The Finish Line

We did it!
4 months and 6 chemo treatments! All gone, all done!
We finished the bottle of chemo at 10pm last night and the last bag of saline 12 hours later.
They had to give me a shot to boost my white blood cell count.
It was 2,300 before they gave me the injection.
That night in my dream, I dreamt that I was playing the Nintendo game,Pikmin,
only this time, I was extracting white blood cells.
7 hours later, my white blood cell count was over 10,000!!! 4,000 more than a healthy person.
That's a huge defense army if you ask me.

The side effects started while chemo was going in this time.
I wasn't too worried 'cause.... (chuckle) I had extra blood cells to spare.
As I continue writing here, I can feel my brain starts to get fuzzy.
So glad I'm home.
I'm gonna go sleep it off now.
See you in..... oh..... 4 days?!
Meanwhile, enjoy Nuage's comment on his shower.

My Monday Morning

It was a perfect morning to be lounging around: the neighborhood was in this "after-the-thunder-shower" quietness. The only sound you heard was the distant chirping of birds. I knew they were too far away so I didn't even bother. Mom was busy in front of her computer and the male was out (probably hunting). I had been up since 4:30, so I was really looking forward to a nice long nap.

Something was off. I couldn't quite put my claws on it, but it all began with an unusual scent. I caught a whiff and it woke me; then there was the sound. When have I heard that dull water-splashing sound before? It wasn't the same as the sound they make when they're in the bathroom. I opened my eyes and saw mom walking straight toward me, with that mischievous smile on her face and extra sweetness in her voice. Ah~ it all came to me now. The scent was from that new tearless shampoo she had bought me, and the sound of water meant there was a tub of soapy water waiting for me. They really ought to change that picture on the bottle. Who would ever want to look like THAT?

Well, let me tell ya. I've been around the block a few times when it comes to bathing. The first time she bathed me was in the bathroom sink. At that time I was just a 2-month-old wee kitten, and I've been having regular showers since then. However, just because I'm an experienced kitty doesn't mean that I would go against my instincts and happily jump into the tub without a little bit of hide-n-seek.







Even after she dragged me out from underneath the couch, I tried to explain why I didn't need a shower (look at that determination in my eyes). It should be obvious that she was too slow to capture me with my mouth open. I was talking to her.



Tucked under her arm, I didn't have much of a choice. Once I was in the warm water, however, I forgot what all the fuss was about. Pardon me for not smiling for the camera. I have a certain image to maintain.... you know..... 'cause other kitty cats might be reading this and all.

Then came my favorite part -- drying. Unlike other kitties, I actually enjoy hot air blowing on my body. When the weather is hot, I lay sideways in front of a fan. The noise from the hair dryer doesn't both me that much. I'm usually too happily indulging in mom saying how good a kitty I am, and how beautiful I am, to notice any other sounds. If you don't believe me, just ask the male who lives wih us. He can testify as to how much I like feeling my hair move in the air.

Voila! An hour later, mom's happy 'cause I don't stink anymore, and I'm happy 'cause I finally get to zonk out for as long as I want.

Phew~ It ain't easy being a fluffy kitty.

BABBLE. BABBLE. BLAH

This past week has been nothing but blah
The sky seemed to be contemplating (or constipated)
In this constant “cold-and-damp”ness
You try shaking it off like a dog
Soon you realize
You’re not a dog and this ain’t shakable
It’s like being in wet clothes in the jungle
At least in the jungle, no one would dry their wet umbrella on your pants

Three friends are leaving
Two to the other side of the pond
One to a better fund
While I’m antsy from all the changes that are about to take place in my life
A seasoned traveler exhales a puff of smoke and welcomes me to the world of ex-pats
A world of contradictions where we face each other with the same pole despite our natural inclination to click
Some learned to protect themselves by denying the desire to belong
Some simply throw their arms up and return to what they’ve always known
Though we try to replicate what we know in where we are
People come, people go, despite in what state of mind we are

