Counting down the days

There aren't any entertaining stories to share here today, just a few musings and moments of clarity that have been keeping me diverted. Completely diverted, I note, as the pile of work left unfinished stares balefully at me. I will be glad to get my attention span back once this is all over. And to rid my mouth of the taste of porcelain.

The countdown is upon me: yesterday was my penultimate chemo treatment. Despite how open I have been about the course of the follow-up, and how often I have said 'Yes, a FULL year of hospital trips', there are a few people (most of whom are highly unlikely to be reading this, but I shall still tread carefully) who are shocked that I am still having chemo. I have told two of these people this no fewer than four times, and still am made to feel like I am defrauding them somehow by not being finished yet. 'You're STILL having treatment?? When will this stop??'

P: We've been through this.

And to be fair, it doesn't interfere TOO much with the course of the day. I am only ever away from work for a few hours. I can't attest to the quality of the brain I bring back from hospital with me, but I am always at school afterwards.

So, as the plan stands, I have one more treatment- October 29th- and then go through the gamut of tests again during the last week of November (yes, the week of American Thanksgiving and a few days before my birthday) to make sure that all the nasties are gone.

How do I feel about all this? I am so glad you asked.

I feel odd. As I walk into the hospital, I find myself focusing keenly again on the people around me. The nurses and receptionists- all of whom startle other patients with their noisy exclamations when they see me, which is very touching- have become landmarks of a sort. I cannot say that I won't miss them, and find myself wondering how to say Thank You in a way that is adequate and appropriate. They were steady and efficient when I was bumping into hospital walls, baffled by processes and procedures and the impossibility of having cancer in Korea.
The oncologist and her Frau Farbissina bellowing and sticky-notes of useful advice and rough pinching of my breast and glands: I won't miss the pinching, but the year has been punctuated by her. And you all know how keen I am on good punctuation.

I also note that when I see other people waiting there, all grimly resigned and tired, I am better at reading them, and getting a sense for where they are in their treatment. I encountered someone trudging up the stairs yesterday, exactly as I was doing a year ago, determined and frustrated by the elevators (and really, who uses those things to come up two floors? A tiny metal box filled with sick people, hacking and wheezing and spitting on the floor- I ask you!) and shared a knowing look with her as I stepped out of her way.

And I am a little taken aback by how emotional I get by it, the closing of this chapter. Not because I will miss it- that would just be weird and sick. But perhaps because it has been such an integral part of the narrative of the Korean years, or because it all came cheek-by-jowl with the disaster of my marriage to Rich, or maybe because as it all comes to an end, so much else seems to be as well.

More of that another time.

Yesterday's treatment ended beautifully, with a text from my friend, Marieke, who also happened to have an appointment at the hospital in the morning. Just as I was getting the last drops of the magic juice, the phone pinged with an invitation to grab a taxi back with her. We arranged to meet across the road at Macdonalds, where, it being lunchtime, we shared a few guilty nuggets and fries. As we sat chatting, a large group of very small children came down the stairs, accompanied by several young women in matching pinnies. They lined up against the wall with one of the guardians, wide-eyed and serious, and carefully obeying her instructions to be still and wait while the other children were fetched down in stages. One boy darted back towards the stairs, to be stopped with a gently firm word. He rejoined his companions, threw a cheeky grin at the young woman, and skipped out of line again. Marieke and I laughed at him, catching the attention of the teacher and one of the little girls with her, who immediately bowed deeply to us. The teacher tried to get the others to greet us as well, but the other adults were now joining her with several other children and demanding her attention.

Marieke and I packed away our rubbish and left just after the group did, catching them up on the sidewalk outside. The little girl who had bowed earlier stopped in her tracks when she saw us, and the teachers noticed us approaching. They immediately halted the whole group- there must have been fifteen children, all of them about three years old- and had them greet us. Tiny, tiny, beautiful children, deep bows, 'Anyang-haseos' and shy smiles. We were enchanted.

In the taxi on the way back, we talked about the treatment coming to an end, and Marieke asked how I plan to commemorate it. I have been giving this some thought.

On Wednesday, October 29th, the evening of my last treatment, I would like to get my mates here together with a few cans and some wood. A friend has shown me an off-the-beaten-path place where we can start a fire without drawing too much attention to ourselves. I want us to cycle or walk out there, climb the fence (yes, it is probably illegal- don't tell the authorities or say you read it here) and burn all the cancer-related paraphernalia I have acquired over the last year- appointment cards and advice sheets and hospital bras- and send the smoke up to the skies with a toast to the end of it all. If you find yourself on the invitation list for this, please tuck a few pieces of wood into a rucksack and come with us. All a bit ritualistic. All a bit important.

And as we do this, we will also drink to the memory of some of the less lucky ones, and send love up with the smoke:

My Aunt Janet, whose fingernails used to fascinate me.
My mother's best friend, Colleen, who showed me how to put a lobster to sleep.
Kim Monroe, whose laugh I can still hear twenty years later, and in whose honour the cosmos winked.
My childhood friend, Dwayne White, with his laughing eyes.
Janet Grasse Parks, whose quiet friendship and microwave popcorn made the last years of my degree bearable.

There will be others. We will all have someone's memory to drink to.