Work. Do you love it? Do you hate it? No matter who you are, unless you’re ill and incapacitated, you’re engaged in work of some kind: paid work, unpaid work, duties to families or loved ones, duties to volunteer or community organisations. Plenty of retired people still work, they have something organised that they do with their time. Just about everyone has an occupation; they are “occupied”, gainfully or not. At least, it seems like everyone does when you’re the one who is NOT gainfully occupied.
Lots of people complain about work. I understand that. Work can take you away from the people you love, make you work long hours, force you to take it home with you, eat into your family and leisure time, exhaust you, frustrate you, bait you, bore you, intimidate you and plain outrage you. I know people suffer from those sorts of feelings about their work. I know that happens, but I’m one of the lucky ones – I love my work. I’m not being glib – I truly love it. I chose it late, and that might be an advantage. I went back to uni to retrain, once I’d spent my 20s in another field that taught me a lot about my capabilities and strengths, but didn’t feed the need I had to do something that to me was “worthwhile”, something that I felt mattered. I found it alright – I love teaching. I love it because I love learning. Because the world is amazing, and the tools we use to negotiate our way through life are incredible and worthwhile gaining. And that there are no limits to what you can be interested in – none whatever, except for those you create for yourself. And everyone can learn. I’m starting to sound downright evangelical, and if you don’t teach or you didn’t like school, this probably bores you to tears (and it probably still does even if you do teach). But you get the point, I love the work I do for a salary, and even if I won Tattslotto and didn’t have to work I would still want to do it. I would do it for free (and sometimes do). I won’t make any jokes about teacher salaries, there are enough of them already.
I am close to and aware of a large number of 4 and 5-year olds who started school over the past couple of weeks. In particular I know of two of those youngsters who were so excited to start school they were completely beside themselves. I know one had read the five books he took home on the first day of school three times over before dinner time (I might have got that wrong, but I was being conservative). These kids have started what we all participate in – a lifetime of being meaningfully engaged during certain hours of the day. It starts with learning at school, and then develops into paid work, some people work at home raising children (on-the-job training only), and even retirement can evolve into volunteer work, babysitting grandchildren or being part of community groups.
All these things give you a sense of belonging, a feeling of having relevance. Work gives us the chance to use our skills, be good at something and be recognised for it, develop new skills, and make an impact on our environment or the people in it. Through work we make and meet commitments. We take on and carry out our responsibilities to ourselves and others. We also make vital human connections through working, whether paid or unpaid. It’s all about participating in life and the associations you make in the course of doing so. Even if you don’t enjoy your work, it gives you something – a sense of connectedness, or the forging of friendships even though the work itself might be dull. It gives you a place in society that others can rely on – it doesn’t work if you’re not there.
It turns out, I’m one of the ill or incapacitated. I haven’t been in regular, five day a week, lesson-planning, correcting-work-at-nights-and-on-weekends, teaching-a-class work since July 2010. I miss it so much it hurts. I miss the collegiate atmosphere of talking about learning, planning learning and then facilitating learning like Ben Cousins misses ice. Teaching is my crack. But I’m at a full stop and it will not budge. I’m trying to turn it into a semi-colon. (Already got one of those – ha ha! surgery joke)
I feel irrelevant. I feel out of touch. I feel like things have moved on and I am well behind. I can’t read the play, take the temperature of a grade on how it is settling in, I don’t know what has happened earlier in the day so that I don’t make a blunder later on. I blundered this week and it really bothers me. I am annoying the hell out of my erstwhile colleagues with emails hither and thither because I can’t see where I’m headed. I’m watching the train I just missed go kerchick kerchack down the track. And I lost my ticket.
Psychologists can explain the technical detail about how work helps people to feel better about themselves. I’m pretty sure it’s documented fact. Rehabilitation is always more successful when people are able to resume their position in the workplace. I am thankful that I am slowly taking on a few things that will contribute to school life, although it is not in my most preferred way yet, one which would include face time with students and regular connections to colleagues. I have not yet mastered the art of patience in this area. I know my brain has the capacity for work, but my body does not. But it will. I’ll see to that.
So what’s my point? Treasure and prioritise your health. Love your life. Appreciate the ability to participate in it. If you don’t love your work, don’t waste time, do something about it. And revel in the excitement of 4 and 5-year olds starting school. If only you could bottle it.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
English or Chemistry? Both.