I said I didn’t know what I’d do without you
You might not have picked it up but it wasn't a joke
One mountain accident
Two attempts to hair color
Three smokers in the back
Four neighbors share a cab
One thousand days we work we play
More than two dozen stories we share and create
We’re not the kind to pretend we don’t give a damn
There’s too much shared along the memory lane
I’ve learned to do this many years ago
Yet I’m always clumsy when it’s time to let go

So I blog this blah-blah-blah

And you wonder why this country has trouble gaining international recognition.
(For those who don't know: Sun is Dr. Sun Yat-sen, the founder of the Republic of China)

Various Conversations Between Bill and Kate

Bill had just had some Japanese mixed nuts and he was putting the bag back to the kitchen..

Bill: “.... I think cashews are the hookers.”

Kate: (staring at the video production footage of 300) “Cashews are the hookers……. because they only like cash?”

Bill: (putting on his jacket) “Because of the way they look.”

Kate: “So cashews look like hookers, …..”

Bill: “Peanuts are your run-of-the-mill kids.”

Kate: “Of course….. Walnuts are the brainy kids then?”

Bill: (putting on his shoes) “Yeah, walnuts are the brainy….(chuckles) cause they look like brains.”

Kate: “You know, if cashews can look like…”

Bill: “I know……. Oh! Pistachios are the rich kids, and chestnuts are the hicks.”

Kate: “Why are chestnuts the hicks?”

Bill: (heading out the door and turning back) “cause!”

*********************************************************************

Kate left the office half an hour later than usual. She was walking down the stairs when her phone rang.

Kate: “Hello?”

Bill: “Hey, where are you?”

Kate: “I’m just now leaving the office. I got tied up a bit.”

Bill: “REALLY? (mocking) Who tied you up?”

Kate: (not taking the bait) “Jeremy and Brian.”

Bill: “Mm….that sounds…. gross.”

Kate: “You started it.”

Bill: “I know.”

*********************************************************************

We just finished dinner and were watching an episode of the West Wing.

Bill: “We should name all the rooms in the house.”

Kate: “I thought we did already. This is the TV room…..”

Bill: “Where our desks are is the Situation Room.”

Kate: “I see. This one should be the Recreation Room then?”

Bill: “This one is the recrea…..”

Kate: “’Cause ‘situation’ has four syllables. So does ‘recreation’.”

Bill: (pleased) “Okay. Then the kitchen is the Preparation Room and the bathroom…”

Kate: “….. is the Relaxation Room.”

Bill: “No, the BEDroom is the Relaxation Room. The bathroom is the ….”

Kate: “re….. (laugh) Rehabilitation Room.”

Bill: (serious) “That’s too many syllables…. The bathroom is the…… (a lightbulb moment) EVACUATION ROOM!”

But, doesn't "e.va.cu.a.tion" technically have five syllables?
Also, wouldn't the definition of an evacuation room be a room from which you evacuate...... not a room that "things" evacuate out of.

The Fifth Treatment

Yes, it was tough!

I thought it was the toughest of all so far, but Bill doesn’t think so.

You see, Bill has his own system of measuring how bad the battle is.

The indicator is the amount of time I spend whimpering in fetal position.

My judgment is based on how much I want to slip out of my own body because it hurts everywhere.

If this were a few hundred years ago, people would think I had been possessed by demons.

I might be burnt.

I might be worshiped.

In any case, that’s a pretty wild thought.

The happiest person in this whole thing is Nuage ‘cause mommy is always there to snuggle with.

I’d like to believe he knows I’m not feeling well,

but Bill doesn’t think so highly of a cat.

So yes, one more to go.

Hard to believe but it is finally coming to an end, for now anyway.

I've wanted to quit after each treatment.

Glad to know I finally get to really quit after the next one.

Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers.

It's been empowering to know that I have backups.

The doctor wants to keep the catheter for 6 more months,

at which point, then, I can start trying to have kids if I want to.

