, I'm supposed to be in meetings all day. Can I come Monday?
H: Uh, yes, that's ok.
P: Great; see you Monday.
Connie Kim (Vice Principal) Are you crazy?
So within fifteen minutes, I was in a taxi on the way to the hospital. Another fifteen minutes, I was back in front of the consultant who had told me two days previously that the edges of my tumour were 'irregular', which could mean cancer, and that the white flecks on the ultrasound were probably carcino-something-or-other, which could mean cancer.
Doctor: It's cancer.
P; Oh. Right.
Doctor; We need to discuss the treatment process now. You will need surgery and chemo and radiation and blah and blah and words and fuzz...
P: Um. Sorry, I'm just missing a bit there. It's a bit of a surprise.
Doctor: Why a surprise? I told you Tuesday you had cancer.
P: No, you told me it COULD be cancer!
I had been riding on the conditional. Mistake. Am an English teacher, and pedantic. Say what it is, people, not what it could be.
So he got a bit shirty with me when I suggested that I might want someone else to look at the results. I have been barraged by information and advice from the very beginning, all of which has been prefaced with 'get a second opinion'. Well, I don't NEED a second opinion to tell me that tumour ain't right. A trained monkey could look at the mammogram and ultrasound and say 'Oooh, that doesn't look good.' I know this. I am neither trained nor a monkey and it's exactly what I did. I have a tumour. It is cancerous.
What I really needed was some time to think about how treatment would play out. I don't want to go back to Canada for it- oh, for myriad reasons!- and I can't go back to the UK, as my residency status has expired. So Korea. But which hospital? Seoul? Incheon? Close to home, or close to Annie?
He was offended, though, clearly.
The reason was revealed in a later conversation with the woman at the International Clinic. She'd had many dealings with people from my school who had required hospital help, and was somewhat surprised when I said that I was planning on being treated in Korea. She said 'Why do foreigners not trust Korean doctors? Why do they always go home?'
I replied that I do not believe that it is because we don't trust Korean doctors (Though let's be honest- how much do we trust ANY doctor?) but because when we feel weak, we want to be somewhere familiar and where we can be surrounded by people we know. Natural to head for the home hearth. Natural for everybody but me, evidently.
So, the offended doctor ordered the MRI test, to be done the next day. I said that we would make any treatment decisions after the results of that came through, the following Tuesday. Otherwise, all plans were still in place: I was still fit and well; you know, OTHER than the great, festering tumour in my breast- and had things to do. There was a basketball tournament on Saturday in Jeju, and I was to be the female chaperone. I had company coming round on Friday, and very important take-out orders to be placed. Business as usual until the business has to stop, thank you very much.
The day of the MRI dawned clear and bright.
Actually, I can't remember how it dawned, I just wanted to set some sort of stage for the test. My friend Shelley was coming with me- she'd been there on the Tuesday, laughing with me at the Korean soap opera on the telly and sharing a filthy Macdonalds meal afterwards. We were told that the test would take about half an hour. No. Not half an hour.
We wrangled with the lady at the International Clinic for a few minutes before going in. There were questions about insurance- having always been resident in lovely socialist countries before, where nationalised healthcare is a sign of civilisation, not a sign of an impending apocalypse (yes, that was a poke at conservatism. I'm sick. I'm allowed to poke.) the whole business was rather astonishing.
P: You mean the test won't go ahead if the company says I can't have it?
Cranky International Clinic lady: They need to confirm that they are paying for it.
P: How much will it cost if they don't confirm it before the test is supposed to start?
CICL: (pause, type, squint at the screen) About 10, 500, 000 won. (Ten THOUSAND dollars)
P: Yikes.
Authorisation came, and down I went to the clinic. They gave me the very-nearly-too-small hospital issue clothes (Aside here- I am a Western woman, carrying about 20 extra pounds. In Korea, that is an XL. Sigh) and an injection. Something to make all the nasties show up under the MRI. Now, if I am not mistaken, this stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging. Or something like that. I was assuming, therefore, that I had been injected with some kind of funky liquid metal that would allow the machine, like Magneto from the X-Men, to suck it back out of me and get a picture of what the problem was. Or, to turn it into a cool metal surfboard to allow it to escape from the high security prison cell where it had been held since the first film.
