Surgery Date: October 28th

Someday, when I am long gone, someone will be idly flipping through the hard drive of this laptop and discover a piece of writing entitled ‘October 17th’. Opening it will reveal about three closely-typed pages that begin the story of last Thursday’s appointment with the surgeon and oncologist to decide a date for the operation. The story will contain accounts of spilled brown rice tea and parting-saddened hospital receptionists, and an incongruous episode with the dishy deputy ambassador at dance practice (Wholly unrelated story, but nicely described). It will be noted with mild puzzlement that the story never reached light of day. Well, I just never quite got round to finishing it. It’s been a busy old week.

We’ll back-track on a few points here, though, just so we’re up to speed generally:

A week ago Monday, I was back at the hospital for the follow-up MRI and ultrasound. Describing these in any great detail would be redundant, because with minor exceptions, they followed the pattern of the previous ones: metallic burrito (In addition to the Sound of Silence, this time the playlist of the damned included Wind Beneath my Wings, and She’s a Maniac. No lie.) and a lively chat with the ultrasound techie, wherein I discovered that she wants desperately to travel, especially to Italy, and is terribly sad that her English is not better. Again, I would say that she does pretty well with it.

This time, I did have a far stronger reaction to whatever juice I was given before the MRI, which was exciting. I remember having been a bit disorientated by the last two- well, it’s an unsettling thing, hanging upside down for an hour and a half with all the bells and whistles and Simons and Garfunkles kicking off- but this time when I was helped from the platform, it felt like I was on a space walk. This feeling lasted for about two hours, which means that I was back at work and attempting to carry out lucid conversation long before I probably ought. I am not entirely sure how I got back to school, but suspect that there was a taxi involved, because that’s what always happens, and know that I saw the principal and my friend Kim in the school office when I got back, because I always stop to check in when I get back. The only thing I remember saying is something like ‘I see four of you’ to the principal; perhaps not a wise admission when one is about to head back into lessons. I know that I went to lunch, and I have a vague recollection of the woman sitting across from me. All else is surround by a cotton candy haze. Honestly, I don’t know what else happened up until the faculty meeting after school, and I’m still just peeling back the layers of what may have transpired there. I think I volunteered for something, but am still not entirely clear on what. Someone will tell me, I’m sure.

Other than that, getting ready for Mum and Bert’s arrival, Parent-Teacher conferences, and a new, special treat in the form of an ingrown toenail (looking around for a cosmic imp to wave my fist at), the next few days felt busy but uneventful. On Wednesday night, I did happen upon a news article about a new radiation treatment being explored in the States, wherein one gets a large dose during surgery itself, rather than thirty small doses six weeks later. The treatment is as effective as the regular treatment, but does less damage to the heart and lungs (which was the point when I first discovered that my heart and lungs could be damaged by the radiation treatment, incidentally) and means that the patient doesn’t have to travel back and forth to Inha University Hospital every day by bus for six weeks over the Christmas holidays, ruining any plans she had for exotic getaways. Seriously, that’s what the article said.

I hunted up a few more pieces of information- there was plenty online- and bookmarked them.

Thursday morning rolled up. Because of conferences, I had no lessons to plan, so once I had printed out the articles from the night before, I did not hover around school for long before getting a cab to the hospital. Once I arrived there, I started to absentmindedly pick away at the blog update, but got distracted by the story of dance practice and the dishy deputy ambassador, so never quite reached the end of it, and soon was back in the oncology department for my meeting with Dr Lee. She was in high spirits, as usual. The tumour had shrunk once more- not as dramatically as the first time, but it was still small enough for her to happily confirm that we were ready to remove the remnants. I’d asked her for some copies of test results to send to my insurers, and she bustled her receptionist around to locate them. Then with a jolly wave, she was ready to pack me off to speak to the secretary about the admission date and pre-op tests. Before she shoved me out the door, I tried to distract her attention with a question about the intra-operative radiation treatment and was told, in essence: ‘Thank you very much, you silly woman, but we know what we’re doing and we are actually pretty good at treating cancer- so there.’