I just want my health back.

http://300themovie.warnerbros.com

Five Men and Four Women

It was 3PM Sunday afternoon. We just walked pass the usual lineup in front of Mr. Donuts and, right when we saw Ben walking out of Starbucks, Bill was finishing the last few words of the sentence, “…and Ben said he was gonna show up in his underwear…”

Well, no one showed up in his/her under garment. Thank goodness for the cold weather.

Ben, CC (aka Jing Jing), Dorion, Sharon, Simon, Rachel, Roberto, Bill and me took over the entire roll in the theater. The boys were all wide-eyed and giggly.

Lights off! Music starts!

As Spartan men prepared themselves for battle, our men geared up for action with double non-fat lattes and churos. A unified crunch of this crispy cinnamon goodness echoed in the air as the Persian officer demanded, “Spartans! Lay down your weapons!” In the darkness, as strategies were planned out, our men also sneaked quick glances at one another, seeking confirmation. In the midst of every brutal stabbing and blood shed, they thrust their straws deeper into the paper cups and drenched them with bubbly sugar water. Persian soldiers groaned; so did plastic lids. As the Spartans crushed the Persian army wave by wave, our men crunched down on the popcorn by the fistful. No prisoners! No mercy!

After an intense discussion about the movie right after the movie, the men carried their excitement out of the theater. They walked tall in front of their women, preventing the ladies’ dainty feet from being tumbled over by large crowds and stray dogs. They let out a prolonged powerful “Push!” before a sea of people poured out of the subway. They had raw fish and beer for dinner as they “dine in Hell”, but weren’t sure if they had room for a few pieces of deep-fried tofu. They told tales of near-death experiences which mostly reflected poor decision-making. They engaged in extensive discussions about the growing of facial hair and the abdominal muscle. They sited every warrior movie and finally concluded that “anything said with a Scottish accent sounds so much more intimidating!” With their fists raised and their teeth bared, the men groaned, “This is Taipei!” as they parted with their brothers.

A little boy may outgrow a man; but he will never grow out of a man.

Truth to be told: I was just as pumped as the boys and talking like a Spartan as well. Who wouldn't be after two hours of watching muscular men doing what they do best?!

Voices

I’m alone in my room in the hospital, reading a book about punctuation, and half-listening to a nurse’s voice. The nurses’ station is right outside my door, and contrary to what it says on the sign on their desk, the nurses all seem to be yelling at the person next to them. Even with the door shut, I can still hear her very clearly.

What caught my attention at first was how “raw” her voice sounds. Let me explain what I mean. In the production of sounds, we consciously control the contraction of the diaphragm as well as the tightness of the vocal cords in order to manipulate the volume and pitch of our voice. This nurse’ voice, however, sounds as if she has absolutely no intention or control of her articulatory organs. She talks like someone who might need voice training, and she definitely does not hear herself when she speaks.

I tried to imitate her to gain a closer understanding of the physiological process that takes place in her speech production. During the experiment, I found I was using very little effort to control or modification of the airstream; therefore, my voice sounded monotoned and …..raw.

After my little self-amusing game, I went back to reading about punctuation. I came across a passage that had no punctuation marks [1], so I read it out loud to help segment the passage mentally. As I was listening to myself, I recalled Erik (PP’s husband) once told me that I have different voices when I speak English and Chinese. If I remember correctly, he said I sounded more… whiny and girlish in Chinese, and I had a more affirmative and confident voice in English. Now, I could delve into vowel length distinction in English and the lack of it in Chinese, as well as those sentence-final tag words in Chinese and the lack of them in English as explanations for why Erik’s observation might be true. However, I’d be putting you to sleep, if I haven’t done so already.

