Infamy, infamy- everyone's got it infamy. Or: Am I Blue?

Yes, it's been awhile. I know.

In the last post, I remarked - at some length- on how increasingly fragile I've been feeling throughout the latest bouts of chemo. At mid-cycle in the most recent round, I can see clearly that I am at my lowest at about day eight, and it has been getting worse as the treatment has progressed.

I haven't been keeping this up to date, despite there being a lot of catching up to do. There is a multitude of reasons for my absence, the first being that I am so flipping tired. The chemo has been tolerable, as I was promised, and since the first day I took off after the first round, I have missed no time at all due to illness. Rather proud of that. I am not looking for congratulations, however. I have not always been Princess Perky at school, it must be said. I've managed to keep a lively presence in the classroom, however, and when I'm called upon to perform. However, I don't recommend sharing company with what is left over at the end of the school day. Seriously. I don't even like her.

Another reason is my passive aggression. I try to control it, but not to deny it. I started the blog in the very beginning because I was exhausted from telling people how I was feeling. What has become clear is that I end up having to tell folks anyway. Some are people who don't read the blog because they haven't been invited to. Fair enough. Not everyone, however. Some people say 'I haven't bothered to read it, so just tell me.' Errrrrr.... So P-A Pat says, well, if you aren't going to read it, what's the point in writing it?

Further, I have been using this as an opportunity to discuss a few things that, being non-confrontational (to which I also readily admit) I do not feel equipped to say in person. I try to do it in a lighthearted fashion, because I am non-confrontational, and by pointing out that my issues are MY issues primarily and not the fault of others-  because I am non-confrontational. Things like: I don't like being touched. I submit that I have qualified this extensively, admitted that I need to be more understanding about other people's needs for contact, stated categorically that I like 'certain kinds' of touch, yaddayadda. But ultimately, it is a thing. My friends and colleagues have joked about it, some have even asked whether they are close enough to the circle to be allowed to give me a hug. That's fine; that shows they are taking the piss out of me as much as I am myself. Some of them have even (and I love them for this) spoken quietly to a few others who are not quite so in tune with my frequency, so to speak, and let them know that I don't welcome the physicality. The fact that these others have been told and continue to put an arm around me, stroke my arm, rub my back... I could weep. It makes me WANT to weep. If I speak about it, I am the bad guy. I do not want to be the bad guy. Bloody Hell, I hate being an oldest child sometimes.

Another impediment to more regular updates is the conflict between wanting to be completely honest in the entries, and the need to tread carefully around other people. I am self-censoring. I don't write about everything here. There has been no break-down of Richard and the events surrounding the divorce. I will not subject either one of us to a public laundry-airing here. That would be beneath me. I do not complain about work- and my remarks about colleagues are limited to stories about comical incidents, their wonderful-osity, or their tendency to maul me. Where there is opportunity to cast aspersion, the identity of the relevant parties is withheld, to the point that the wrong people think I'm writing about them. Genuinely, I believe that to be explicitly nasty about others in these pages would be on a level with political bickering and name-calling on FB. I won't engage in it. Also, my mother reads this now, so I am not swearing as much as I might possibly otherwise.  Furthermore, I am not cataloguing all the anxieties she and I are sharing -from both sides- about her upcoming visit. Mum, we're both stressed, and we both know it. There. Said that much. Clearly not detailed. 

This also relates to the final reason for my quiet this last month. I haven't got much nice to say, and therefore should say nothing at all. Despite how much my appearance might belie it: this whole business is wretched. I HATE THIS. I am filled with such rage and self-pity that I can hardly bear sharing space with myself. I hate being weak and breathless and tired, and I hate the pains in my chest and the aches in my bones. I hatehatehate being bloated and ugly and bald, I hate seeing myself in the mirror, nasty and hairless and worm-like. I hate the stares in the streets and the giggles. I hate that I am losing my words, that I am so over-sensitive, that I am not as good in the classroom, that my mind is turning to mush. Lord, Lord, I miss my mind!! Being stuck here at Christmas makes me want to spit tacks; everyone else had such a great summer away and will have a great winter away, too, while I am here getting zapped and sapped. I hate people sneering that I am on 'weak drugs' because I am obviously not properly ill from these ones. I hate being asked how I am, and then having the speaker tell me how lucky I am because their neighbour/friend-of-a-friend is so much worse off than I am. I know that I am lucky! I know it! Do I need survivor guilt too? Really???
It makes my gut stew to send Annie home without me to look at universities. I hate being crippled by fear- that I'll have to stay here forever, that I'll never get another job, that I will lose the one I have, that I won't be able to pay for her schooling, that I'll never lead again, and very worst of all- that this is who I actually am.

Now, a girl gets a bit down sometimes, yes. But Holy Mother of God.

And you don't really want to read this, do you?

