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.