The final operation? Good Lord, let's hope so.

Preparing for the latest bout of surgery has seemed rather pale by comparison with my first session. There was no last-minute drama over blood, for example, and no need to drink gallons of nasty gelatinous drain cleaner. I am grateful for this.

Yesterday, in fact, I had a pretty jolly morning. Tamarisk and Shelley met up with me in town to get some passport photos and attempt to get a driver's license- the photos were definitely the funnier part of the process. The night before, we had gone to dinner at my favourite pizza place in Songdo and then toddled along to try and find the photo place. We were sent instructions on which block and floor to look in from a friend, but the only thing there that showed promise was a Catholic pharmacy, closed for the evening. Now, we none of us knew what set this pharmacy apart as being Catholic, but we accept that we are strangers in a strange land, so took a picture of the sign and made a few inappropriate jokes before deciding to come back the next day. It struck no one as strange that passport photos might be taken in a pharmacy- we'd all been to the UK, where a photo booth can pop up in the back of a Volkswagon if someone decides that would be a nice spot for it; certainly nothing unusual about finding one in a chemists'.

The next morning, we reconvened at the bank, where I finally applied for a credit card (My UK one having been cancelled in a very snotty email from Lloyds. Apparently, my borrowing business is not welcome with them. I am not a bad credit bet, I point out. I am just a bad credit customer, because I so seldom use credit. The card I had was used once in the previous ten years and paid off before the bill had chance to arrive. That sort of nonsense simply isn't tolerated! Problem is, it is impossible to rent a car if one doesn't have a card.)

Banking business dispensed with, we headed back towards our best lead for passport photos: the pharmacy. The conversation there went something like this:

T: Can we get some passport photos taken?
Pharmacist: What?
T: Passport photos?
Ph: (Baffled) You wanting...?
T: Passport photos. Do you do them?
Ph: This is a pharmacy.

Because of course, the signs everywhere with the words 'Catholic Pharmacy' weren't enough of a give away of that fact, especially not when coupled with the rows of medicines and lotions and potions and bandages all around him. Nope. It was quite clearly a photography studio. Sigh.

He pointed us in the direction of the second floor, where low-and-behold, there was photographer's, all nicely set up to take several snaps of the now helplessly giggling waygu woman. The patient proprietor finally presented us with the best he could manage, a shot in which I look like something one might find on a toadstool at the bottom of the garden, leaf-cap perched jauntily askew, pink-cheeked and purse-lipped with restrained embarrassed laughter. Two bad foreigner impressions in five minutes. Not yet my record, but definitely heading for it.

Remind me to tell you the story of the hunt for the pig and the American Automobile Association. It ends similarly.

Off we set for the licensing agency. I've been meaning to get a license since I arrived, but there really hasn't been a need for it, public transport being as efficient as it is here. However, the new job means that I will need to be much more mobile than I currently am, and I am thinking about getting a car in the summer. The desk at the agency has clearly labelled sections for foreigners- in English- but none of the tellers speak it. Less helpful than one might imagine. The woman we spoke to took my documentation, though, and fine-tooth-combed it. I was puzzled about why she was paying so much attention to the stamps in my passport, and why she kept cross-referencing them to my UK license, which was required for the application. Eventually, she handed the whole pile back to Tamarisk- not me, interestingly- and asked if she had a Korean friend. Tamarisk phoned Young, and passed the phone over to the teller.

It wasn't immediately apparent what the problem was, but it was clearly complicated. The phone eventually got passed back, and the translation of the explanation took nearly as long. Turns out that some countries require written confirmation from their respective embassies that the license is genuine- and that they were not happy that the license date was AFTER the date I had first arrived in Korea. Tamarisk pointed out that it would be pointless to try and explain that I had renewed it from here and had it posted to me without a Korean speaker on hand, and that I needed the confirmation from the embassy anyway, so we left.

Lord, why are you getting all this? You signed in to hear about the surgery, didn't you? Sorry. Got distracted. Squirrels, and all that.

Kim and Yorleny drove me to the hospital. I was better prepared this time, having packed significantly less than my previous stay. I felt bad for dragging them along- a taxi would have sufficed, and would have spared them all the hassle of following me around the usual carousel of mangled directions and misspoken instructions that led us to four different tellers before we finally landed on the one who would admit me. At one point, one girl was trying to tell me that I wasn't actually scheduled until Thursday. There was very nearly a raised voice at this. Mine, not hers.