So, there you have it. That's why there hasn't been an update. I want to be positive, to keep things light, to entertain. However, these demons are voracious, and (in part, at least- it's been a pretty grim year all round) chemically induced. But if I am to be honest, and I strive to be, then this is 'how I am feeling' right now. And I can never say it all out there. Parts, yes. Thank you Alex and Gerald and Sarah and Leslie and Amy and Ann and Tonya and Michael. Not all, though. Even here, I am with-holding some of the venom. And if you are at all even a little bit like me, then reading this has made you feel worse. I don't want anybody to feel worse. I know that I am ungrateful. I know that nobody likes to hear complaints. I know that there really is no way of winning in any discussion with me right now. I know I shoot any positivity in the foot.

Sympathy sets my teeth on edge. Honestly. Please, please, believe this. As can be seen, I am feeling sorry enough for myself that I don't need anyone else's help doing it. Molly-coddling infuriates me. I do not need to be protected or looked after. I know this is a tall order. Folks are, in my experience, basically trying to be kind and helpful. The fine line that needs to be walked is the one between being helpful and making me think you don't believe I can cope. I am sorry, but it is not a line that I can negotiate for anyone else. I can advise, however. Offering me a lift home from the hospital is great. Telling me to come visit you in Malaysia or France or Lord knows- lovely. Passing me a serving of your jambalaya when you've got leftovers? Ah, Piper!! You beautiful woman. Picking me up sparkling water when you go shopping, or understanding when I have to cancel dinner last minute or telling me that you think I'm hilarious when I MC the assembly - things that are NORMAL, and that you would have done anyway for a friend. That's the best thing to do. Behave normally. When I slip in an awkward comment about tumours, I'm not looking for sympathy or help, I'm just including the other crazy part of my reality in the conversation, the way one would ex-husbands or an on-going issue with the electric company. I am not asking for comfort. I am being a smart ass. I am, actually- as much as the above paragraph evidences the contrary- coping. I am. I WILL. I will cope because that is what one does, NOT because I am strong or courageous, and I don't want to hear that I am. I'm not. I was once. Not just now. (In truth, is sometimes wonder if the cosmos decided that my thinking that I was made it decide to chip it all apart. I do not know, and it is- again- entirely possible that the cosmos doesn't actually have me at the centre of its planning.)
I do know, however: this is not who I once was. I am much diminished. Blame the meds, blame the cosmos, blame it on the rain, blame it on the boogie, no one ever is to blame... Just don't feel sorry for me. Even when I set the demons loose.

A long delay. So why write now? Because -as I am being honest- I do need to vent, and as I am writing here primarily for myself, I am becoming less cautious about upsetting others or bringing them down. Not a good sign. I admire and respect you, gentle readers- and would reallyreally like to know who has been reading this in Switzerland and Poland- but your presence in this moronologue is entirely voluntary, and has been since the beginning. You might not have been expecting the onslaught of negativity- neither was I when I started out here. (While we're being honest, I wasn't expecting a lot of things from chemo, the other most recent being that I'd also have no hair in my nose. Imagine how runny a person's nose is when there is no hair in it!! Too much information? Well, you are a volunteer here- stop reading if you want!)

And the rant is cathartic. That is why I now do this. If you are still hanging on, and still interested in knowing, then I shall take a deeeeeeep breath, and tell you what's been happening over the last month. Maybe you should take a deep breath, too. Please don't feel yelled at. It's the cosmos I really have the issue with. And a couple of back-rubbers.

Since the last post, in addition to my brain turning to mush and my equilibrium taking a big shift off-centre, I've had another round of chemo and appointment with the oncologist. I've also been trying to make some plans and keep the planets in their orbit. I mention both in that sentence together, because each has proven to be as impossible and out of the scope of my ability as the other.

The oncologist continues to be pleased by my progress. The tumour is still shrinking, and she needs to give the breast a right good going-over even to feel it any more. Encouraging. There will still be an operation, and she still will not commit to a date. The next MRI is scheduled for Monday the 14th (the day we Canucks will be celebrating Canadian Thanksgiving- woo hoo!) and the follow-up appointment with the surgeon is on Thursday the 17th. I will be told whether the operation will happen the next week or not. The oncologist is pretty confident that it will be. Her vague, this-would-be-a-plan-if-I-could-commit-to-a-plan calculations have the follow-up chemotherapy starting after the operation, and finishing up one year later. (Yes, this does mean that I might be wise to stay in Korea. The possibility of looking for another job is adding to my anxiety base.) She said that there is a 20 % possibility that I will not need follow-up chemo afterwards, but that basically I would. (Yes, I know) She then had a quick look at the calendar. My radiation treatments are, if all goes ahead according to her this-would-be-a-plan-if-I-could-commit-to-a-plan, going to commence on December 12th. Yes, sweet reader, that is the day before the start of the Christmas break. My great fear has come to pass. I will be spending another long holiday here. Bugger. In case I did not make my feelings on this clear, let me do so again:

BUGGER.

Prominent symptoms during this round include:

Ah, you already know that. Depression, rage, runny nose. YAWN.

In unrelated news, Annie will be going to Mongolia for Discovery Week. Brilliant!! Her school play is in a fortnight. Brilliant!! We both will be glad to be on the other side of that, I think. She will be back in the UK for Christmas, so if she rolls up unannounced on any of your doorsteps, then please just pass her a pillow and a quiet corner to crash in.