Saturday morning, and I'm just coming round from half-a-blue tablet induced sleep. The chemo causes mild insomnia- if I can get to sleep straight away, I am awake and cursing at two. I try not to take the tablets too often through fear of developing reliance, and tried to let the oncologist know that I hadn't used all the ones she gave me at our last appointment. Somehow, I still walked away with another full three weeks' supply. If you need anything to make you feel like a bus has driven through you, let me know. I've got plenty.

Thursday's treatment followed the pattern I have been told to expect: I will arrive in the morning and speak to the cranky lady at the international clinic, register there, and then go for blood tests. Because this is Korea, and incredibly efficient, the results of those tests will be available in an hour. I will meet the oncologist briefly,  and then register with the payment people. This is a whole separate operational system at the hospital; they are located on every floor, nattily dressed and businesslike.  One takes a number from the ticket machine and waits, just like at the bank. Even though the insurance covers the chemo, until I have registered at the payment counter to remind the system of it, I will not be treated. No arguments, raised voices, dramatic scenes a la ER- that's just how it all works. The payment registration works like a confirmation of whatever procedure or appointment will happen next, and it must be done at each stage of the process.

From the payment counter, I will wander around for ten minutes, looking for the pharmacy, until I am helpfully re-directed from the osteo-whatsit clinic by a bowing porter. Only then will I head towards the cancer ward, where I will be stopped, turned around, and marched back around the corner to the scales. Everyone will gasp and giggle irritatingly at the number we see there, I will shush them blushingly, and we will go back to the ward, where treatment will commence.

On Thursday, I decided to sneakily take some photos to try an give an idea of what the place is like. Doing it so as not to attract attention wasn't easy, and getting shots that really deliver on the sheer numbers of people there was impossible. From the first ones, for example, you'd never know that the blood clinic was absolutely heaving. There were fifteen people lining up down that corridor, and another five behind me, while every seat inside was occupied and another dozen patients or so were milling around. Four babies were wailing- heartbreaking sound, that of an infant getting a blood test, and being inconsolable for such a long time afterwards that you know there is something hidden causing her pain- adult children were shouting for their parents to hear, the techies were hollering good-naturedly across the room at each other... in short, the photos do this melee no justice at all.

Now, if I had been more open about taking the pictures and jumped up on a chair or something to get better shots, I would have managed to get the flavour of the day. I would also have been hissed at by ill, cranky people, already unsettled by the presence of the blatantly bald waegu and wailing children. I didn't want to cause any more discomfort.

The rest of the shots are taken in the cancer ward, nearly empty in all these pictures. During the five hours I passed there, ten other patients came and left. Some were hooked up to the IV for half an hour; others for two. The Russian woman (yes, there actually is a Russian woman, and it's not me!) was still there when I left, though she arrived several hours after I did. They must be treating every cancer going in this place. I did see the young girl I encountered the last time. She was wearing a baseball hat, and her hair had been cut short. There were a few women wearing head scarves, this time- I seem to be the only one around with an exposed pate.

I have included the last two shots for a couple of reasons: first, the one with the IV is to show that I am actually getting treated. Honestly, it is hard to tell from the bad reactions that I continue to fail to display. I went for a swim yesterday morning, and hung around at school picking at work all day. I have had a few more hot flashes and have had some dehydration (I won't discuss the impact on my other innards, so as to maintain a degree of delicacy) and the aforementioned insomnia. Yes, that pale arm is mine. I promise.

The other shot is of one of the bags of magic juice they have been putting in me. There is always one small bottle, then a large black bag, then a small, clear, envelope-sized bag, another black one and a final small clear one. That is alot of fluid, and my kidneys are having real fun keeping up with it all.

Magic juice. Not weak. The tumour is shrinking.

More tomorrow.

It has been nearly three weeks since the first bout of chemotherapy. Since then, I have written my reports, finished the grading and tabulated scores, packed up and cleaned one apartment, (nearly) unpacked and messed up another, had a dramatic haircut, spent two days in Seoul and visited the dentist twice. Today is the first day that I have felt really played out. I've had a lingering headache all day, and have had to stop sorting out the flat a couple of times to take a break. Still seem to be better off than Annie, though, who took two painkillers and went back to sleep about five hours ago. I've just been in to check her, and she's still breathing. I think she's feeling the strain of living with me after nearly two years essentially on her own, bless her.

The haircut has gained mixed responses. Friends have been enthusiastic, and I did get a twinkle from the proprietor of the South African restaurant on Friday night, which was pleasant. The cleaners at school have been rather more squealingly excited than I had anticipated, and the children in the cafeteria at summer school have veered between open-jawed stares (not pleasant when their mouths are full- shudder) and noisy shouts of welcome and surprise from the 6th graders. Leah was the first one to say 'You still look beautiful, Ms Towers', so she is my favourite. The others all scrambled to affirm it, but to no avail. She got there first. Poor Wonbeen did not know where to look.

I have had open stares on the subway and the streets, and found my way through the plaza at my apartment complex blocked yesterday by a cranky five-year old girl, who was nervously attempting to prevent me from crossing. Not sure what she was shouting, of course, but she included the word 'ajima' in there somewhere. Ajima, my non-Korean audience, is a word of affection or derision, depending on the context of its use. It means something like 'auntie' when used politely to refer to little old ladies. It means something like 'you old hag' when used impolitely to refer to little old ladies. Naturally, I assume she meant the former. And as her mother was watching, resisted the urge to push her into the pond. Little cherub.

By and large, though, the great chop achieved one of its aims: to keep me from shedding nasty long tendrils everywhere I go. Now, I am shedding short and stubby ones, so will reluctantly have to shave it properly in the next day or so. Lord, if they are staring now, what will happen then?? I am sure that I must be an oddity, refusing to wear a wig or scarf to cover my thinning pate, but I know there are more people around who are undergoing treatment- there were thirteen others receiving treatment the same time that I was, and the cancer ward has been heaving with patients every time I have been there. Where are they all now?? I am very aware of other people's heads lately, and I just can't spot anyone who is covering up hair loss. Do they stay home? Are their wigs honestly that good? Should I be staying home? Are cancer patients supposed to hide? Honestly, I have no idea. But I do feel rather self-conscious, being the only bald woman in the whole country, as far as I can figure.

The low-light of the last seven days was, beyond question, the dentist's appointment on Thursday. As you know, this appointment had been delayed by a week, thanks to the intervention of my oncologist (and the disapproval of Connie, I am sure). The delay was necessary to allow additional healing time after the first incursion the week before, since the chemo prevents any cells from reproducing normally, including those which cause hair to grow and platelets and fibroblasts to form (Little science lesson, there). I think that more time may have actually been required in my case, but the dentist wanted to get the job completely finished before the next round of chemo began, no doubt on the oncologist's instructions. The week since the first treatment had not been pleasant: I wasn't able to open my mouth more than an inch and a half, nor line up my front teeth to bite tape or prise open jars (just kidding, Mum) without unleashing stabbing pains through my left jaw. It has ached constantly. In fact, the painkillers I have been taking this last week have had nothing to do with the fibromyalgia I was promised, and everything to do with the pain in my mouth.

