It is quiet. Too quiet.

Another Songdo Friday rolls around. This last week has been marked mainly by the battle with insomnia. Night before last, I managed to fall asleep at 8:30... yesterday morning. I have deliberately avoided taking sleeping pills the last two nights, as I am so reluctant to be dependent on them, and it turns out that I am, rather. The upshot is, that I am sleeping later- 1:30 in the afternoon, most days, and then end up bouncing around after midnight.

Ah, it'll be allright. The only loss, really, is that I miss most of the day, but hadn't had much planned anyway. The gain is that I am awake and able to catch up with folks elsewhere- Linda in South Wales (three hours on Skype: yikes!!) and David H in- where are you now, David??- being two examples, not to mention the seventeen-mile long thread of chat I have created with Les, Amy and Ann. The world feels a little more secure in its orbit, with the four of us so busily putting it to rights.

When I wake, I generally toddle over to the school garden to check on the chickens and talk some minor philosophy with them. Nothing too deep; they are just chickens, after all, and I have chemo brain. We engage in discussions about what will happen to them if they get into the tomato beds, they cluck derisively at me, I shake my head ruefully and remind them that they are likely to be delicious. I also attempt to do a bit of feeble weeding, and pick what is turning into a glut of tomatoes. Honestly, I wish someone else would go and take some- hate for them to go to waste, and I've already taken about sixty pounds, shared them out with the Korean staff still on site, made almost as much sauce as the freezer can hold- and no small task, when the peeling and seeding is taken into account; they are cherry toms, you see, and take ages to process.

Good grief. When did I become such a bore?? Subject change!!

Annie is working away on art and her Extended Essay, and probably looking forward to getting back to school and away from her nagging mother. We're talking about universities every day now, as her applications are going to need to be made soon. She wants to go back to the UK badly, is looking at doing her undergrad in Theatre and Stage Design, and would like to be near Cardiff or London. The problem, we have discovered, is that she has been out of the country. Apparently, even though she is a UK citizen, as she has been living out here for the last three years, she will need to pay international student fees, and will not be eligible for student loans. This will almost double her tuition, and means that the cost will have to be met by ME. We are thinking through options, and I welcome advice! We've checked Europe- can't find the course match- (Thanks for that suggestion, though, David K) and are currently looking at Canadian schools, where apparently, all one needs to do to be considered a Canadian is to, well, BE a Canadian. And she is, thanks to her (for once, clear-thinking) mother's having got her citizenship sorted out about twenty minutes after she was born. We'll keep working on it.

This weekend, she is heading off to one of the Seoul rock festivals with a friend. I have been very fussy and worried, trying to figure out how she's going to get there and home safely, and keep hydrated and avoid sunburn and starvation and muggings and typhoid and beri-beri and snake bites and mad elephant attacks... you know, all that. She has smiled at me patiently with eyebrows slightly raised, and assured me that all will be well. When do they get condescending? Did that just happen this year?

A: You need to stop worrying. In another year, I'll be out on my own doing all this.
P: Why do you think I'm worrying?

Again, I seem tireder this round. The effects of the chemo may be cumulative, which doesn't bode especially well for how fit I will feel after the surgery. There is definitely some action afoot in the breast: the tumour appears to be shifting around a bit in there, which the oncologist tells me is ok. It is now directly behind the nipple, which is a shame. It is pretty tender, too, which may be connected to its reluctance to disappear. I'm keeping an eye on it. Well, not exactly an eye, but I'm keeping track of things.

The plan for the remainder of the month is to continue to stay awake half the night, carry on reading more than I have in years, and persist in aggravating my daughter. Next week, I am going to try to scope out a route to the hospital that uses buses rather than taxis to save some pennies. All action and adventure! I still can't say for certain when the surgery will take place, and that may be the only interesting news to come in the next few weeks. It doesn't make for very good reading, I'm afraid, but the things that are entertaining tend to involve me being ill or hurt, so I'm quite happy to be rather dull for the time being. When there's a good story, it'll be shared, never fear.

