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...