I had asked for a semi-private room this time. I knew that I would not be staying as long, and since I did not need to worry about Mum's comfort, a room to myself seemed an unnecessary extravagance. I had been warned about the likely outcome of this: I would find myself sharing a room with a Korean who would be visited at all hours by a steady stream of people who would talk loudly and keep the television remote. It was exactly what happened. The ajima who occupies the other half of the room is, even as I type, shouting deafly to her daughter over the noise of the Korean soap operas. She is, however, rather chirpy, and sweetly tired to engage me in conversation this morning before my operation. She failed. Bless.

The prep started last night. There were several familiar faces appearing along the way- one of the tellers at check-in, for example, shouted my name as soon as I popped round her desk. 'You know me?' I asked. 'Pharmacy!' she exclaimed. It was indeed the girl who had given me my little blue bombers several times over the course of the summer.  When I arrived on the ward, there was another shout: 'Patree-cha! You are here!' It was the young man who had talked me through the lumpectomy. Guess I was more memorable than I had thought. Shouldn't be surprised- they can't get too many bald Western women through these doors.

I located my room- the bed closest to the television was obviously already occupied- and issued with the standard pyjamas. The nurse arrived and began awkwardly explaining that I needed to put the pyjamas on. She issued the first of what has been a constant series of apologies for her perfectly adequate English. In fact, she gets so worked up about getting it wrong, that she's actually making it worse. I have no way of explaining to her that her English is so much better than my Korean, and that I ought to be so ashamed of my lack of Korean that she can be as bad at English as she likes and I'll find a way to figure out what she's saying. I ought at least to let her know that I've been teaching Korean students long enough that I am pretty adept at understanding gestures and waves, and have a fairly extensive line of synonyms, so if she hits something close to what she wants to say, I'll probably get the jist. Any idea how to tell her that?

I waved Kim and Yorleny off, and made ready for the evening. A ten year-old bespectacled boy came along and explained the surgery. He said that there would be less tissue removed this time, and that they would check the sample in the operating room first to try and make sure they were taking enough away. He also said that if there was no need to put in a drain, I might be able to go home on Thursday. Fab.

After wandering downstairs for food, I settled in to sleep, headset on to counter my neighbour's snores. It was fitful at first, but a late-night text from a someone I was badly missing calmed things right down. Slept the sleep of the virtuous for the rest of the night, only interrupted by the occasional blood pressure and temperature checks.

Let's fast forward a bit, shall we?

I had been provided with an easy-access gown for the operating theatre. The surgeon himself had popped by to say hello and finalised a few details. The bed had arrived with the spotty teenager tasked with taking me down. I had been to the bathroom and had the final checks, and removed my socks only to have the attending senior nurse tut irritably at the sight of my silver toenails. My lovely pedicure briskly removed, I was ready to roll. As usual, every new face asked me my name and what part of my body was going to be operated on. Good policy. The spotty teen's questions were saved for the elevator: 'Do you have a protector?' I found the question sobering. I knew what he was asking, and I knew what I wanted the answer to be. I did not, however, have a protector. I had asked my friend from work, Mirella, to come in and be on hand after the operation, though, so I said yes. I knew that was the right answer as far as he was concerned.

Upon my arrival at the operating rooms, I was put through a few final questions by a chirpy nurse. She then told me I would have to wait for about twenty minutes; bizarrely, she then exclaimed: 'Oh! I am so nervous!' and ran off. 'I'm the one who's supposed to be nervous!' I shouted after her. I heard her giggling as she scampered away.

Eventually, I was retrieved and rolled again into the bright green room, once more awash with swirling masked figures. The preparation process was much extended this time. There was another blood pressure check and my gown was adjusted, monitors attached- including something that was pressed so hard into my head that it must have been checking brain waves. The young man attending me leaned over and asked, 'Do you speak English?'

'Yes,' I assured him. 'I speak English very well.' This received a laugh.

There was something added to my iv tube that made the world shift a little, but did not put me to sleep. A mask was placed over my face, and I was told to breathe deeply. More adjustments, more straps and monitors and masks appearing over me. The last thing I remember saying was 'Is this a bad time to say I need to use the bathroom again?'

And then my name was being shouted in my ear. It was the recovery room.

Mirella was waiting for me when I was rolled back into the room and shifted back into the regular bed. Fresh pyjamas and another one of those fabulous cotton bras were provided and antibiotics added to my iv. I discovered that there was a drainage tube, which meant that the surgeon had removed more tissue than he thought he would need to. This also meant that I would probably have to stay in for a few days. The nurse let me know that I was not allowed to drink anything for four hours and that the doctor would make his rounds in three. A few text messages were sent to concerned parties, and Mirella told me to go back to sleep. There was no argument from me.

