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.