Oh, I'm going back to the dentist on Tuesday. That's always jolly.

Living in an Ealing comedy

Am having some issues with the laptop tonight, or this would have been updated hours ago. Everything is moving veeeeeryyy sllllooowwly. As I am unable to sleep despite the blue bomber I took an hour ago and the horse-pill sized painkillers, I seem to have time to work it all through, though. Ah, always that silver lining.

You know, my sarcastic tone sounds kinda like my regular tone.

Re-reading yesterday's post makes me rather shame-faced. What an embarrassingly ungracious compilation of complaint! I shall endeavour to do better, and yet keep authenticity. That is the way I was feeling yesterday; I hadn't realised the extent of the negativity until I looked at it through this morning's eyes. I hadn't seen the churlishness of it until I was in the ward this afternoon.

It was day three of chemo today, and the experience was somewhat rougher than usual. The cranky lady at the international clinic was away ill, and she would have proven helpful despite the scowling. The hospital was heaving with people, far busier than I have seen it. The oncologist was rushed and I wasn't able to make my questions clear. The poor receptionist was frustrated and flustered- the first time I'd seen anything less than cool professionalism from anyone. The bloke on the other end of the telephone from her when she was trying to book the MRI was interrupting and uncooperative, and she was visibly biting her tongue. Rivulets of sweat trickled down her face; her teeth were gritted. After many attempts to clarify her meaning about my next appointments (MRI on Monday, August 5th, ultrasound -called a 'sona'- on August the 8th, as well as a meeting with the oncologist and the surgeon to go through the tests and hopefully schedule the operation; believe me, it took twenty minutes to get us both to this stage in the conversation) she gave up and called for help from an English speaking teller. We all get along fine. There are just days that are tougher than others.

I realise that any semblance of privacy or discretion I may be hoping for is evaporating while conversations between all these folks transpire. They are held at volume in Korean, and I am the only one who has no idea what they are talking about, apart from the occasional loud 'breast!' or 'chemotherapy', both of which make me feel a bit exposed. Little old men eye me up through suspicious eyes, and today started leaping in to help translate. I wander from pillar to post in a state of bemusement and oblivion. I am just so foreign.

The first stop of the day was at the Foreign Clinic, where I found CICL was away. I need to communicate a request from my UK insurance company to her, so I was disappointed not to see her. I registered with them anyway, and was sent to the blood collection room downstairs. At least, I think it was downstairs. I am getting pretty adept at locating rooms through the catacombs of the hospital, and that's one of the nice ones, as it has English signage. Not all of them do: the pharmacy does not, for example. Many rooms I only recognise once I am in the door, which causes many of the occupants to shoot baleful looks at me when I walk in, give the space a quick glance and make a quicker retreat.

The collection room was busier than last week, and I decided there that photos were not likely going to feature today. The techies down there are my favourites when it comes to needles, apart from the guy who gives me the radioactive shots, but that's because he's a bit dishy and I am me. They take three or four vials of blood, and I barely even bruise.

I had an hour to wait, so picked up a coffee and my knitting (I say that like I 'have' knitting. Do not be impressed. So far, it is a rectangle that may turn into a square. That is all we are likely to get out of it.) I called Ann to get her out of bed because she's a teenager and then toddled up to see the oncologist.

As I said, she was harried today. She had a bit of a grope of the breast, and thinks that it is still reducing in size. I noted the same thing- it does not feel as tight and hard under my skin, but it still seems firmly planted directly behind the nipple. This does not make me happy, as it means I will probably lose it. The last time I mentioned reconstruction to the surgeon, he poo-pooed the idea, as the breast is so small anyway (Ah, it's just a GRAND thing, a conversation about my bosoms with that man!) That was when he still thought that he might be able to save the nipple, though. I will be having a conversation with the CICL about whether the insurance would cover a patch up job. If not, well, I will be saving up.