So when I arrived on Thursday, it was with mixed emotions: relief that things were getting underway again, and a bit of dread at the prospect of him fishing around in there again. He called one of his sons, again to act as a translator. After a few hurried sentences in Korean, he passed me the phone:

P: Helloooo! How are you?
Dentist's Younger Son, Kevin: I know this voice!
P: Hullo, Kevin.

(Quick aside: I taught the dentist's older son at summer school last year. Lovely boy, a bit serious and very studious. I know the younger boy, Kevin, primarily because he was in the school production last autumn and I was helping out. I was the one chasing up the lates and the absences. Kevin was late and absent. Our relationship, while amicable, involved lots of teasing and cajoling and gentle telling-offs. I was suddenly very mindful of this.)

DYSK: My dad says to tell you that, because you are having chemotherapy, he will do two treatments on your tooth tonight instead of one. You will have all the work, but you need to have fewer appointments. Tonight will be a long appointment.
P: Thank you Kevin.
DYSK: And another thing: it's really going to hurt.
P: (whimper)
DYSK: Just kidding!!
P: Kevin, could you translate a sentence to your dad for me?
DYSK: Sure!
P: Tell him 'I am going to beat your son.'
DYSK: Hehehehe.

We hung up, Kevin's dad said "say Aaahhh,' and then commenced to inflict upon me the worst hour I have ever spent in a chair. The inch and a half that my jaw could open was forced to what felt like five, as he manouevred and manipulated a drill, a jackhammer, a crow bar, and a wrecking ball between my teeth. He drilled, he scraped, he assembled scaffolding, he dug, he filed, he drilled again. The whole time, I sat there with my head pounding, jumping about three feet every time he hit a nerve. Why did he not freeze the tooth? I have two theories: first, he figured that the nerves in the tooth were already dead from the work he had done in the previous session. He may not have thought that I would be feeling pain. Second, he needed me to feel it, so that he would know which bits to scrape out. Either way, I was pinned rigid to the chair, bravely refusing to cry and wanting desperately to. To my credit, I did not shriek, but could not prevent the occasional gasp. All the while my mind was rattling: Is this normal? Should it hurt this much? Can I make him stop? Should he have given me a shot? How shall I kill Kevin?

I knew that it had to hurt some- I mean, there is a reason why people hate getting root canals. And as my mother used to say, 'It has to hurt before it gets better', (She famously said this whilst in labour with me) so I tried to bear it, honestly I did. But I figured I wasn't bearing it too well when he paused and told me to close my mouth for a moment, and the hygienist rubbed my jaw, saying gently 'Good job, good job.' Oh, dear.

After about half an hour, he reached for the phone again.

DYSK: Ms Towers?
P: (weakly) Hullo, Kevin.
DYSK: My dad says to tell you that it is a harder job than he expected. (This was clearly true- the dentist was actually panting and sweating from the exertion)
P: I thought so.
DYSK: He says that the roots are really deep, so he has to dig harder. He is not quite done yet, but he wanted you to know.
P: Thank you, Kevin.
DYSK: And Ms Towers?
P: Yes?
DYSK: I'm sorry, but it is going to hurt.
P: Sob.

Having it said aloud, as it always does, made it somewhat more bearable. Knowing that it wasn't my imagination, and that it was ok to feel pain gave me enough of a boost to carry on for the next twenty minutes. And he was right. It hurt. I made no apologies for taking painkillers on Thursday night.

Friday morning was lovely, and after unpacking a few dozen-hundred boxes, I headed into Seoul with Gerald to meet friend Steve for drinks and dinner. We only got lost once, and marveled at a road system that is so badly marked that you only realise you've taken a wrong turn a hundred yards down the road in the wrong direction, but then can't fix the problem for another twenty-five miles because there are no side roads, no round-abouts, and a median as thick as the Great Wall of China.

The trip was clearly the right thing to do, however. The cosmos smiled its approval by allowing us to get there on time, by having Innis & Gunn behind the bar at the British Embassy pub, and by getting the very dishy Deputy Ambassador to be the one serving the drinks. It was almost enough to compensate for my one-drink limit. Almost. Janet met us there and then took us to the braii afterwards for dinner- fabulous. She and Gerald and I went to the War Memorial Museum on Saturday afternoon and wandered there for a couple of sobering hours in the sweltering lack of air conditioning. We all were careful not to complain; conditions were far worse in that part of the city 63 years ago. An evening of improv later on and brunch Sunday morning with more friends, and the weekend whirligig was finished. Lovely, even with all the hair-related attention.

After a morning of puttering around yesterday, I headed back to the dentist for the third appointment in my 'what were you thinking???' root canal. I had a word with the hygienist, whose English was better than her boss's, and tried to figure out what the next procedure would be- widening the gap in the tooth, apparently. My heart sank. After about ten minutes with the wrecking ball and jackhammer, it became clear that we were in for another bad session. He reached again for the phone. Kevin once more

DYSK: Ms Towers?
P: Hullo, Kevin. How are you?
DYSK: Errrr, fine thank you. My dad wants to know if you are still feeling pain.
P: I don't know if it is pain, Kevin. It is really uncomfortable.
DYSK: Pardon?
P: Ah, language lesson! 'Pain' means it really hurts and I want to cry. 'Discomfort' means that it still hurts, but I can tolerate it if I need to. Can you ask your dad if it is normal to feel some discomfort, or if this is unusual?

Phone goes back, and there is rapid Korean spoken. Dentist looks at me with grim understanding, fires off another few sentences and passes the phone back.

DYSK: Maybe some discomfort for now.
P: Sigh. Thank you, Kevin.

This marked a transition, though. He spent just five minutes rattling around in there, before seeming to reach a decision. He was soon removing his mask and picking up the phone again. It was the elder son, Seungjin, on the other end this time:

DESS: Ms Towers?
P: Hello, how are you?
DESS: Eerrrr, fine, thank you. My dad has put a filling in the tooth. He says that you should go and have your treatment and wait until the tooth is no longer hurting. Then call and come back to get the job finished.
P: (incredulous, and wanting to check that something hasn't been lost in translation) You mean we are done now?
DESS: Yes, for now. He will wait to put the crown on the tooth when you are no longer in pain.
P: Your dad is GREAT!!

Ah, the wisewise, clever man- he'd thrown in the towel. I leaped from the chair with a lop-sided grin. I may have even skipped a little as I left the office.

Having waited two days past the time when I was told to expect my hair to start coming out, it kicked off yesterday afternoon. Not in a huge clump; I did not lift my head from the pillow to discover I had left my hair behind or anything as dramatic as that. (Picture the Harry Potter films- the tree on Hogwarts grounds that marks the changing of the seasons- autumn shedding of leaves: very evocative) Not exciting at all. Just sitting in the chair in the living room, surrounded by boxes and cleaning supplies, finishing my lunch and absentmindedly combing my fingers through recently-released-from-cleaning-necessitated hair tie, and there it was. Not a clump, but far more strands than were entirely called for, and clearly a sign of worse things to come.