Or something like that. She may have suggested that there was nothing to worry about with my heart and lungs. It does irk me somewhat that I am discovering the potential for damage at this stage of the game. Ah, well.

From there, I was handed off to the lovely receptionist who giggles madly every time I show up, to pick up the requested test results. While we waited, she valiantly tried out every English word she had on me, including asking whether I was married. She was a bit baffled by my response, but to be fair, the whole thing has been pretty baffling to me, too. However, we soon landed on the safer territory of children and finished up on easy terms. I will organise a thank you card for this lady. I think I have caused her some undue stress over the last five months.

She sent me off to the surgeon, who would be the one to confirm the date of the operation. Once again I found myself sitting across from Dr Cho, the gentleman who had started the whole bizarre ball rolling way back in May. Let me just briefly re-cap some of the highlights of my encounters with Dr Cho:

- he thought I was Russian (though apparently, I have excellent English)
- he told me that I ‘could’ have cancer
- he told me that I DID have cancer, and wondered why I was surprised by it
- he told me that I would be made desperately ill by the chemo
- he located my long-term prognosis on a website

I must tell the truth: I really thought that there were more highlights. Maybe it’s just that these ones were pretty significant.

He started the conversation:

Dr: How are you feeling?
P: Pretty well, thank you.
Dr: Have you been badly ill from chemo?
P: No, it hasn’t been too bad. Rather depressed, but that’s been the worst part.
Dr: (Looking pointedly at my head and rubbing his own) Well, you look great.
P: Hey, thanks! So do you!

So we started chatting about the surgery. His manner was casual, almost laid-back. He opened with a stunner:

Dr: So, how do you feel about the hysterectomy?
P: Eeerrrrr, what do you mean?
Dr: Well, do you want it?
P: (full five seconds of stunned silence) You mean I get a CHOICE?? I’ve been told that I need it!!
Dr: Well, it’s a big step...
P: ARGH!!!

I eventually got him round to the point that both the gynecologist and the oncologist have told me that a total hysterectomy is recommended: the gynie because of the fibroid that ‘might’ be cancerous, and the oncologist because the breast cancer is hormone related. In short, whether I want one or not, I think I probably ought to have it. Cleared that up.

Next, he opened up my test results from the Monday. We had another few hilariously awkward moments, because it turns out that he identifies these results from... well... something other than my name. He usually identifies my bosoms from, in fact, the pictures of my bosoms. Like fingerprints, every set is unique. I had not realised exactly how accurate this explanation was until I watched him in this appointment. He paid little attention to the names at the top of the screen (Just as well, because apparently my name sounds Russian) and instead looked at the size and shape of... well, you get the idea. He may even have also been trying to locate mine from the density of the tumour this time. This, pleasantly, did not help him overmuch, because it was so hard to see what remained of the tumour- it meant that he took far longer trying to determine which slides were mine than seemed necessary, and spent a comical couple of minutes flipping between test results and shooting glances over at my chest to try and - literally- size up which ones they were likely to be. When he finally tracked them down, he was pleased to say that the tumour was very nearly gone, and that the operation was still necessary, but just to make sure that all remnants were removed. Nice. Guess this means I get to keep the nipple after all.

He then asked me when I wanted the operation. This was as much a surprise as the debate over the hysterectomy, because in my previous surgical experiences, I have generally had to fit my schedule around that of the healthcare professionals and had no say in the timing of it whatsoever. I tentatively suggested Monday the 28th, knowing that it would give Mum and Bert a week to get somewhat settled before being hit by all the hospital shenanigans. He was happy enough with that, and quickly tasked his secretary with finding out if it also worked for the gynecologist. A quick phone call later, it was in the diary. I was told that I would need to speak to the gynie about the hysterectomy briefly, and then come back.