Dr Lee hurriedly went back through the plan with me. MRI on the breast and the 'sona', then the meeting with her and the surgeon. At this point, I asked whether the MRI would be just of the breast, or whether it would take in the uterus as well. She looked puzzled.

O: The uterus?
P: Yes, since the surgeon wants to do the hysterectomy at the same time.
O: Is there something on your uterus?
P: (Stifling a groan of despair- and Les, I know. I know.) Yes, there is a growth that he decided he wanted to remove with a hysterectomy during the same operation that the lump is removed.
O: Oh, no, no. I don't recommend that.
P: (Dreading the thought of having to go in twice.) Well, you should talk to him about it, as it was his idea.
O: I will call him now.
Phone call, rapid chat, 'Chadwick' 'chemotherapy,' 'breast', 'hysterectomy', etc...
O: (putting down the phone) He will do hysterectomy at same time as the mastectomy.
P: THE WHAT??
O: (back-pedaling) Oh, oh, no. When he take away tumour!!
P: The LUMPectomy???
O: Yes, yes, just the lump.
P: (pant, pant, pant)

I asked whether the doctor would give me a definite surgery date. She indicated that the timetable for surgery is still not certain. If the scans show that the tumour is not reducing quickly enough, she will order more chemo first. Even then, the date for surgery will be dependent on when the surgeon fancies doing it. So I still don't know when it will be, and still can't give mum a definite date to come over. {Am also starting to make plans for Annie's 18th. Be a right cow if I didn't manage to make that one, wouldn't it?}

We parted on good terms, with me heading towards the receptionist to confirm dates for the next tests, and to head to my treatment. Except no one said anything about the treatment, and whether I was supposed to go straight up for it. In fact, from the way they were talking, it began to seem like I wasn't going to have it after all. By the time the dates and times were agreed and changed and agreed again, and I'd been ushered down to radiation to talk through preparing for the MRI, everyone but me appeared to have forgotten it entirely. This caused huge confusion when I tried to ask about it, and eventually they took me back to the oncologist, insisting that I was done for the day. No, she said, you should go for chemo now. I raised my hand gratefully, and she actually gave me a high-five at finally getting it all ironed out. I was astonished.

I was convinced that I needed to pick up meds at the pharmacy (Yes, another boat load of those little blue beauties) before heading up, and tried to inquire. But no, they said, when they finally realised what I was asking, go straight to the ladies at the cancer centre, who duly turned me around and sent me straight back to the pharmacy. At least this time I was spared the weigh-in.

The treatment room was heaving today. There were even some people hooked up to the IVs out in the waiting room, the beds were in such short supply. The techies like putting me to sleep for some reason, if the size of the tranquiliser I am made to swallow is anything to go by, so I always get a bed.

I was surrounded by some very noisy patients this time; the first time it was anything other than calm and peaceful. One man must have been receiving his injection somewhere both private and painful, as the curtain was drawn around his bed and the groans that emerged from behind it were loud enough to fill the room. There was a woman two beds down- the first one I've seen totally bald- who also looked like she was in a bad way. She was younger than I am by about ten years, I think. Her husband was never more than ten feet from her, even when the doctors were tending to her. They both looked practised. There was a different doctor looking after her, and again the IV seemed to be in awkward place. The two times he came to adjust her tubes and bottles, he was meticulous about using his gloves and ensuring that nothing touched any potentially contaminated surface. Her cries were feeble, but pained. After he had finished his ministrations, she lay weakly panting, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, her husband silent beside her.

Her discomfort was echoed in the elderly ladies nearby. One must have been eighty if she was a day, and after waking from her sleep, she hunched herself over her hips, folded in half and grimacing against her pain. The diminutive grandmother in the bed at the foot of mine hid her face in her hands for much of her stay, clench-jawed and muttering at her son and husband when they wandered in, but plaintively shouting 'Seungsangnim!' (Doctor/ professor) at the top of her voice throughout the afternoon.