I am a front row fan of the English language. I love its inconsistencies and oddities as much as its beauty and power. I love the fact that 'fast' can mean both stopping and going - helloooo, opposites! Same word! - as well as not eating, and that to fasten is not the same as to hasten, even though it should be. And the fact that we say the 't' in haste and fast but not in hasten or fasten. Cheeky. English will trip you up and push you over as you're falling, but make you feel like you're in on the joke, especially when trying to explain it to non-native speakers. I've spent some time in this blog working through some definitions, mainly of myself and what it means to be a patient cancer patient (or not). The next step along the road is about to take its turn under the spotlight (to mix the metaphor), but as an abbreviation: 'chemo'.
We don't shorten 'chemotherapy' to 'therapy'. There are too many types of therapy to do that, in radio-, physio-, speech, psycho-, and so on. Only head shrinking takes the honour of being awarded the stand alone word, the ubiquitous American movie statement "I am in therapy" having only one meaning. Which just leaves us with the 'chemo' bit for when we lazy English speakers want to abbreviate the word.
It has all been said before: why is abbreviation such a long word? Even its own abbreviation is six letters long! That's not a real abbreviation! English, you're having us on. Those duffers using Middle English in the 16th century really must have been guffawing through their stumpy teeth over their ale and mead when they came up with that one: "Let's turn quite a short word with a matching meaning (brief) into a bloody long one that means to make something shorter! Ironic! That'll stuff 'em!!!" Actually, they wouldn't have said it was ironic until someone in the tavern cottoned on to the Greek word later on in the 17th century, and even then 400 years later we're still trying to pin down what irony is. Anyway, we Aussies (n. pl. abbrev. Australians) in particular don't just abbreviate words to make them shorter, we do so to take them into our hearts, whether they are people, places or things. Who hasn't referred to Westfield Doncaster (heretofore known as Shoppingtown) as 'shoppo'? Chadstone as Chaddy? Registration is rego, a barbecue is a barbie, and football is footy (perhaps that's the problem with soccer, we don't have an appropriate abbreviation so that we can really embrace it... or maybe I'm just speaking for myself). Allison becomes Al or Ally, Nicholas will eternally be Nicko or Nick, Elizabeth Liz, Matthew Matt, Brigid Brig and so on ad infinitum. We shorten the word to show familiarity, closeness and fondness.
Doesn't work for chemo.
Because 'therapy' as a word has been appropriated by the cognitive fields, we're stuck with only the poisonous bit of chemotherapy as its diminution. This is extremely unfortunate. To add to the troubles of this problematic word, 'chemotherapy' also appears to be an oxymoron (which in itself is a great word, as it sounds like a special kind of space age stupid person). But back to chemotherapy. Chemicals as therapy. Hmmmm.
Interestingly, the 'chemo' part of the word chemotherapy can stand for chemicals, chemically induced or chemistry. The word 'chemicals' has negative connotations. Chemicals pour into the sea and kill marine life. You can clean mould with chemicals. Chemicals can be toxic. Chemicals sound unnatural, synthetic, manmade back when nobody knew that they could kill you. But this is exaggeration. Chemicals are simply the materials and substances involved in chemistry.
As a conscientious A-obsessed student who took the slow road to failing chemistry (I waited until the first year of a doomed science degree to get an E in chemistry - even then I couldn't fail it properly, they gave me a conceded pass) I know that chemistry is actually quite cool. It's just about the properties of the elements discovered and discoverable in the world, and how they combine together, whether solid, liquid or gas. It's just stuff. And some protons, electrons and neutrons which are a bit tricky, but still, just really, really small, hardly able to see it stuff. Until it explodes in the fume cupboard and everyone can not only see it but smell it.
And then there's chemistry - you know, the one in italics because it's sexy. It's that thing you get when people hit it off, when things just work, you just 'get' each other. That's a nice kind of chemistry. So chemistry is not so bad. And chemicals are just stuff. But chemotherapy is still bad.
There's no glossing over the fact that the cure for cancer can sometimes seem worse than the illness. We experience it through the movies and through the tribulations of others who have undergone chemotherapy, and I hasten (I'm pronouncing the 't' just to get back at English) to add that each person responds differently, has a different experience. But there are common threads (new metaphor). Sorry, it seems English has become an additional person writing this post.
As I was trying to say before words got in the way, chemotherapy affects individuals differently, based on the type of cancer, your age, overall health, immune system, allergies, your very own bodily chemistry. However, doctors couldn't print you an eight-page fact sheet accompanied by three booklets of information if there weren't common side effects and known outcomes of the chemistry of a particular cocktail of drugs. Fatigue, nausea, vomiting, altered sensation. Oh, and other life threatening stuff, but that's less common.