Bugger. Really hoped I'd got away with it.

Don't care what anyone might tell you, or how fore-warned you might think you are: seeing your hair coming out is a chilling moment. I would have sat down, had I not already been sitting down. And, of course, it was two o'clock in the afternoon, so everybody was at work or asleep, so there wasn't anyone around to moan to about it. Then my friend Maggie sent me an email asking whether I want avocados and brie when she comes (to which the answer is always yes, incidentally) and my other friend Amy in Boston rolled off the couch where she'd fallen asleep and signed into FB at silly o'clock at night. Excellent. I have need of companionship, and two of my bezzie chums let me know that they're around. Cheers, cosmos! The two of them helped put my equilibrium back in place, and the afternoon proceeded.

If I'd followed initial advice, I would have shaved it immediately after starting chemo. That seemed precipitous and unnecessary, and I didn't really want to do it before term ended unless I had to. The kids were all nicely convinced that I was healthy-ish, and it is a pretty dramatic turn to go from brunette to bald in one fell shave. Besides, I was still hoping to perform at the staff dinner, and didn't want the photos of the evening to be unflattering. Am vain. Yes.

So I delayed what I hoped was not the inevitable, and I ended up keeping my hair- my suddenly incredibly thick and healthy hair, sob- after the 'deadline' for when it should have started to fall out. The roots started showing, which always makes me feel a bit icky, but I didn't want to colour it in case I jinxed my good fortune. Ah, well.

There had been a plan for when it started to shed. Gerald and Justin had a set of clippers that were all oiled up and ready to go at a moment's notice, and a plan to shave their own heads in solidarity. I don't much go in for solidarity head-shaving, as it happens, but they are adults, and if they think that they'll feel more comfortable around me if they too are bald, well who am I to tell them no?

However, it all started in the middle of the afternoon, the very afternoon when Justin (and Michael and Tonya and their children :() had flown off to the States, and when Gerald and Annie were both at Summer School working. I am not known for patience, and now that the great molt had begun, was determined to beat it to the finish line. I called Annie, and we decided that we would go to the hairdressers' together to get it done. She needed to be there for it; as impatient as I am, I would not rush into that without making sure she was engaged in the process. She wanted to be with me and it was important that she help choose the means of it. She didn't want Gerald to do it- 'Too much like a voodoo ritual' she said. By the time she got home from school to come with me, Gerald and another friend, Kim, were both also back and came along with us.

We set off in a late afternoon drizzle. They carried their umbrellas, while Gerald entertained us with stories of being swept away by high winds, Poppins-like, when he was a child. I did not use mine, liking the feel of the rain in my hair. (Lord, she has a flair for melo-drama, doesn't she, our Patti?) We wandered around the neighbourhood surrounding the apartment complex to each of the five hairdressers', finding them all shut. At 4:45 on a Tuesday?? Is Tuesday 'don't get a haircut' day in Korea? It all seemed oddly random. We found the last one locked, but the shopkeeper next door pointed out that the owner had just stepped across the street for a stroll and some air. Gerald ran after her, asking her to come back for our business. He skipped a little enroute, for our amusement. It worked.

The hairdresser looked a little nonplussed at our arrival, and even moreso by the odd gestures that we started making to tell her that I wanted her to shave my head. It was a tall order, I see in retrospect: four agitated foreigners, asking her to open her shop up especially so that she can- WHAT? She was one of the only people I've encountered for whom the word, 'chemotherapy' did not seem to work in translation, and when I obligingly pulled out a little handful of hair to show her what was happening, could only gape at me, completely uncomprehending. I do not think me crying helped. It must have terrified her. I know that she really knew what we wanted, but it was all so impossible, and if she got it wrong and shaved my head and that wasn't what I was after- well, there's an international incident on a scale she could only have nightmares about. Never mind the North.

We got as far as the chair, the cape, and the clippers, and I swear her hands were shaking. That's when it finally occurred to me to get Kim to call Connie. Ah, Connie. She will never know how much her interventions matter. Kim was all business:

K: Connie, it's Kim. We're at the hairdressers' with Patti.
C: (on speaker, comprehending immediately) Pass the phone over.
K: You're on speaker.
C: (flurry of Korean)
Nervous Hairdresser: (nervous Korean, side-ways glances at me)
C: (More emphatic Korean)
NH: Ooooooohhhhh.
P: Thanks, Connie.
C: No problem. Good luck.

She was pretty determined not to take it all off, and bless her, I didn't want to push her too much farther. I think she may have had a coronary.

So, how does it look? Not terrible, from the neck up. Not quite GI Jane, despite what Kim assures me. I look remarkably like my Aunt Arletta. I shall go crazy with the eyeliner and bright lipstick, shall wear big earrings (and possibly carry a crystal ball) and shall temporarily at least, look like one of those very flamboyant and very unattractive drama teachers, all cigarette holders and violent gesticulations and 'Darling!!'s. And terrify every handsome man for miles around. All four of them.

Sigh.

My mother often compares me to my Grandmother Long. Unfortunately, she seldom means it as a compliment. Like my grandmother, I don't much like asking for help. When help arrives, I tend not to be able to stay out of the way, but putter around it, 'helping' the help. When the help I have asked for does not do as I have asked, or worse, does not deliver on the promise exactly as was made, I can get remarkably passive-aggressive. Remarkable enough that even I am compelled to remark upon it.

Yesterday, for example, I had arranged for the woman who has sometimes cleaned for me to come and help clear the apartment. It wasn't too untidy, but with all the packing and shifting of boxes, I wanted some help doing the cupboards and floors and the (don't go in there unaccompanied) refrigerator. I haven't used this particular cleaner in a while, mainly because she is notoriously unreliable. Says she'll come on Saturday, doesn't come until Tuesday- that sort of thing. Good at cleaning, but utterly undependable. I haven't generally minded too much, because I have been living on my own, and what difference does another day or three or eight make? However, when she would say she'd come in the morning and still be here for three hours after I'd come home at night, well, that was too much. If I wanted the apartment to be cleaned while I was in it, then I would do it myself. So I did it myself, and deleted her number.

However, I know that I shouldn't do everything on my own, or get worn out, so when a (lovely generous, smoothie-providing) friend asked if there was anything else she could help with, I asked her to contact this erstwhile cleaner and ask her to come over this week to do a deep clean while I packed up the flat. The cleaner contacted me last week and arranged to come yesterday in the morning.

Now, colour me old-fashioned, but in my head, 'morning' means anytime between nine am and twelve noon. Before those hours, it is still 'early morning', and wholly unsuitable to come calling unless by prior arrangement for bacon sandwiches or mimosas. Or both. After those hours, it is the 'afternoon'. I did not mind when this woman arrived, but having said 'Monday morning', I think I was within my rights to expect her to arrive, in fact, on Monday morning.