Across the room, there was the thinnest man I have ever seen. He also had lost all his hair, and his skin was draped and stretched like bleached leather over his fine, narrow bones. He wore a tracksuit despite the mugginess of the day. His IV seemed to be a stint. He, too, looked long-practised at these procedures, and endured the adjustments of his needles and bags with tight-lipped stoicism, before eventually wandering weakly out with a smile for the technicians.

As for me, I had the bottles and bags and envelopes and a long sleep; all reasonable comfort, and no greater pain than the occasional twinge of the needle or the chill as new fluid ran in my veins. Tonight, I am a little weary from the late night last night, and a bit dehydrated from the treatment. However, I am also somewhat chastised by what I saw in that room this afternoon. I have been getting off so easily with the treatment, and today saw again that I have been very, very fortunate.

Can't complain; well, I shouldn't. And yet...

It's been a while since my last post, mainly because I've had company this last week. What I need to remember, however, is that folks look for updates on this and worry when there isn't one. Sorry! It takes longer than one might imagine to complete an entry, though; after a night fighting insomnia and then waking with the blue haze around my ears, finding something to write that is both lucid and informative is a challenge. 'Write every day' Annie Lamott says. But there's no news, Annie, and I don't want to write just for the sake of off-loading. Readers will get bored. They will stop reading. I will get frustrated that the viewing stats will go down (Yes, I notice these things, and wonder who on earth is reading me in Poland) and will sulk.

It's a slippery slope, this blogging business. 

The final chemo session of the first stage of the treatment is tomorrow. The days have passed very quickly in between sessions. I'm blaming the fact that I am ignoring so much work on that, and fear that I'll reach the end of the whole process only to realise that I have accomplished nothing. Well, except lived, of course.

At the moment, I am reading all the posts from friends who have jaunted off overseas and stewing in my envy. Ann and I were supposed to be in the UK for the summer, and were very excited about camping with Linda and Huw and looking at universities and eating fish and chips from the College Green chippy and drinking a pint of Organic at the Victory with Tim and passing hours with Mel at the Jalsagor and sitting in the garden at Sarah and Martin's with the children and strolling on Offa's Dyke with Heidi and letting Steras mix too many Bombay and tonics... didn't need an adventure, just keen to be home. We cancelled the trip because of the cancer treatment- needed to stay handy for the chemo, and while a trip in between sessions would have been feasible, I was convinced that I'd be much sicker than I have been. Who knew? It turned out to be a wise decision financially, since I had to make Annie's tuition payment and would have have struggled to pay for the fish and chips and pints and curries (and universities- yipes!!) if we'd gone, especially once I had to withdraw from teaching summer school. However, being here for the summer is not as scintillating as one might expect. And most of you will not have expected it to be especially scintillating. Now that the summer school crowd has also flown out, Songdo is a bit of a ghost town. I should either jump on a train and explore, OR I should get working on my dissertation.

Before I leap to do either, let's get an update on things cancer-related:

I am almost completely hairless, and hating it. Despite the reassurances that I look good (you know, for a bald chick who is neither Natalie Portman nor Sinead O'Connor) I really, really hate it. Yes, I have an impossibly symmetrical skull and good cheekbones, and am grateful. But gentle reader, I am vain beyond belief, and very sensitive to the stares. I am even more sensitive to the children who laugh and point in the streets. And that happens. I defy anyone to remain upbeat when people -even children- laugh and point at you. It looks better when I don't try and hide it, and I am stubborn about refusing to be shamed by it- let other women hide indoors or don scarves and wigs in this heat- but it comes at a price. I am the only bald woman I have seen in a country of women with beautiful hair and a fixation on beauty- and there aren't alot of bald men. Do not join the voices that remark 'Well, think of all the money you'll save on hairdressing!' That will get you smacked in the nose, right along with the people who continue to stroke me, despite my many assertions that I hate it. (Cancer has revealed a serious chippiness in my nature.)

Another thing I advise against saying, while I'm on the topic: 'You will come out of all this so much stronger'. Errrr... I really think I don't need to be stronger, thanks. In fact, if the cost for gaining strength is going through a year like the one I've been having, I think I'd rather be feeble, if it's all the same.

