I thought I should make 1000 paper cranes. I’m not going to spoil the story for you, because it’s a beautiful book, but I decided it probably wouldn’t help anything. So I settled on 50 origami ducks instead.

Unfortunately, I misread the eBay listing and ordered 7.5cm paper instead of 15cm. Origami is stupid anyway, and I’m not good at visual instructions, so I currently have two ducks and a lot of crumpled yellow paper.

I’m really into sourdough now. A friend asked if we’d like a loaf next time she baked. I said, “Yes, you’re right. Sourdough should become my new hyperfixation and thank you for personally volunteering to oversee this adventure with me.”

I wasn’t there when she realised the level of crazy she’d signed up for, but she did give me some starter and enough guidance that, after years of failing, I actually made bread. And it felt really good. I’m currently experimenting with olive oil dough and hydration; it’s addictive.

After an enthusiastic yet brief conversation about the possibility of an Orange City Life team Christmas card this year, during which I was quietly removed from a staff email chain, I’ve taken up crocheting.

I’d only had one lesson, at a CWA meeting where I became increasingly drunk while a lovely instructor patiently explained that crochet wasn’t knitting and I couldn’t keep stitches on my hook. Eventually I gave up, ended up pretty smashed, and had Miss 17 drive me home. It was a great night, but when I bought my own hook and yarn, I had to work it out. And I did.

My original plan involved crocheting green triangles to sew onto homemade Christmas cards. Unfortunately, triangles and I weren’t getting along, so I made a long, chunky snake instead, zigzagged it into a tree, and stitched it together.

Yesterday I collected Miss 17 from her second-last HSC exam and we went to Leaf Café for frappes and hot chips, as is our new tradition. At the next table a young mother was sharing chips with her toddler. As we left, I leant over and told her she was doing a great job, because she was, and it’s a lovely thing to tell someone.

Miss 17 then drove me to Spotlight, where I found beautiful deep-green wool with flecks of silver, and a cheerful yellow button. I came home, lay on the couch, and crocheted another tree. The original lumpy triangles are going on the same red ribbon garland, though.

Lastly, and most importantly, I’ve been weeding. We haven’t touched our veggie patch in two years, since I fell ill, but this year we planted seeds. We have lettuce, cucumber, corn, tomato, bean, and zucchini seedlings ready to plant on Melbourne Cup Day.

This has been my favourite, because I cannot adequately describe the feeling of wrapping your hand around an invasive weed and wrenching it, roots and all, from the earth. Our veggie patch is large, so I’ve been doing this over and over. There is no feeling quite like pulling up the long runner and root base attached to something that wasn’t invited to grow in your space.

But I can’t do this during the day, because I’m not well. I have to wait until my husband is home to come into the garden with me, ready to catch me. I get dizzy in the garden.

I’m in a stage of cancer treatment called active surveillance and suppression. A break from radiation, with daily medication to suppress cancer growth. But for the past fortnight I’ve been so, so tired. So blood tests, and a wait for results.

Normally I love the waiting room at the doctor’s. I see the people scrolling their phones, and I always clock the one or two who pick up Orange City Life to thumb through. On a day like this, all I’m doing is breathing.

The wonderful news is that my tumour markers are still zero. But the hormone responsible for keeping them there has increased by 4000 in a month. So we’re changing medication and arranging scans.

There was a time I’d never heard of my cancer, known what tumour markers were, or cared about my white blood cell count. The outcome is still expected to be excellent. We live in a world where scientists work every day to improve outcomes, and there’s nothing here that spells the end for me. I’m going to be fine. It’s just not the smooth path we’d hoped for.

But the world keeps turning, sometimes without you. The exhaustion means hours on the couch after mornings of being a mum and trying to get a little bit of work done because the bills still need paying.

Today I’m feeling a little better. The medication change is already helping, but I’m still lying on the couch crocheting while Miss 17 cooks dinner and Miss 12 packs for camp. I want to hug her, but I don’t. Instead, I crochet another snake to weave into a tree and let my body rest.