When the surgeon came back on his rounds, he looked tired enough that I thought he had bad news. He told me that he'd had to remove more tissue than expected, as I had thought, but that he was pretty satisfied that he'd got all the nasty cells. I would need to wait about a week to find out for certain, though. In the meantime, I would be allowed to go home tomorrow (HUZZAH!!), but would need to return Monday for him to remove the drainage tube.

So- fingers crossed. Will the girl be able to draw the line under the horrid old 2013 and leave it there? Will she be able to face the new year with heart, soul and body relatively intact? Will she have any reason to continue writing this?

Do you want to know how to build suspense in your writing?

I'll tell you later.

Where are we now?

The weeks since the last up-beat post have been all over the shop. The surgeon back at Inha scheduled my next operation with barely a flicker of 'I told you so' on his face. I then had to start wrestling with the insurers, as the lady at the international clinic told me that I needed to do the paperwork myself for this operation, since I had sought a second opinion. This involved another trek to the hospital in Seoul where I had obtained said second opinion to ask the (previously nice and now rather cross) doctor to write down his recommendation, instead of just give it to me verbally. I am not entirely sure why he was so cranky, but I clearly annoyed him. I was then awaiting authorisation up until halfway through Thursday afternoon, and the operation is the day after tomorrow. This road feels familiar. Have I mentioned that I miss socialised medicine? Yet today?

I ought to spend some time wrapping up the last few incidents from the first hospital stay, not because they have any particular bearing on what will happen later this week, but because I said I would, and they make good stories. In all honesty, however, it all seems so long ago now. Since then, I've gone back to work, got something that feels like a promotion and signed on for another year in Korea, met a few new friends, said a sad good-bye to one who had become rather important, and now am here at home twiddling my thumbs while I wait to check in tomorrow night back at Inha. Annie has been waved off to the UK, and in typical her-fashion, has barely communicated since her arrival. Well, that's not completely true- she did forward a message from an amateur dramatic society here in Seoul. They want her to be their stage designer for their up-coming Midsummer Night's Dream. She'll have people following her orders and everything. We are, obviously, very excited.

I do not know how long I will be in hospital. I don't think it will be terribly long- if I could walk out two days after the hysterectomy, then there is no reason to imagine that I'll still be there over the weekend this time. Then I'll spend a quiet few days recovering here at the flat, have another Herceptin treatment on Boxing Day, and then fly out to Bali for the New Year. Yes, on my own. Yes, am a tad disgruntled, but know there's nowt to be done. I don't care how interesting it all looks in the movies to be a lone female traveler- it seldom is. One does not get positive stares from passers-by when one goes out to eat, and the hunt for the perfect martini just seems pathetic when one is on one's own. However, I have booked my driver, and he knows that I'm after massages and reiki and healing and shopping and the hunting down of curios. It will be fine, fun and relaxing. And to be frank, it beats SPOTS off being locked in a cabin in the woods during a snowstorm in Upstate New York, which is, of course, how I spent the whole winter break last year. Shudder. On reflection, flying solo doesn't look all that bad by comparison.

As a brief aside, while we're in a reflective kind of mood: holy cow. This year, eh? Here's hoping for a little bit more yin with 2014's yan. It might all make for interesting stories, but yikes. It would be nice not to have the story-fodder, certainly. Furthermore, I am not always sure that the stories should be told, however interesting they are. They either feel cheapened (voices in the night) or overly significant (dance practice). All I'd wanted to do was to avoid having to repeat everything twenty times when I started this up. I have ended up doing so anyway, so where's the value?

Hmph. Haven't been this chippy since stopping chemo.

Really, though, there are a few events that I still recall vividly enough from the hospital that I should write down before I forget them. I did keep a running list that I thought I could cover, but most of the jolliest have already been chronicled here- you know, the funky liquid that they made me take TWICE, for example, and coming very close to actually shouting at the discovery that they'd prepped me for surgery without having my blood type in store. Also, mum's presence, the vigilant voice in the middle of the night, the laughing nurses- I've dealt with those. Other things I have mentioned, but without attaching their entire significance- a girl likes to keep a few nice things to herself- and a few nasty details ought never be disclosed. I haven't yet mentioned the gaggle of students who would follow the doctors in every morning, and the cheeky thumbs-up one threw me as he toddled out the door the day I was discharged. Just hadn't got to it.