One's mind does odd things in the MRI machine.
The machine is exactly what it looks like on the telly: like a giant, metallic burrito. You lie down on the little platform, and it retracts into the tube, whereupon you are subjected to bells and bangs and whistles for an hour, while lying perfectly still. The noises are very loud, so they give you a set of headphones so you can listen to music while you wait. The music was English, with the exception of 'La Vie en Rose'. It also seemed to have been compiled by someone who did not actually SPEAK English, but had been tasked with finding music that would be soothing to the nervous cancer patient during this first stressful test. I say this because the playlist included things that a more, shall we say, FLUENT speaker might have recognised as unlikely to be in any way soothing at all. 'The Rose', for example, or- God help me, Simon and Garfunkel's 'The Sound of Silence':
'Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again.'
How on earth do they expect me to lie still when I am laughing so hard at the sound-track of the doomed?
When they started playing Elaine Page, I was ready to shoot myself and save the bloody insurance company the aggro. Luckily, the machine stopped before I could do myself any harm.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Medical procedures here are handled with remarkable efficiency. Not always with remarkable explanation of what is happening, due to the language barrier, but there is a reassuring calm in the way the needles are injected, the buttons pushed, the bells rung. I like it. I also like the crazy pantomimes that I am party to when the technicians (not one of whom appears to be over 14) get me to leap up onto machines, take a radioactive injection for a scan or lie perfectly still and breathe shallowly for an hour. It makes me think that words are probably superfluous to requirements- I know exactly what I have to do. I do not know how to breathe shallowly, though.
As entertaining are the ones who speak some English, the young man who gave me the shot for the bone scan for example, with his hesitant chuckle as I joked about glowing in the dark.
Is she serious?
Should I apologise?
Can I laugh?
Is there a right answer?
Funny, too, was the girl who did the biopsy. She had performed the ultrasound earlier, and was very apologetic about her perfectly acceptable English (Why do my sixth graders not get so upset about their errors??) I told her that her English was far better than my Korean, and she immediately started testing my vocabulary. Hers was good enough to tell me about the 'problematic tumour' without hesitation, so I guess she'll do.
The biopsy went like this:
Tech: We call device 'Biopsy Gun'
P: Are you going to shoot me?
Tech: No, but it makes big noise like gun.
P: Ok, fire away.
Tech: (Frowning with the effort) It's hard to push here. Is hard inside breast.
P: That's because it's so small. It if were big and floppy, you'd have no trouble.
Tech: Yes, is small. (No sugar-coating here, folks!) Now be ready for bang.
The machine snaps as she takes the sample, not unlike the gun used for piercing ears.
P: We would probably call that noise a snap.
Tech: Snap?
P: Snap.
We proceed to shout 'Snap!' with all the subsequent three shots of the gun. As she is cleaning up the blood- and there is a surprising amount of blood- she says 'Thank you for cooperating.'
'Well, you did have a gun...' I replied.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
I've been looking for a way to share information that isn't quite suitable for the light-and-lively tone that I try to maintain on FB. I do dislike every hiccup and bump being made public knowledge, so haven't splattered recent news all over the wall.
Seems undignified.
But now there is stuff all a-happening that folks might actually want to know about. And to be frank, some of it is so blackly hilARious, that I can't resist sharing it. In order to maintain some dignity, then, and still speak frankly, I have followed a friend's advice and set up shop here. You can get all the updates you want, if you care to keep reading. If you don't, then feel free to stick to the FB world. I shall still endeavour to be moderately entertaining there.
Let's start with the grim and get it out of the way. I am operating under the assumption that, if you are reading this, you have some interest in helping me maintain some discretion over the information that I give. I will not share anything inappropriate- well, not so that it damages anyone, at least.
Last Tuesday was badbad. Rich left Korea in November for a job in NY. He came over last week and initiated divorce procedures.