Nine o'clock comes and goes, and I think that perhaps that she would find that a bit early to start work. No problem. But while I wait, of course, I have to begin the work. The flat needs to be packed up, and it has to be cleaned while said packing happens. So I start with the master bathroom, and scour and scrub and wash the walls and behind the toilet, and then I start on Annie's room and clear the closets and dust inside the drawers and pack some boxes and wash the bedding and mop the floor, and then I mop the floor in the second spare room so that I can start putting boxes in there, and then I pack some things in the kitchen and then start moving boxes into the spare room, and then I put things in the dryer, and then I start wondering how on earth I got so much stuff, and then I start washing the cupboards, and then I walk to the supermarket for some more boxes...

... and no sign of the cleaner. By this time, as you might expect, I am somewhat irritated. Noon has long since passed, and I have had no word from her. Someone slightly less passive aggressive might have contacted her to find out where she was, and what time she was actually coming. But no. I kept clearing and cleaning, muttering curses under my breath, until at 3:45, a text message arrives from her, asking whether she 'can come tomorrow'.

P: No.
Unreliable cleaner: Oh, ok, I will come today. Is 4:30 ok?
P: No. I was expecting you this morning and you did not come. I have done most of it myself.
UC: Oh, do you want me to finish it?
P: No. I will do it myself.

Yeah, Patti. That'll teach her, alright. It's all perfectly clear that you have scolded her and let her know exactly how angry you are and that she feels awful for letting you down and will nevernever be unreliable again.

Never mind. Yorle is coming to help me today, and it will all be lovely.

And just for the record, I like my Grandmother Long. She was climbing trees well into her sixties, because that's where the best apples were. She would strap a pair of skis on her feet- skis made by her father from an old wagon wheel- ski down into the back woods to cut a Christmas tree, strap it around her waist and ski back. She is the sort to take an upholstery course in her late fifties so that she can run her own business for the next twenty-five years. She made a Christmas stocking for every one of the grandchildren when they were born, and a quilt for every one of their weddings. She can tell you the origin of every scrap of fabric on every quilt she ever made, who owned it and what garment it came from, going back to her own mother's scrap bag. She made me mint chocolate chip squares whenever she knew I was coming home. She would never sit and eat a meal in peace because she was so busy looking after everyone else, even when she was fresh home from the hospital after a hip replacement. She broke that hip ice-skating with her grandsons. She is terrifying and hilarious and strong and not-to-be-gainsayed. She screams at the sight of a mouse. She is extraordinary. Being compared to her isn't all bad.

Grades are in, narrative comments are posted, classroom cleaning is underway, and the end of year faculty dinner has been dispatched. It is now a full week since the first day of chemo, and I reckon it is time to report in. Because I now have time to report in.

And there's nothing to report.

Honestly, I am fine. I get a bit tired and ache-y, and these hot flashes are pretty funky, but otherwise it hasn't been nearly as bad as I had expected, and nothing like as bad as the first doctor told me it would be. In fact, I have had more compliments on how well I look in the last week than in the previous six. No lie. Yesterday, one person asked me when I will be starting chemo. Some are beginning to look at me skeptically, as if maybe the doctor had been looking at the Russian's mammogram after all. I find myself being glad that Connie was with me for that second appointment, just so that someone can confirm that they've seen the scans and I haven't been making it all up. I don't want to rock the boat or anything, and this is a gift horse that I am stroking on its velvety nose, rather than asking to check its teeth (and how's that for a mixed metaphor?) but I have had colds that have made me more uncomfortable.

I am baffled, and more than a little relieved.

Don't get me wrong: I don't think I could play rugby or anything, but I have missed just one day of work- during which I suffered more from guilt than discomfort- have finished all my grading and reporting, and have been eating perfectly normally. I even sang a few numbers with the band tonight, had a bit of a boogie, and was complimented on my eyes by a gentleman who was visiting the school.

So all in all, a person could be forgiven for thinking that I am coping well. Which, of course, changes some of the conversations around me. Some folks seem a bit disappointed, as if I ought to be ailing. Others have adopted suspicious tones, like they think I am trying to pretend everything's fine while secretly bumping into the walls when no one is around. Still others (well, one person) sniff at me and says 'Well, they're obviously giving you weak drugs.'
Errrrrr, no, I think the drugs are pretty strong. I don't think they have such a thing as weak cancer drugs. I think that they all kinda kill the cancer; it just might be that they are using a drug that doesn't kill me at the same time...

That one made me rather cross, must admit. If I had launched across the table at her, I am sure that I could have said 'Sorry, officer, the chemo made me a bit testy' in my defense. I should look into that. There are plenty of hilariously tactless remarks flying around; it might be worth checking into the legalities around popping someone in the nose while under treatment. You know, in case my usual bonhomie slips.You know, the next time someone sits next to me in a meeting and rubs sympathetic circles on my back for ten whole minutes.

All this to say, it seems to be going well. Though I will obviously ask my oncologist whether she is giving me the weak drugs.

The other thing that has emerged from this week started after the last post, where I got all bossy and told you all to go and fiddle with your whotsits and have your personal places checked. Long-time friend Valerie commented that she had taken other long-time friend Donna-Leigh to have a mammogram when they turned 40. The thought made me laugh, and suggest that maybe they ought to offer mammogram parties, with margaritas and chips and dip and hi-jinks to get more ladies showing up to get their examinations done.

But seriously. There's a thought.

So when my not-quite-as-longtime-but-seriously-fab friend Annie asked what proceeds from her business' breast cancer fundraising ought to go towards, I suggested that perhaps she could sponsor a "Puppy Party'. Bear with me a moment while I play the idea out for you:

The local clinic gets on board, and sets aside a Friday night. The waiting room is transformed into something that looks a bit less like Hell's front porch, and some music and food are arranged. A volunteer bartender is engaged to invent some mammary-themed cocktails, or just pour the wine. You and twenty or so of your lady chums arrive for a shin-dig/knees-up, and while you are getting quietly squiffy with all your bosom buddies - Lord, it was too hard to resist that one- you head off to get your mammogram done, all on the QT and no fuss, and you can take a friend in with you, just as as if you're only going to the ladies' room to touch up your lipstick. The technicians, who are in on the act and doing pro-bono work or whatever it is they call it (Sorry- still a fan of nationalised health care, where there's no such thing as 'pro-bono', so I might not even be using the right word) could even join in the party at some point, so they don't seem so scary the next time an examination is due.

A party, where you get the puppies checked. There would be a thousand details to figure out, of course: promotion, choosing target groups, finding cooperative clinics with an eye for the slightly off-beat and the ability to mix a good martini. Ann got the idea straight off, being brilliant, and knows someone to talk to who might be open to it. May come to nothing, but if she ends up getting invited to the White House over Puppy Parties, I want to be her plus one.

Incidentally, DL, Valerie reckons I should remind you to go for yours. She said it was a secret (Jeez it's just like junior high), but put it in a comment here. Says I ought to shake my finger at you. Here's one better: now about a hundred people have read this and know, and will start asking you whether you've gone. 

Wow. Talk about living in the information age... the too much information age...

'How are you?'

