So Mano-mano called up about her pay, and will tramp down (ahem, using bus no. 8x, not 11 of course hehe) to her workplace come Wednesday. Thank goodness for private health institutions is all that I can say that I have free time on Wednesdays. :P And hopefully get it all sorted out on that day. I honestly cannot remember at all when I actually started work. But according to T's diary, it's 8/3/08. So it shall be.

I've made dinner. I fried up some noodles with the Chinese sausage mum sent over. I wonder if it's my technique, or maybe it's just that I've never really gotten used to electric stoves, or maybe I'm just frying too much at once, but the noodles look a lot like something that might have popped out from the pseudowok of some bastardised American Chinese takeaway. Ugh. I feel somewhat disgusted looking at it and feeling sorry for my cooking skills. But at least it tastes good. Yes, I ran the taste test. Hot food freshly cooked is just too good to pass. Actually I think I know what's wrong. I overcooked my veges. My beans look limp and sad. Though I noticed that it seems to do that with just a little heat very quickly.

Looking through some onco stuff. Looking at the survival rates made me think of the guy I met during my session at the onco clinic who just found out then he had HCC with maybe slightly less than 2 years left to live, even though he had been tested couple of times here and there to check for it. Apparently the gastro guy never told him. It shocked him. It wasn't very obvious because on the surface he appeared very calm. But inside, partly hurt and emotional pain? He had a 15 year old son still and a wife. But maybe relief as well? Since he said he had guess something was up when they ran all sorts of tests on him. And he had been doing some research on the internet as well. And then I think of Mrs N who ovarian cancer mets. Cancer has never been so real to me until this year. And while I know people can survive and bounce back to where they were before. Just that it's scary and while listening to the oncologist explain things to the guy, I felt a twinge of sadness deep down inside. But then again, I walk out of the room and I forget. The little twinge gets pushed far away into the darkest corners of my cupboard up there and lie almost forgotten. I find myself wondering what do they actually feel knowing their diagnosis and prognosis? I feel like asking but never seem to have a chance to. And then again, knowing the prognosis, while it may be bad with very little time left, is it necessarily a bad thing? At least one can be half sure about something. At least one can make preparations to one's best, and therefore be able to die happy?