Caveat: My mortality always on the tip of my tongue

I struggle with having to bear my mortality so close to the surface. These periodic checkup scans, which serve to remind me of the precariousness of my health, and of the sheer luck of it, don't help. It's more basic than that, though. In fact, my tongue reminds me at every single moment, because I can feel it, and it is still alien – hacked and transformed and handicapped and so clearly not really my tongue

Think about how we use our tongues constantly to probe the insides of our mouths. It's unconscious, and reflexive, and evolutionarily ancient. Watch a baby, some time, discovering the world through her tongue. Watch a rodent cleaning its fur. Watch a snake tasting the air.

Now imagine that every time you go to touch that familiar spot behind your teeth, or steer some piece of food you're chewing, or go to speak a consonant, you use a tongue which requires focus and conscious effort because it's not the same tongue that you first learned those skills with.

I cannot ever forget that I have been transformed, and that I'm a survivor of a traumatic experience.

I would prefer to forget.

Anyway, my bad feeling last night was not confirmed today. The CT scans have spoken. I continue to have a clean bill of health, from the oncologists' perspective. That's good.

What am I supposed to be doing with this time against fate which I've bought? 

[daily log: walking, 9.5 km]

Caveat: Words

Today started OK.  I had a conversation on the phone with my mother that was fairly upbeat, and then I went to the hospital for my scheduled scan.

The hospital was "locked down" because of the MERS panic. There were workers scanning people who wanted in, and asking questions and filling out surveys. It was frustrating because I got held back while they found someone who could ask me questions in English, after I failed to understand a question put to me in Korean. 

Once in, I tried to check in for my appointment early (which I always do – I always go early because it makes the appointments go faster, in my experience), and they wouldn't let me. So I had to wait. 

The scan was OK, though I had two more frustrating moments with my Korean. 

What's wrong with me, anyway, that I still can't speak this language? I felt like a failure.

I went to work, and got there just in time to teach my 6 classes straight on my new Monday schedule.

I got to hear about parents having complained that my classes were too difficult last week. I argued with my boss Helen about whether memorizing words with their translations is really a solution to kids not understanding material in one of my classes. My position is that, well, not really. Then again, given my own lack of success in learning Korean, who am I to talk? I felt gloomy about that.

I wasn't well-prepared because I didn't come early to prepare my classes, having been at the hospital instead.

I left work depressed. Very depressed – with a generally bad feeling about where I'm at and what I'm doing (and/or failing to do). 

Tomorrow, I go back to find out my diagnosis (if any). Just at the moment, I feel like my luck's given out, but we shall see.

[daily log: walking, 7.5 km]

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