I have taken to answering this with a resounding 'I look fabulous!'

Not because I believe it to be true at the moment, all puffy like what I am and all, but because a certain amount of chutzpah is required, and because I don't really know how I am. I seem to be in ruddy health; you know, apart from the tumour and the chemo and everything. Feels inaccurate to say that I'm fine, however, when they keep telling me that I am not.

But honestly, I don't feel awful at the moment. Clearly something is happening: there is a bit of a tingle across my skin, not unlike a gentle electric current; the blisters on my lip are not healing, my gums bleed a bit when I clean my teeth, and I have ominous aches in odd places. (My toes. Why do my TOES hurt?) I am also having hot flashes and painful twinges in lady-places that confirm that the enforced menopause is indeed underway. And I don't want to talk about it.

However, apart from those little gripes, I think I am getting off very lightly. I was even able to go into work Friday. The kids were great: there were squeals of surprise,  a few questions, one 'You're alive!!' (which made me bark with laughter) and a general sense of acceptance that the planets were aligned, I was behind my desk  and still had my hair. No heads were chopped off. 

I gave the end of year staff party Friday night a miss, despite the pull of knowing it was the band's last performance together before our lead singer, Michael, leaves. It was a wrench. Lovelove being behind the mike with those folks, and really wanted to be there for the last gig together, but I don't think I'd have had the energy to sing, let alone do it well. I must confess a naughty hope that the songs suffered a bit from my absence. Just a bit. I'm not mean. Really.

I hear that a cracking night was had by all. I hear that from Gerald who says ‘Oh, you’d have hated it. It was AWFUL. The food was terrible and everybody was really BORED,’ all the while grinning so wide his face cracks in half.  He is cheeky. He and his partner Justin are also very helpful at getting the minutiae of my life organised and distracting me from all the nastiness that is around at the moment. The nastiness includes my school work, which unfortunately still needs doing, and therefore I should be better at resisting their wiles. But picnics in the park are fuuuun, and grading papers is not. If grading papers were fun, everybody would do it.

They have been great, though, and are the sources of most of the bald jokes and pink jokes and the ongoing jest about the T-shirt range we are planning. This last is to help profit from my discomfort with the phrase ‘cancer survivor’, and my growing frustration that something SO many people acquire still has the power to destroy so much. (Just read yesterday that within a few years, scientists expect that half the population of Britian will get some form of cancer at some point in their lives. Seriously???) So far, our slogans are along the lines of ‘I survived chicken pox’ and ‘I survived the mumps’. My favourite at the moment is ‘I survived head lice’, but then on the back it will say ‘...twice’. It could be expanded to cover mothers-in-law, conservative families, the Bush years, the Venezuelan toilet paper shortage... I’d thought of one for the Ontario liquor store strike, knowing that would be a huge seller, but it was averted at the last minute. Shame, that.

A new theme that has recently been brought to mind is the ‘guru’ line, raised when another friend called last week with a breast question. Well, a question about lumps, to be fair, but it’s funny if I suggest that it was just about breasts, and not funny at all if it’s about lumps. At some point in the conversation, the friend referred to me as a ‘boob guru’. Those of you who have seen me can stop laughing right now. Just because mine are tiny doesn’t mean I don’t know things about them. I have seen these ones inside out, after all. And while I would hesitate ever to call myself an expert on anything, I accept that I know what is going on in these two pretty well at the moment, and I am happy to offer advice on other people’s, if that advice is this:

Get. Them. Checked.

In fact, let me move into a bossy-boots paragraph or three for a moment. If you have been reading these posts over the last month, and have NOT taken a moment to go over all your extremities for signs of things new and unusual, why the hell not? Ladies. Seriously, stop reading and have a squeeze. If you don’t think you know how to do it, there’ll be pictures on the internet. You should be familiar enough with your breasts to know when something is different about them: lumps, puckering, hard spots... and don’t think that a clean family history matters, either. Mine is completely clear of breast cancer. Skin cancers, oooooh, yes, jam-packed with those. And that’s what I’ve been expecting and guarding myself against most carefully. But breast cancer was a shocker. I have no business having it, and no intention of keeping it.

Men, you’re not off the hook. You are less likely to check out your own breast areas than you are others around you (Don’t deny it) and the symptoms of male breast cancer are exactly the same for you. Look for them.

And at the risk of sounding rude- well, or of making you do something you rather like doing anyway, give your bulbous naughty parts a good going over. Roll and squeeze them about, checking for anything out of the ordinary. If you’re in front of people, stop it for a moment, or you’ll get arrested, but as soon as you’re on your own, have a good fiddle. Again, lumps, puckering, swelling, shrinkage- anything unusual. And forgive me, you are bound to know what usual feels like.

Check your moles. Anything unusual there? It’s not having moles that causes the problem, it is the change they undergo that needs to be checked. If you’re in my age and older, then you belong to the generation that thought brown was beautiful, and you used to spend days slathering grease all over yourself, turkey-roast-esque, in order to be some shade of bronze. You didn’t know that the burns and blisters were going to bite you one day, or that there was a reason why your grandfather kept having those growths removed from his face. Check your moles. Crustiness, colour changes, ragged edges, any thing that makes that mole look different from the way it did when you were twelve. If you live alone and have them, take your back to the doctor and have them mapped so that you can get them looked at in future check ups.

Folks who are traveling home this summer- visit your doctor for an unpleasant once over: boys- prostate exams, girls- pap smears. YUCK, right?? Ladies, ladies, ladies: get a mammogram. Folks who are AT home, have you had these tests this year? They aren’t nice, no. Cancer is nastier.

Here’s something I now know. The cancer you get will ALWAYS come as a surprise to you. It barely whispers as it approaches, so you need to be listening and watching for it.

Right. Lecture over. I am not the ‘Boob guru’. But I do think it would make an excellent T-shirt slogan, would have a huge following amongst frat boys, and would cause much prudish offense. I will wait before launching that line.

I will say that the first thing I did upon arriving home after hearing about the second tumour was to grab a bottle of wine and a blanket and head to the park- without sunscreen. Going out sans factor 50? I shake my defiant fist at the skies.

Here we are, then, all post-first-chemo. I wanted to hold off on an update for a while to see how I'd feel, but all excuses are now gone.

I feel fine.

Yesterday I went into work, having popped several painkillers before bed. One the freezing was gone in my tooth, it turned into a pretty unpleasant evening, so I ended up getting no marking done. Slept well until about 2:30, then thrashed around frustrated until the alarm went off.

The day was as normal as it could be, with big medicine planned for later. Went happily along to my ESOL meeting, and was chatting afterwards with one of my colleagues about her impending root canal. I was blithely telling her about my experience the night before, when Connie broke in:

C: You did what?
P: Errrr, I went to the dentist and he started a root canal.
C: WHAT??
P: (sputtering) I went to the dentist-
C: WHY did you do that??
P: I had a toothache! I figured I needed a filling and I ought to get it done before starting treatment.
C: You aren't supposed to have anything like that done before starting chemotherapy! What were you thinking??
P: I was thinking that my tooth hurt and I needed a filling! I didn't know he was going to do a root canal and that I shouldn't have one!