I could tell about having the drainage tubes removed, but that does skate pretty close to a line. Suffice to say that the nurse was exactly correct when describing it. It did not 'hurt' to have them whipped out, but it was most definitely 'weird'. I observe again the lack of candy-coating one receives from medical professionals. If it is going to hurt, they tell you so. If it is going to be 'weird', then in an English as a Second Language environment, that is clearly a word that they have learned specifically to describe the procedure; ergo, it is accurate. It might be weird enough to make one yelp out loud from shock, but it is ONLY weird. It is in no way painful.

I guess my last conversation with the surgeon on the morning that I checked out could register as weird, too. He came in, was his usual wrong-footed self at my enthusiastic 'Good morning', and then proceeded to start a final examination of my incision. This involved having me unfasten the (man ALIVE: fabulously comfortable and why don't they make them all like this??) hospital issue bra, and peeling back the layers of bandages and padding that covered the breast. The incision is, as I am sure I have already described, very tidy. He did a very good job. I told him so.

P: That looks like a very good job.
S: (Examining the wound) Thank you.
P: I like it.
S: (Still looking closely) I like it, too.

Now, I have not been able to capture here the subtle shift in his tone. However, have you ever started out in a conversation and suddenly got the feeling that you were caught in an altogether different one? That was the feeling I had- like we were no longer saying quite the same thing. I cannot tell you how high my eyebrows were raised at this, but then the moment was gone. When my mother came in a few seconds later, I was still laughing.

M: What's so funny? Why are you blushing?
P: I have nothing to say.

I choose these tales carefully, you know. I don't mind sharing most of them- I don't have many secrets- or boundaries, it could be argued- but a few get too close to the edge of appropriateness, and this is a public forum. I will not lie, but I also will not tell everything. I shall not reveal everything that the gynecologist told me last week, for example, because YIKES.  Further, there are some events that have been too precious to expose. Those stories would have possibly been entertaining, but... well, the people mattered too much to put them on display. I also try not to reveal any individual's idiocy or to cause embarrassment; I don't name many names, or rattle the bones in anyone else's closet. If you were to peel back the layers of the stories, you would not have to look too hard to identify the other parties, but I hope that I have never been unkind to anyone else here, or to prompt ridicule. And this story? Well, I am pretty confident that my surgeon will never read this. Pretty confident. And it was just a change in tone. That is all.

There will come a day when I look at this chronicle and realise that I sounded ridiculously pompous- or pompously ridiculous. What is really interesting, though, is that even now, it does not seem like the cancer has been the most important thing to happen this year. Don't think that I am being dismissive or anything, please. It has been pretty significant. But I did not know that I was sick. It took the treatment to make me ill. The depression (which apparently, no one knew I had- they just thought I was being a bit sensitive) the sleeplessness, the pain, the hair loss- all those things were brought on by the cure, not the cancer. And as my friend Deb told me in the early days it would be, it was all tolerable. Because what are you going to do, anyway? Hide under the duvet? There are meals to be got and shopping to be done and wine to be poured and laughter to be instigated and mischief to be made. (Don't tell Connie about the wine) Cancer hasn't changed any of that. It just hasn't been the worst thing to happen. Interesting how cancer has paled in comparison to other things. And in some cases, been less painful.

Has it changed anything? I don't entirely know. Those of you who know me- what is different now? I'm think I'm still me- just missing a few parts. I do not appear to be any less of a smart ass, nor less bloody-minded. I still get nervous climbing on an unfamiliar bus and tense in a crowd. I am, perhaps, less tolerant of unsatisfactory situations- life really is too short to be anything less than spectacular. But that is no great revelation, and I certainly don't feel like I've had an epiphany to get there.

I've been taken aback occasionally by connections. Things like discovering that a former colleague was the daughter of the professor at uni who let me in on the teacher training course at the UEA when I had no business being there- you know, apart from the natural flair and grace in the classroom. Or running in to Rich again years after we didn't date in college. Completely mis-read that one, of course, but hear it out: after he left, I spent months trying to figure out what on earth I was doing here. Why Korea? Of all the places in the world to find oneself, how did it end up being Korea??

But here you are- my treatment is, with the exception of a little sweeping up of odd nasties and the radiation/hormone follow-up, done. I went into the hospital at nine o'clock on Tuesday, May 7th, and by the time I left, I'd had blood tests, and ultrasound, two examinations, a mammogram, a biopsy, and a pretty good idea that it was cancer. Two days later it was confirmed, and within a month I'd had MRIs and heart function tests and all sorts of other things involving bells and whistles and smoke and mirrors, as well as starting chemotherapy. I have now had two complete courses of chemo, and two operations with another one waiting in the wings. As Dad pointed out to my mother, six months later somewhere else, I might still be waiting.