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.