I won't detail it all here. Suffice to say that the voices were raised. Connie was scandalised, and that she was perfectly right to be. I, of course, had blithely bumbled my way into a situation that I should not have placed myself in, completely unaware that I shouldn't have.

In my defense, I didn't know that I shouldn't have had dental work. In my defense, I DID ask the dentist about whether it would be a problem, he DID know that I was starting chemo the next day, and he DID say that it would be ok. And in my defense, I DID have a toothache.

However, Connie was right. And was also well within her rights to tell me so, repeatedly, throughout the morning as we waited to see the oncologist. All I can do is plead ignorance, and hope that she forgives it. I mean, I have been ill, after all, and no one had yet issued me with a list of 'thou shalls and thou shalt nots'.

We arrived in the oncologist's office, and Connie had told her about my misdemeanour before I had even taken my seat. I sat there, shamed-puppy that I was, while the two of them shook their heads at my idiocy, and the oncologist told me that I had been very dumb (or something like that) but that there was no way around it- my heart was fine, and I was having chemo no matter what. She looked at my tooth, breathed a sigh of relief that the dentist had put in a temporary filling, and then ordered the meds. She also took the dentist's number, I fear to call him up and tell him that he is a divot. I hope not. He will be drilling my tooth again in a week or so, and it never is a good idea to upset one's dentist.

We went through the list of things to know again, and this time I was careful to ask about all the things I am allowed/advised to do/not do. I am allowed to do whatever I want, I just can't let myself get tired doing it. I must avoid raw foods, and am only allowed one glass of wine a night. Sigh. Otherwise, the biggest news was that I would not experience nausea after all. Plenty of tingling and aches and pains and my hair will definitely come out, but no nausea, not until after the surgery. So, all the bulking up I have done in the last month, thinking that I'd need some strength? Not needed. All this additional padding looks set to stay exactly where it is.

And I don't mean to complain, certainly not about something that means I get to live. But here's the list:
I am sick.
I am having chemotherapy.
I am having a lump removed from my breast.
They are not going to do reconstructive surgery to amend things afterwards, because the tumour is so small, and certainly not do anything cosmetic to the other one. (Some people get whole boob jobs out of this!)
I will go through the menopause.
I will have a hysterectomy.
I will lose my hair.
I will not lose weight.
I have had one root canal started, and need another one.
And I'm NOT able to drink through it.

I am very grateful that I shall one day be fit and healthy.

So, having waved off Connie- for whom I am always thankful, shouting and all- I registered with the money people (weird process, and again, I miss nationalised health care) had a quick bite to eat and then trudged along to the women's cancer ward. I was escorted from there to the RIGHT cancer ward, where the actual business was going to be attended to.

It was a long room, lined on both sides with narrow cots, IV racks, and chairs. All beds were filled but one- mine. Fourteen people, all being quietly administered to: all ages and shapes and sizes, and now colours. The youngest girl, about fourteen, wore a baseball cap over her sparse hair. Her mother sat on the chair next to her, talking in low tones. Across from me, an elderly gentleman sat on his cot, looking tired and defeated; his wife was alert and still beside him, moving occasionally to twitch at his blanket or fetch him a drink. I was not the only one there on my own. Some people seemed practised at it.

The nurses moved around in quiet efficiency, again, needing few words to issue their instructions. My blood pressure was taken, and I was led to my cot. I was not the first one to have used it. I had brought a hand towel with me, and laid it over the pillow- there were more things to worry about in that room than a few hairs on a pillowcase. This disease bites.

They were pretty insistent that I lay down. I guess they don't want us drag racing up and down the corridor with the IV racks in tow. They checked and double-checked the bottles and bags, gave me an idea of the process - one bottle/bag would take an hour and a half, the next would take three- inserted the needle, and left me to it. I may have lasted five minutes checking work emails, before falling asleep.

The room was not quiet. People coming and going, phones ringing, the occasional cry, lights flicking. No one feels obliged to lower their voices, and the cubicles are divided only by curtains and are inches apart. However, I slept the sleep of the virtuous for nearly two hours, only really coming to when they came to change the drip. The rest of the afternoon passed with emails and marking work and more dozing, before I was unplugged and sent on my way.

The friend who was booked to pick me up was sick, and the passing oncologist had basically forbidden her from coming to get me. My co-advisor came out instead, bless him, and brought Annie with him. While I waited, I sat on my own on the low wall outside the hospital's main doors. A group of Korean men were there visiting a friend, and one approached me with the 'Where are you from?' that I still get hit with occasionally, usually by taxi drivers and evangelicals on the subway. I hate being rude, REALLY I do. I have just no energy for the stranger-small-talk lately. I hope I am not doing anything to damage international relations between the nations when I cut them off. I just really liked the calm, and sitting there on my own in the breeze.

The ride home was jolly. Craig definitely has Annie's number, despite their few encounters, and readily joined me in the relentless mockery of her taste in boyfriends and unfortunate birth (ie- being MY daughter). I was, apart from a sense of other-worldliness, feeling fine. Justin and Gerald were coming over for supper, to help me eat the spaghetti sauce that Alex had given me. Six fabulous people, one paragraph. I tucked up into bed with a painkiller and half a sleeping pill, awaiting the onslaught of horror.

But I feel fine.

And like a fraud. People have been emailing me worriedly all day, asking if I'm all right. Annie has called twice this evening to see if I need her to come back from Seoul. No, I don't think so.

I woke up well at six-thirty. I have had three square meals, finished some grading, chatted with Annie, watched telly, and apart from slight disorientation, occasional tingling on my arms and being rather warm and flushed, I have no nausea or ill feeling. I do feel a little embarrassed by all the fuss and lovely attention, of course, and my Calvinist work ethic has been playing me like a harp all day: 'Why aren't you at work? There's nothing wrong with you. Your mother would have gone to work.'

Should something have happened by now? Does this mean it will all go smoothly? Isn't there a gigantic ACME anvil of yuck waiting to bite me on the nose? (May be mixing my metaphors, there) I don't want to tempt fate, but if I feel this well tomorrow, I'm going to school.  The little Warner brothers angel sitting on my shoulder won't let me stay home!

I will add one side effect that probably won't make any doctor's list: it has really affected my prose. This may be the dullest entry I've written yet! Of course, with the day being such a non-event after all that build up, it shouldn't be a surprise.

A gentle chemo would definitely be a good thing, though, to counter the long list of bad. Not sure how it measures up to the disappointment of not getting nice bosoms out of it all...

The last post's header was 'Words matter'. Today's could well be 'Words fail me.'

But then someone else would be writing this. There are words. Sooooo many words.

Sunday's message was to have led seamlessly into one of the substantial elephants in the room, namely how Annie has been responding to this whole thing. I'll save it for now- there is time.