What I’m more interested in sharing with you is my recent re-acquisition of language abilities in Chinese and how English, my second language, has influenced it. I am, as some of my ESL teacher friends might be as well, absolutely fascinated by this L1-L2 interference and influence. It has taken me almost 3 years to feel as if my Chinese is finally up to par with the rest of the population and that I have updated my lexicon with the most up-to-date idioms and slang. Those of you who have known me for a while know that I’ve always liked doodling. In my prime, I was a writer and the editor of the school newspaper in college. Now that I have regained linguistic comprehensions in Chinese, I couldn’t resist utilizing it by writing regularly and posting them on my Chinese blog (Yes! I blog in two languages, which makes me feel a bit schizophrenic at times)!

So anyway, I’ve been posting my writings on the blog for a couple of months now, and I try to write in different styles…. you know….to keep a variety of things and to give myself some fun challenges. While almost all my Taiwanese friends and family were amazed at (and amused by) my ambition to write in Chinese after not using the language for 10 years, my mother seemed less than impressed. When I ask her what she thinks, she often vaguely says, “You can do better than this.” or “You should read so-and-so’s blog and learn from her.”[2] At first I disregarded my mom’s comments and thought she was being way too serious about the whole thing. After all, I write for my own enjoyment. It’s not like I’ve ever dreamt to become a famous writer or anything (Shut up, Don….and Lisa). Recently, however, the competitive side of me is eager to bully mom into admitting that she likes my writing (codenamed “Crack Mom Project”….. I need a little background music from a suspense movie here).

Before I went into the hospital, I finished a piece making fun of the recent trend among women in Taiwan to talk in an extremely high-pitched baby voice. You can imagine how irritating it is to hear women in their 20’s and 30’s talk in a 6-year-old’s voice. Understandably (to me anyway), I wrote it in a sarcastic voice, kind of a “how to annoy the shit out of people” tone of voice. I polished it and edited it late into the night, until I was certain that, if not rolling on the floor, readers would at least engage in uncontrollable laughing.

I gave mom a call in her office on the second day in the hospital. I started by nonchalantly talking about the weather, my uneventful first night in the hospital, and how loud the nurses were. “Speaking of voices, mom,” I thought it was a good time to bring it up, “have you read my recent posting about it on my blog?” Pretty smooth, eh?! (hi-five!) My mom knows all my tricks and she wasn’t gonna hand me the satisfaction that easily, “It’s okay,” she plainly replied. IT’S OKAY? “You’re a good writer, Kate,” Uh-oh! Here comes the But! “But your writing has a very matter-of-fact voice that makes it hard to relate to what you’re trying to get at. You need more…. more descriptions, more words. More!” What did she mean? Matter-of-fact? What do I need more of?

I called a friend who works as an editor in a publishing company and asked if she could understand what my mom meant. She chuckled and told me that my latest posting sounds a lot like David Letterman’s Top 10 Lists. It’s dry. It’s sarcastic. It’s down to the point. It doesn’t fly well in Chinese. It never has and it never will.

I went down the memory lane to first year university English Lit at UBC. What I remember from that class can be summed up in one word, “Concise” – yes, with a capital C. After spending three years reacquiring the technical parts of my mother tongue, I’m faced with an irony – I express my ideas in Chinese with an English voice. I’m not sure if I could ever find my voice again in Chinese though.

[1] The passage was:

"It is under these circumstances that we feel constrained to call upon you to come to our aid should a disturbance arise here the circumstances are so extreme that we cannot but believe that you and the men under you will not fail to come to the rescue of people who are so situated." (Eats, Shoots and Leaves. Lynne Truss.)

The meaning of this telegram changes drastically if you put a full stop after the word “aid” and after the word “here”.

[2] My mother is not a harsh, critical woman. She’s actually very loving, giving, and funny. It’s just that…. when it comes to her only child’s accomplishments, she’s still struggling with being a typical Chinese mother, and not. Most Chinese parenting styles are still heavily influenced by Confucius’ teaching. Therefore, they often talk the child down so they don’t appear arrogant and the child learns to be humble. Deep down, though, they’re just as proud as any parent would be.

Gone for chemo.
Be back online in a week.