Last night the last of my eyelashes came out. If you've never noticed someone without eyelashes, then you won't know the froggy appearance it lends one's eyes. It is hard to combat that with makeup, because there is nothing for the eyeliner to adhere to and it tends to run away. I am being very gentle with my brows, hoping not to lose them entirely- they are also starting to come out. Sob.

I appear to be one of the few people who does not lose weight on chemotherapy. I am pleased not to have nausea, for certain. However, those who do not lose tend to gain, and according to my reading, often up to twenty pounds. This is deeply worrying. Having already put on more weight than I care to make public here since coming to Korea, I am very fearful of gaining any more. There is a lot of water retention and bloating; my fingers are like sausages every morning. It is just uncomfortable, especially in the heat, and contributes to the overall feeling of YUCK that hits me every time I look in the mirror.

So: bored, bald and bulky. That's how I'm feeling at the moment. And as I proofread all the whining and negativity in the paragraphs above, I wonder why you even bothered to wade through it to get this far. Here's something I see through the fog, though:

All the cancer news in the media is badbad. Bernie Nolan, Iain McColl, and a 13 year-old you tube hit Cover Girl have all died this week, according to the headlines and updates on my new feeds. And that is sobering, when I'm surrounded by the streamers and balloons of my latest pity party. I have no right to bellyache about how I look, or how much more fun other people are having. I am alive. I'm still here to shake my defiant fist. And I shall begin sticking my tongue out at the children who laugh and point.

Taking it easy...

Another week passes, and this time I know that there is some pretty funky juice coursing through my veins. I still don't feel particularly unwell, but the aches and pains are definitely there, my fingers feel like sausages, and my eyelashes are falling out. Not an attractive look! Having also had the oncologist ask me about whether I had been depressed during the last cycle has naturally made me more depressed with this one. I don't think it's too bad, but there are moments- and sometimes whole half hours- when the universe turns a deep shade of mauve. Hideous colour. Discovered as well this week that the papers I thought were lodging the divorce petition were actually finalising the divorce. They are all in Korean, so that little fact was lost in translation. Finding out that my marriage has been officially over for about six weeks and I didn't realise it- ah, it wasn't a good day. Enough said on that.

Otherwise, let's see... my sleep patterns bear no resemblance to patterns whatsoever. Some nights I doze off after one in the morning, other nights before ten. I usually wake up around seven thirty, which in itself is unusual given my pre-cancer-before-dawn habits. I have laid off the sleeping pills unless necessary, and have found that it makes no difference at all to how 'well' I wake. I feel like I've been slugged in the head with a cricket bat made of treacle. Before you raise your eyebrows at that image, consider what it would be like: drippy, sticky, gooey, ooze trickling down around your ears- but with the force of a West Indian batsman. Now you can nod understandingly. This morning it was too much. I'd wanted to go swimming, as I know that I've got to get moving if I want to shake off the cobwebs of gloom, but I just could not move from the bed when the alarm went at seven. Four hours later, I woke up again, not really sure what had happened. Thirteen hours of sleep. This, after a day spent mostly in my pyjamas, with only one little excursion to the market down the road to get milk and juice. Crazy. CRAZY.

It could be argued that I need the rest. I haven't worked so hard at doing so little in a long time, though, and it doesn't come easily. We had our Canada Day barbeque on Monday, complete with complaints from the neighbours (!!!!), and I was a bit tuckered after that. When I say a bit, I mean that I only moved from the bed on Tuesday to get a bowl of something to bring back to it. I'd planned on needing some rest after the barbie, but does that really excuse such inactivity? On the other hand, this round is tougher than the first, and maybe I shouldn't get all twisty-knickered about taking it easy.