It's not the fatigue itself that's the problem, it's how oppressed it makes you feel. For example, lifting a book off your lap becomes a Herculean labour. Killing the Hydra? A doddle compared to getting off the couch and having a shower.
Also, it's not the nausea itself that's the problem (ok, it is), but it is also how it stops you from eating. The vomiting is nasty but harder to deal with is the loss of weight and condition that you've fought so hard to build up, and losing the strength that you have worked so hard to gain. It's the frustration of one step forward, two steps back.
The cold prickles are weird, too. One of the drugs I am given makes you sensitive to cold, in the fingers and toes, mouth, lips and throat. When you open the fridge you get a cold prickly feeling in your fingers and around your mouth and chin, like very mean and strong pins and needles (not the gentle kind when a body part goes to sleep, but big stabby needles, big enough to go through really heavy denim and leather, sheet metal, that kind of thing). Drinking a cold juice from out of the fridge makes your throat feel like someone wrapped a rubber band around it and yanked really hard. It feels cold and closed up, and prickly at the same time. It really sucks the fun out of eating icecream, I can tell you.
The good news, and the bad news, is that I've only had one treatment, and am about to start my second. So at the moment, the effect of the initial dose has dissipated. The main side effects occurred during the first 4-5 days, then wore off. This could be the beginning of a pattern, or there may be cumulative effects that scramble any notion of a routine. Either way, the reprieve I have had over the past week has allowed me to add two kilos to my shrunken weight. I feel balanced, am able to drive, and almost feel "normal". Actually, I can't remember what normal is. I should just say I feel comparatively good. I'm loving colours and sunshine and birdsong and Bambi and those things are sure signs that I'm in a good place today. If I can't sustain it, I hope I can at least return to it quickly.
I've blathered on about both English and chemo. My blog, my prerogative (another excellent word, it's pre, meaning before, and rogative, whatever that is). Let me put the key words into action. I hope my chemo goes by very fast. I hope its side effects are brief. I hope my doctors and nurses never act in haste (or use too many abbreviations, I haven't quite got all the lingo yet). And also I hope that the inconsistencies and oddities of my treatment never outweigh the beauty and power of the fact that there is a treatment.
N.B. Approximate etymology (not to be confused with entomology, that one's about insects) and carbon dating of words adopted into English and bastardised by me taken from Dictionary.com. But blame me, not them. And no, I could not be bothered getting up and looking in a "proper" dictionary. Remember? Getting off couch = Herculean labour????
We don't shorten 'chemotherapy' to 'therapy'. There are too many types of therapy to do that, in radio-, physio-, speech, psycho-, and so on. Only head shrinking takes the honour of being awarded the stand alone word, the ubiquitous American movie statement "I am in therapy" having only one meaning. Which just leaves us with the 'chemo' bit for when we lazy English speakers want to abbreviate the word.
It has all been said before: why is abbreviation such a long word? Even its own abbreviation is six letters long! That's not a real abbreviation! English, you're having us on. Those duffers using Middle English in the 16th century really must have been guffawing through their stumpy teeth over their ale and mead when they came up with that one: "Let's turn quite a short word with a matching meaning (brief) into a bloody long one that means to make something shorter! Ironic! That'll stuff 'em!!!" Actually, they wouldn't have said it was ironic until someone in the tavern cottoned on to the Greek word later on in the 17th century, and even then 400 years later we're still trying to pin down what irony is. Anyway, we Aussies (n. pl. abbrev. Australians) in particular don't just abbreviate words to make them shorter, we do so to take them into our hearts, whether they are people, places or things. Who hasn't referred to Westfield Doncaster (heretofore known as Shoppingtown) as 'shoppo'? Chadstone as Chaddy? Registration is rego, a barbecue is a barbie, and football is footy (perhaps that's the problem with soccer, we don't have an appropriate abbreviation so that we can really embrace it... or maybe I'm just speaking for myself). Allison becomes Al or Ally, Nicholas will eternally be Nicko or Nick, Elizabeth Liz, Matthew Matt, Brigid Brig and so on ad infinitum. We shorten the word to show familiarity, closeness and fondness.
Doesn't work for chemo.
Because 'therapy' as a word has been appropriated by the cognitive fields, we're stuck with only the poisonous bit of chemotherapy as its diminution. This is extremely unfortunate. To add to the troubles of this problematic word, 'chemotherapy' also appears to be an oxymoron (which in itself is a great word, as it sounds like a special kind of space age stupid person). But back to chemotherapy. Chemicals as therapy. Hmmmm.