All Because of the Banana Bread

I had a funny feeling.
Though there was a voice telling me to stop, I went ahead with the preparation process because the color and the texture of the bananas were simply perfect. Today is the day. They were ready, and so was I.
It was as natural and easy as breathing. Every step was just right, and I felt as if I was born to do this. I became one with the instruments and together we performed a harmoneous symphony. When I saw the airy pale yellow fluff of butter and sugar, I had to take a moment to admire just how perfect it was (and to give my right arm a break from all that beating it did). I knew if Martha were here, she'd say, "It's a good thing, Kate." I did good, and I didn't want to stop.
While it was baking in the oven, I decided to make a pasta sauce for dinner. The voice in my head wanted me to stop right there, but why should I listen to it when I was on a roll and feeling invincible? I've succeeded many times before, and I didn't think I could possibly fail today.
Boy, was I wrong.
Everything was wrong from the get go. The onion felt a tad too hard. Cloves of garlic seemed to have grown legs and the chopping board became the battle field from which they were trying to escape. The knife felt so dull that I almost lost my patience while dicing the strips of chicken breast. After I'd finished all the cutting, I put too much heat and not enough oil, so it wasn't sauteed properly. In my attempt to multitask, the tomatoes were falling apart on the cutting board while the chicken pieces were only half cooked in the pot. As frustrating as it was, however, I was determined to get it done.
Then I saw it.
I only caught a glance of it from the corner of my eye, but it was enough to break out a cold sweat. My would-be-perfect banana bread was rising way too much out of the loafpan. Though I didn't know what exactly, I knew had to do something about it.
First I had to drop what I was doing. I quickly spooned some tomato paste into the pot, gave it a quick stir and put the lid on. Even in the midst of such crisis, I was level-headed enough to remember to put my mittens on first. WAIT! I was faced with a quandary as I stood in front of the oven: Should I risk ruining everything by taking out the loafpan? If I don't, who knows how much higher it's going to rise? "What would Martha Stewart do?" I decided to leave it in the oven for the time being and go on Martha's website to look for answers.
The entire apartment was filled with a blended aroma of tomato sauce and banana bread. While I was browsing, however, the smell of tomato sauce became increasingly overwhelming and it smelt..... BURNT! I took off from my desk and made a bee line to the kitchen.... opened the lid.... and yup, the bottom of the pot was sizzling black with small pieces of chicken stuck on it. Defeated, I turned the stove off and took a deep breath to fight back the urge to toss the pot out the window. On the way out of the kitchen, I took a look at the banana bread and it looked just super in the soft yellow light of the oven.
I thought I should clean up the kitchen before I tackled the burnt pot. I was still mourning my burnt pasta sauce and was so absent-minded that I put a box of ziplock bags into the refrigerator and a packet of ground beef on the top of the fridge. I also accidentally touched the piping hot oven door with my bare shoulder. It may sound silly, but the series of those less-than-ideal events bred contempt toward the banana bread. If it weren't because of its unusual rising, none of this would've happened.
Almost as punishment to the banana bread, I stopped paying attention to it. I didn't care if it'd turn out okay. Childish, I know.

3 hours after the oven had turned off by itself, I took the banana bread out of the oven and.... I don't mean to toot my own horn but it's absolutely perfect. The top is browned just right while the inside remains moist. The edges are a bit crunchy (just the way I like it), and it oozes rich banana-y sweetness. It brings a smile to Bill's face and it makes me feel all fuzzy and warm. A burnt pot of pasta sauce for a loaf of perfectly-baked banana bread. Guess it wasn't that bad after all.

In case you're wondering....
1. I managed to save some of that pasta sauce 'cause it was only burnt on the bottom and the rest of it was still okay. Unfortunately, I don't think we'll be able to save the pot.
2. My shoulder wasn't burnt when it touched the oven door. It was just a bit ouchy.
3. No animals or humans were hurt during or after consuming the banana bread. As for the pasta sauce... we'll have to wait and see.