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.