Today was the cardio-function test, and the day when I'd intended on telling the 6th Graders that there was a reason for all my seemingly random absences over the last month. They were starting to notice, especially since my pattern has been to go to school for morning registration and head to the hospital from there. A bit of a magician's assistant, with all the disappearances and sudden returns just in time to collect homework. (You can hear the collective groans from there, I am sure.) I'd discussed the plan for the announcement with the powers-that-be at school and we decided that I'd tell the whole grade together during the afternoon's Exploratory session, after they had filled out their end of year teacher evaluations.

Before all this, however, was yet another jaunt down to Inha to be jabbed and stabbed. The techie in charge of today's test was the one who I'd attempted to joke with about radiation a couple of weeks ago. He was ready for me this time.

P: Will I be radioactive again today?
Techie: Ah, today, we look at heart. One shot first- is polysomethinorphonalwhotsit. This shows how strong heart is. Then wait- errr- 20 minutes.
P: (Hopefully) So nothing radioactive??
Techie: SECOND shot is radioactive.
P: Ah.

I was remembering how disorientated I was the last times. Can't be good for you, having that goo charging through your veins. I will probably say so again when the last weeks of my treatment are underway and they pump me full of GALLONS of the stuff to take care of any residual nasties that are lurking in my bosom. The disorientation might all be completely in my head, of course. In fact, that's the part that feels most wobbly, so I guess it must be.

Aaaanyway...

Today there was a five minute photo session with one screen, and then after a few adjustments, a twenty minute double-action examination with two. I was a bit dubious about this second one, as I was sure that he had told me the machine would spin me around to get a 360 degree look. There were no straps, so my imagination started jumping around all over the place. Turns out that the screens would turn, not me. Big relief.
A few clicks and whistles and a short nap later (I am getting all kinds of naps in odd places these days) and he came back in the examination room. Pointing to a nondescript mass on the monitor, he said: 'That's your heart.'

P: Don't tell my students.

He moved things around importantly for a few moments and helped me gather my things together before ushering me to the door:

Techie: Thank you Miss Patricia. Results be back in three days.
P: Errrr, no. I am supposed to come back tomorrow.
Techie: Tomorrow?
P: Yes, tomorrow. The oncologist wants to see me at 11:40 tomorrow.
Techie: Thank you Miss Patricia. Results be back tomorrow.
 P: Tomorrow?
Techie: Yes, tomorrow. I do rush job.

... and I was on my way back to school.

There was one lesson before lunch, and then my co-advisor and I (co-tutor, UK crowd) had a pizza party with our homeroom. Now, one of my molars has been aching on-and-off, and during the party, it had an 'on' moment. I asked Polin about whether he and his missus had found a dentist yet, and quickly decided that if I was going to need a filling, this would be a good time to get it done- before I started cancer treatment. A few emails later, and I had a recommendation for a gentleman who runs a clinic close to our apartment, whose sons are students (and therefore moonlight as translators for him) and who gives faculty a discount on treatment. I arranged for his boys to meet me after school to help make an appointment, and then headed to the library, where the Grade 6s had been sent to complete their surveys.  We assembled the masses and quieted them.

Joey: 'Is this story time?'
P: Not quite.

I started by saying that some of them had probably noticed that I'd been missing some time over the last month, what with them being so clever and all. The ones who want to be considered clever nodded sagely. I told them that it was because I haven't been terribly well, and that they weren't to get upset, but that I was going to be having treatment- chemotherapy- starting in the next few days, probably tomorrow.

'Chemotherapy' translates pretty well. Most of them were there with me, immediately. I backed the story up a bit, stated that it is cancer and then explained that I am not leaving. I need to stay in Korea so as not to interrupt my daughter's schooling and so that I can continue to work, I explained. I will just be away for a while, I said, and that when they see me around, it's just possible that I will not be quite as beautiful as I am at the moment. Gloria was stricken:

'Oh, Ms Towers, it's like a tragedy.'
P: 'Yes, Gloria. Me not being as beautiful as this would indeed be a tragedy. I am glad that you understand the gravity of the situation.'

I told them that I will be moving to the faculty housing across from the school so that I can keep a beady eye on them and come over to chop off their heads whenever necessary, (I have a pretty unique relationship with my students.) and that their homework is STILL due on Friday- I'm not THAT sick, not yet, not ever- and that I will try to be in on the last day of school because I hear there's a picnic and I am never one to pass up a hotdog. I made it very clear that I have a few rules about what will happen:

1. They are not allowed to cry. There is to be no drama over this. They should not be upset, because I am not going anywhere; I'm just going to be a bit ill for a while.

2. This is MY story, nobody else's. I have shared it with them because they are mine, and I am theirs. I will be theirs next year, as I am moving up to the seventh grade with them. While the information will get out, they are to understand that I will be the one to own it. They are not to gossip or spread it around, nor are they to change their tags on gmail or their facebook status and put up sympathetic messages. Nope. None of it. 

Those are the rules. Then I allowed them to ask questions.

There was silence.
P: Are you sure?
G6: (silence)

Now, a quick aside about my students. They are brilliant. They are musical and clever and funny and (generally) hard-working. But they are English second language, almost to a child. They are also sixth graders. That, by definition, means they have brains like porridge. Look it up if you don't believe me. I have studied this phenomenon, and it is perfectly true.
I have- MANY times- dictated instructions, written them on the board, sent them out in emails, posted them on my class portal page, had the children recite them back to me, had them translated into Korean and Arabic and Chinese and back, acted them out in elaborate mimes with my ESOL colleague ducking and dodging across the classroom as we demonstrated the activity that the students then had to replicate on paper- MANY times. I always follow this ritual up with the same chant:

'Have you any questions?'
G6: No
P: Are you sure?
G6: Yes
P: What questions WILL you have as soon as I tell you to start working?
G6: Silence
P: Right then, you can beg-
G6: Ms Towers, Ms Towers!!!! What do you mean by-----???

Sigh.
So, after my pronouncement about being ill and not being here at the beginning of the year was made and the line drawn underneath it, I was foolish to expect anything different:

'Are you absolutely certain you don't want to ask anything?'
G6: (silence)
P: Positive?
G6: (tumbleweed silence)
P: What questions WILL you have as soon as I tell you to go home?
G6: (more tumbleweeds)
P: Right then, you can beg-
G6: Ms Towers, Ms Towers!!!! What do you mean by-----???

Their questions were sound. They wanted clarification.

What exactly is it? (From one of the few who didn't understand what chemotherapy meant)
Where is the tumour?
Will your hair grow back?
Will you wear a wig?
When will you be back at work?
When will it start?

Most of the answers were as you have read here. Such is how my students and I interact.
- Left breast.
- I hope so, Andy. I'm really sad to lose it, because it looks great at the moment. It might be a bit different when it does- it might even look like yours. (Laughs and nudges from his mates as he strokes his carefully coiffed 'do.)
- I don't think so. They are scratchy. I think I may just stay bald. I will either be astonishingly beautiful with no hair, or I will look like Uncle Fester from the Addams Family. YOU, Grade 6, must always tell me that I am astonishingly beautiful. Telling me I look like Uncle Fester will get your heads chopped off.
- As soon as I can get here, and as many hours as I can manage if I can't be here for whole days. Probably not for the first month.
- Hopefully tomorrow. I went this morning for them to check whether my heart is strong enough for the drugs. The technician showed me the pictures. I actually HAVE a heart.