Tuesday morning, I went in to have a lump investigated. I have often had them, and they've all been cysts that just needed draining.
You know where this is going now, don't you?
Or so you THINK!!
It starts off with 'it can only happen to Pat' hilarity:
Doctor: Do you speak English?
P- Errrr, yeeeess....
Doctor: Oh, good. That is unusual.
P- (raises eyebrow)
Doctor: Have you any history of breast cancer?
P- No, but I have often had fluid-filled cysts, which have never caused any real trouble. My last mammogram was in 2010.
Doctor: Your English really is very good.
P- Errr, thank you.....
Doctor: Have you noticed any discharge?
P- No, none.
Doctor: any bleeding?
P- none.
Doctor: Pain?
P- No. (And I've been pretty bereft the last few months, so any ache I may have had in my chest has been attributed to that!)
Doctor: Puckering?
P- No; it does feel different, though; harder and more fixed. It is also in a different location.
Doctor: Your accent is amazing. Where did you learn English?
P- Canada- Look, are you sure you're talking to who you THINK you're talking to??
Doctor- You aren't Russian??
P- Oh, brother.
He didn't expect any problems. The twelve year old ultrasound technician, however. spoke as baldy as only Korean medical professionals can as she swept the do-hickey over me:
'Ah, yes. Here is the problematic tumour.'
What the whaaaaa?
So, a quick glance tells them that it's about 2 cm big, and has some 'worrying' white specks in it. THAT was interesting news to take into my divorce, I can tell you!
One drive-by biopsy later, it transpires that I have Stage II breast cancer.
P- (Sitting down hard) Yikes!
More tales of medical competency and linguistic laughability to follow...
Seems undignified.
But now there is stuff all a-happening that folks might actually want to know about. And to be frank, some of it is so blackly hilARious, that I can't resist sharing it. In order to maintain some dignity, then, and still speak frankly, I have followed a friend's advice and set up shop here. You can get all the updates you want, if you care to keep reading. If you don't, then feel free to stick to the FB world. I shall still endeavour to be moderately entertaining there.
Let's start with the grim and get it out of the way. I am operating under the assumption that, if you are reading this, you have some interest in helping me maintain some discretion over the information that I give. I will not share anything inappropriate- well, not so that it damages anyone, at least.
Last Tuesday was badbad. Rich left Korea in November for a job in NY. He came over last week and initiated divorce procedures.
Tuesday morning, I went in to have a lump investigated. I have often had them, and they've all been cysts that just needed draining.
You know where this is going now, don't you?
Or so you THINK!!
It starts off with 'it can only happen to Pat' hilarity:
Doctor: Do you speak English?
P- Errrr, yeeeess....
Doctor: Oh, good. That is unusual.
P- (raises eyebrow)
Doctor: Have you any history of breast cancer?
P- No, but I have often had fluid-filled cysts, which have never caused any real trouble. My last mammogram was in 2010.
Doctor: Your English really is very good.
P- Errr, thank you.....
Doctor: Have you noticed any discharge?
P- No, none.
Doctor: any bleeding?
P- none.
Doctor: Pain?
P- No. (And I've been pretty bereft the last few months, so any ache I may have had in my chest has been attributed to that!)
Doctor: Puckering?
P- No; it does feel different, though; harder and more fixed. It is also in a different location.
Doctor: Your accent is amazing. Where did you learn English?
P- Canada- Look, are you sure you're talking to who you THINK you're talking to??
Doctor- You aren't Russian??
P- Oh, brother.
He didn't expect any problems. The twelve year old ultrasound technician, however. spoke as baldy as only Korean medical professionals can as she swept the do-hickey over me:
'Ah, yes. Here is the problematic tumour.'
What the whaaaaa?
So, a quick glance tells them that it's about 2 cm big, and has some 'worrying' white specks in it. THAT was interesting news to take into my divorce, I can tell you!
One drive-by biopsy later, it transpires that I have Stage II breast cancer.
P- (Sitting down hard) Yikes!
More tales of medical competency and linguistic laughability to follow...
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