Speaking with anyone involves another trip to the payment desk first. I trotted back to the International Clinic for this, then returned to the Cancer Centre to meet the man who had told me that there was no point in keeping my uterus because it was ‘only for making babies and (I) wouldn’t be doing any more of that anyway, would (I)?’ Jerk.

It was definitely easier to talk to this man across the desk than from the examination chair. However, we did need to take a few minutes to re-establish that he would be removing the ovaries as well as the uterus (Again, sigh of despair that none of my doctors ever seem to talk to each other) and to discuss whether there would be any hormone replacement afterwards, as I am very concerned that the hysterectomy will change me into a seething mass of super-charged vitriol. I only say this because it is what post-natal depression did to me. There will NOT be hormone replacement, since the cancer was caused by hormones in the first place. (Yes, I know- DUH!) I also had a few questions about recovery time.

P: How long do you think I will be in hospital?
G: If you were just having a hysterectomy, I would say maybe three days. I would say that you could return to normal activities by (consulting calendar) maybe November the 7th.

{A favoured friend cheekily asked me, when I was recounting the story later, whether I knew what the doctor meant by ‘normal activities’. “Yes, of course,” I replied. “Macrame and needlepoint. What else might he have been talking about?”

Funny how quickly ‘macrame and needlepoint’ have become a euphemism...}

When I returned to the surgeon a few moments later to finalise arrangements, I mentioned to him the radiation treatment that I’d spotted the night before. I was a bit more reassured to learn that he knew exactly what I was talking about and thought it sounded like a good thing to explore, but unfortunately they weren’t able to at this time because of lack of necessary equipment. Well, that’s okay, then. I asked again about the expected hospital stay and recovery time. He indicated that a great deal  would depend on me: how I was feeling, and what my own personality was like. Hmm...

When I was five years old, shortly after the birth of my brother John, I had appendicitis. It was mid-December, 1973, and Mum had not long since returned from hospital. She tells me that she had heard me crying in my bed before realising that it wasn’t a nightmare and come in to find me doubled up, reluctant to wake her because she’d just had a baby and was really tired. Yes, I was adorable. The stories about my stay in hospital still make the rounds. I apparently was not happy when she tried to make me relinquish the doll that was given to me by the group donating toys to children stuck in hospital over the holiday, for example. I also told another patient- a grown man- that he was going to Hell because he smoked cigarettes. I was five. Please.

I do not remember any of those things. I do remember going to the doctor in the middle of the night with terrible pain, I remember being examined, I remember my dad being very upset, I remember my hair being washed and the mask they put over my face in the operating room and waking up later in the recovery room, and my babysitter bringing me a Sherlock Hemlock finger puppet. I also remember getting up one morning, dressing myself in a red tartan skirt and wooly tights and black shoes, and walking down to the ward desk, where I looked up, up, up at Doctor Large and said, ‘I am going home today.’ I remember him looking waaaaay down at me (Doctor Large was, indeed, large) and saying ‘Well, I guess we had better call someone to come and get you, then.’ He picked up the phone, dialed a few numbers (This was in the days when one actually dialed a phone) and said to the person on the other line, ‘I have a young lady here who informs me that she is going home today.’

I guess the bossiness appeared early.

But I was adorable.

So when the doctor tells me that the length of my stay depends on me, I am hoping that I’ll be in a position to put on a red tartan skirt and wooly tights and black shoes within about a week. It would be much nicer to recover at home than in a nasty hospital ward, especially with my mum cooking back at the flat.

So, once the last instructions were issued about when to check in and how, I was released on my own reconnaissance and headed once more for school. En route, I texted anyone with a vested interest to tell them the official date for the surgery, and then emailed my mother and Bert to let them know that we’d got the timing for the visit right. I also resolved to buy a large marker, and draw circles and arrows on myself, identifying all the various parts of my body that require removal.

The sense of relief at having the next stage of treatment finally booked has been enormous.

I’ll start on news about the family unit visit another time. Maybe I’ll even pick up the tale of the dishy deputy ambassador at dance practice. Really, there's nothing untoward in it, and it’s a pretty good story.