Four snorts.
Five whole seconds...
Fifty snorts, then laughter.
Laughter dies.
Christine: I don't get it.
P: The technician proved I have a heart, darling girl.
Christine: But why is it funny? Everybody has a heart.
P: One of the others will explain it to you.

So all in all, it went pretty much as I had hoped. They are prepared to see me ill and not to see me at all, but they are not in a panic. I hope. I will check their tag lines tonight. If I see that they have a flood of drama, I shall chop their heads off.

And then off I headed to the dentist. Arrived breathless and warm, and all ready for him to tut disapprovingly at me for not having had a clean in so long (last thing I did before packing up to come to Korea, but haven't sorted it out since, shameshame) and then fill a hole in the molar before sending me off home.

Switch to present tense for effect:

He looks quickly in my mouth, takes a few photographs- a new process for me- and then proceeds to show me- not a cavity- but a cracked tooth, which will require a root canal, and a crown, and about five appointments and $600 to sort out, depending on how deep the crack is. The poor, perplexed man has no idea why I am laughing so hard.

Several phone calls to his helpful-at-translating son, his English not being up to the task of understanding my mirth, I learn that the treatment will not affect or be affected by the chemotherapy- oh, and what a relief that is to hear- and that he can start immediately.

More jabs and stabs follow, then a series of deeply worrying drilling and sawing noises, then more flashes of the camera. After ten minutes of building-site manouevres going on in my head, he shows me the new photos. Yup, tooth is cracked, and pretty darn well at that. No idea how. I've always been complimented about the state of my teeth by the wide assortment of professionals who have rooted around in there, so I am baffled. He tells me a few details about the treatment, which looks set to be even more extensive now, and then tells me that I will have to chew on the other side of my mouth until it is complete.

P: (Still shaking her head and chuckling) Well, perhaps you'd better have a look at the other side in case there's anything wrong there, if I'm going to be using it so much!

The dentist grins obligingly, tilts the chair back again, and casts an amused look over the teeth on the right side.
He stops grinning, and reaches again for the camera.

P: Oh, no.

This is the one that might wind some folks up. That is not intended. And remember, you can stop reading at any time. I do not invite controversy; I simply play out where my head is.

Words matter.

Whitecross friends will have heard me say it in dozens of assemblies and hundreds of times out of them. I get a little excited about words, their power, their subtlety, their magic- and even as I type, I know what sort of a geek I must sound like.

But it’s true. I think that no major event in human history- great and terrible- ever happened without some great and terrible words being spoken:

‘Fourscore and seven years ago’
‘We will fight them on the beaches...’
‘Let there be light.’
‘I have a dream today.’
‘I love you.’
‘I don’t love you.’
'I don't know how I could have married someone like you.'
‘It’s cancer.’

Pretty potent, aren’t they?

That’s what has me thinking about the words that I need to choose as I describe what it happening here. For example, am I a cancer ‘sufferer’? Well, at the moment, clearly not. Apart from the pain in my chest and some tiredness, I am not suffering. In fact, some of you might read all this and wonder if I’m ill at all. It sounds rather chipper just now. WILL I suffer? of that I have no doubt. But that will be from the chemotherapy, unless I am much mistaken. It is not the cancer that will make me suffer in the coming weeks, but the cure. Later? Who knows? So will I be called a ‘chemo sufferer’? Remains to be seen.

It’s the word ‘survivor’ that I am really dubious about, however.

I intend to live. Let me make that clear before I start this part of the thread. I have no intention of dying, not now at least. I have huge plans for the future- and not just the next year, but the next thirty or so. They start with getting my grading done, and then progress through putting Annie through university and seeing her settled. Next, they move on to heading for Malaysia and Africa and Singapore in a series of job changes that will eventually see me start my own school and run things the way I jolly well like, thank you very much. The plans wrap up on Snider Mountain back in New Brunswick, where I have a plot of land and shall build a single story cabin with a good kitchen and a lovely porch, screened in against mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds and tenacious black flies. There, I shall end my days on my rocking chair, wearing purple, flanked by my two dogs, Virgil (the ugliest lurcher I can find) and Mephistopheles, (a yappy little terrier) and holding a shot gun in my lap so that I can fire off buckshot at the varmints that invade my vegetable patch. I shall raise goats for the cheese, and have a tired old mule called Esme, so I can shout ‘Whoa, Esme!’ and laugh at myself every time I do so for the clever word play.

You can see that I have given this much thought.

So, no, I have no plans to pop my clogs just yet. So what is my issue with the word ‘survivor’, then? It’s hard to pin down, exactly, but I know that I have one. It might be because I’m not actually feeling ill; I haven’t engaged in any sort of a battle yet. Perhaps once I am on the other side of this, I will feel like I want to use the tag. Not now, though. I don’t like the thought.

I certainly do not want to imply that I think ANYthing derogatory at all about other people calling themselves survivors, no. Not for a moment. They are certainly entitled to use whatever words they want, and I have immense respect for them. I have already learned, you see, that this is an intensely personal experience. Their cancers were theirs; this cancer is MINE. It belongs to no one else, however similar it might seem to that experienced by others. Whatever your aunts or cousins or sisters or mothers-in-law or YOU might have had happen, it was not what I have happening now. This is like my fingerprint: I’m the only one with THIS,  and my opinions and feelings- and the words I choose to use- will be as unique. Other people can use the words they want. I do not sneer at them, not ever.

I just don’t feel like I want to grant this thing in me any respect- or certainly not the respect that is implied by the word ‘survive’. I do not want to give any ground or credence or credibility to it. I want to treat it like something paltry and insignificant, like a minor annoyance, like an irritating sniffle or a bit of grit under my nail. I don’t want it to be as powerful as a tidal wave or an earthquake or fire- those are the things people ought to survive, not an illness that SO many have experienced. Why is this thing still killing people? Why does it leave so many quaking and frightened? How dare it?

Yes, I realise that it is serious. I know. Again, I do not belittle anyone else’s experience with it. But what I call it- and what I call myself as I endure these next few months- that matters. My definition of it will define how I respond to it, how much of a basket case I become. I know that it is not paltry or insignificant or annoying. I am saying what I want it to be, not what it is. But don’t try to convince me to say it is something that I must ‘survive’.  Because then I might stop laughing at it, and that would be bad.

How do you know I am afraid? I laugh. I will find the most inappropriate things to mock and fleer and scoff at, and I will hopefully drag everybody along on the joke with me. I come from a long line of smart asses, several generations of whom spend every family reunion trying to get the last word, and playing with words and sneers and snide comments to hide a multitude of insecurities and hurt feelings. This is my fall back. This is how I want to treat cancer. Perhaps rather than survive it, I just want to be the only one still talking when my conversation with it is over.
I want to get the last word.