Interestingly, the 'chemo' part of the word chemotherapy can stand for chemicals, chemically induced or chemistry. The word 'chemicals' has negative connotations. Chemicals pour into the sea and kill marine life. You can clean mould with chemicals. Chemicals can be toxic. Chemicals sound unnatural, synthetic, manmade back when nobody knew that they could kill you. But this is exaggeration. Chemicals are simply the materials and substances involved in chemistry.
As a conscientious A-obsessed student who took the slow road to failing chemistry (I waited until the first year of a doomed science degree to get an E in chemistry - even then I couldn't fail it properly, they gave me a conceded pass) I know that chemistry is actually quite cool. It's just about the properties of the elements discovered and discoverable in the world, and how they combine together, whether solid, liquid or gas. It's just stuff. And some protons, electrons and neutrons which are a bit tricky, but still, just really, really small, hardly able to see it stuff. Until it explodes in the fume cupboard and everyone can not only see it but smell it.
And then there's chemistry - you know, the one in italics because it's sexy. It's that thing you get when people hit it off, when things just work, you just 'get' each other. That's a nice kind of chemistry. So chemistry is not so bad. And chemicals are just stuff. But chemotherapy is still bad.
There's no glossing over the fact that the cure for cancer can sometimes seem worse than the illness. We experience it through the movies and through the tribulations of others who have undergone chemotherapy, and I hasten (I'm pronouncing the 't' just to get back at English) to add that each person responds differently, has a different experience. But there are common threads (new metaphor). Sorry, it seems English has become an additional person writing this post.
As I was trying to say before words got in the way, chemotherapy affects individuals differently, based on the type of cancer, your age, overall health, immune system, allergies, your very own bodily chemistry. However, doctors couldn't print you an eight-page fact sheet accompanied by three booklets of information if there weren't common side effects and known outcomes of the chemistry of a particular cocktail of drugs. Fatigue, nausea, vomiting, altered sensation. Oh, and other life threatening stuff, but that's less common.
It's not the fatigue itself that's the problem, it's how oppressed it makes you feel. For example, lifting a book off your lap becomes a Herculean labour. Killing the Hydra? A doddle compared to getting off the couch and having a shower.
Also, it's not the nausea itself that's the problem (ok, it is), but it is also how it stops you from eating. The vomiting is nasty but harder to deal with is the loss of weight and condition that you've fought so hard to build up, and losing the strength that you have worked so hard to gain. It's the frustration of one step forward, two steps back.
The cold prickles are weird, too. One of the drugs I am given makes you sensitive to cold, in the fingers and toes, mouth, lips and throat. When you open the fridge you get a cold prickly feeling in your fingers and around your mouth and chin, like very mean and strong pins and needles (not the gentle kind when a body part goes to sleep, but big stabby needles, big enough to go through really heavy denim and leather, sheet metal, that kind of thing). Drinking a cold juice from out of the fridge makes your throat feel like someone wrapped a rubber band around it and yanked really hard. It feels cold and closed up, and prickly at the same time. It really sucks the fun out of eating icecream, I can tell you.
The good news, and the bad news, is that I've only had one treatment, and am about to start my second. So at the moment, the effect of the initial dose has dissipated. The main side effects occurred during the first 4-5 days, then wore off. This could be the beginning of a pattern, or there may be cumulative effects that scramble any notion of a routine. Either way, the reprieve I have had over the past week has allowed me to add two kilos to my shrunken weight. I feel balanced, am able to drive, and almost feel "normal". Actually, I can't remember what normal is. I should just say I feel comparatively good. I'm loving colours and sunshine and birdsong and Bambi and those things are sure signs that I'm in a good place today. If I can't sustain it, I hope I can at least return to it quickly.
I've blathered on about both English and chemo. My blog, my prerogative (another excellent word, it's pre, meaning before, and rogative, whatever that is). Let me put the key words into action. I hope my chemo goes by very fast. I hope its side effects are brief. I hope my doctors and nurses never act in haste (or use too many abbreviations, I haven't quite got all the lingo yet). And also I hope that the inconsistencies and oddities of my treatment never outweigh the beauty and power of the fact that there is a treatment.
N.B. Approximate etymology (not to be confused with entomology, that one's about insects) and carbon dating of words adopted into English and bastardised by me taken from Dictionary.com. But blame me, not them. And no, I could not be bothered getting up and looking in a "proper" dictionary. Remember? Getting off couch = Herculean labour????
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