What really is the problem here? I don't like doing nothing. I am afraid that someone will think I'm being lazy. There is so much to get done! Planning for next year (never mind finishing off the work from last) my dissertation (which I am studiously ignoring) getting the apartment tidied up (still not finished; bad, bad me), and all the while the little Warner Brothers' cartoon Pattis are sitting on my shoulders, passing judgement. They can't even make up their minds who is judging what- is the little angel encouraging rest, or work? Is the little devil telling me to take it easy, or to be ashamed of myself for staying in my skivvies all day? Both of them make me feel guilty, and both of them seem to be adopting the voices of one or another of my grandparents. Lord, Lord. I am a therapist's playground.

So what else is happening? I am still waiting for my tooth and jaw to stop hurting so that I can return for the next stages of the root canal, and the tooth on the other side has started to throb. Sigh. I need to clean my teeth more frequently because of the chemo (something to do with enzymes not functioning properly, yadda yadda) which seems to aggravate the crack in the molar. Unless the tooth actually breaks and comes out, I will not start any new treatment. It is more than my life is worth. And I am not talking about infection risks here, but recalling Connie's reaction last time!

I have read four books, cover to cover, in the last ten days. None were related to school. I cannot remember the last time I have hammered through books that way. I may go get more.

Annie and I are getting used to living together again. While that is great, and I love having her around, I'm sure it's not easy for her after the last two years of relative independence. She is turning into such an astonishing young woman, and at the same time is as much a teenager as one should expect. (I refer to the argument this morning about the dishes not getting done, and my assertions that she will starve to death and dress like a transient when I send her off to university without someone who knows how to cook and run the washing machine to look after her. Parents amongst you- you know the script for this; I don't need to give the details.)

But I have to give credit to her: she is coping brilliantly, all things considered. The girl has had an incredible few years: evil mother drags her away from home, hearth and Hereford to move to- where??? Said mother marries college sweetheart and makes her live in Seoul without her at the new husband's home and sends her to a (ridiculously expensive) international school, where they don't even play hockey and netball. Then new step dad goes back to the States after thirteen months, and evil mother sends her to live in a beautiful flat in downtown Itaewon with a wonderful lady who travels alot and thinks that she's great (ok- that bit is pretty good). Then, the same day as the divorce is registered, the evil mother is diagnosed with breast cancer. The evil mother turns out not to be actually that evil at all, and both mother and daughter are suddenly confronted with being essentially each others' whole world. Tough gig for the skinny teen.

And how is she handling it? It's getting better. We had to have a discussion- or eight- early on about what is likely to happen. She was terrified that I would die, and soon. She had some properly wobbly days at school, before the administration there told her that she could finish her term immediately to come and be with me, which helped immeasurably. She will be in a much better place in August when she goes back. I also had to give her a quick couple of lessons in being a Long, and more relevantly, my daughter. I was not going to be doom-and-glooming this process, and certainly was not prepared to let her either. She needed to know that my fall-back position in the time of health-related crisis is to laugh at it. A little irreverence never hurt anyone. I warned her. She was not impressed.

A: But I don't think it's funny.
P: Which is exactly why we need to laugh at it- otherwise, it could get really scary.
A: I'm not happy about that at all. It is serious.
P: But this isn't all about how you feel. It is alot about how you feel, yes. But not all.
A: Hmph!!

Blood will out, though, and the Long in her showed up before the evening was through. We were sitting on the couch, and she had her head on my lap while I played with her hair. It had been an emotional hour. Suddenly, I found an impossibly long, brown hair on her chin.

P: What is this???
A: What is it?
P: You've got a hair on your chin! Are you a man?? Do you need to shave?? Have we to take you to the doctor for hormone treatment??
A: (levelly) At least I'll have hair.

Atta girl!!! Now you're gettin' it!!

It was about two weeks later, when a friend and I were discussing the playlist-of-the-damned that I'd been subjected to during the MRI. After laughing again at the thought of 'The Sound of Silence' over the headphones, she turned to Ann and said, 'You ought to get your mother some good music for her iPod when she's in hospital having the lump removed.' Without skipping a beat, Annie replied, 'How about "My Milkshake Brings all the Boys to the Yard"?'

I was so proud.