The phone call gave it away

The phone call gave it away. How often does a consultant’s secretary ring you out of the blue and ask you to be at the clinic at 8.15 the following morning? I put the phone down, looked across the office and sighed. “Maybe it’s good news and they want to tell you before Christmas” my Co Director offered without a hint of irony, or conviction come to that!.

We had a weekend planned already. Friday morning, off to York for two days of indulgence. We’d make the appointment on the way. We arrived at 8.10am, we are old school and never late, and finally got in to see the consultant at 9.10am. What a pleasant hour it was watching cups of tea and coffee being passed around, files being trolleyed and listening to hushed conversations along the lines of “And do you know what the dirty sod asked me to do then?” A day sat in an NHS. Corridor would perfectly encapsulate 21^st century Britain.

The consultant was cool, clear and precise. He explained what type of cancer I had, the severity of it and my three options. He lost me at “hello Mr. Campbell”. Thank God Janet was with me to listen and ask the relevant questions. I didn’t have to make a choice then but I had no hesitation in doing so. The choices were a/ surgery b/ radiotherapy and c/ do nothing. I don’t know why he offered me a and b when c was available. Exit a few minutes later a slightly crestfallen couple holding reams of literature to read over the weekend. We sat in the car, looked at each other and Janet burst into tears. I started to laugh then joined her till we both laughed. “Is this hysteria” I thought to myself.

So passed the first 24 hours of being a cancer patient along with and ever increasing percentage of the population. This was over 18 months ago and I can’t say it has been a worrying interim as, a handy gift of being able to ignore things I don’t want to think about, has won out. It has been far worse for Janet. She viewed every headache I have had, every ache and pain, every sneeze as a symptom of the cancer morphing into something from the Alien. All I could think about was the follow up biopsy. I am not soft and consider myself to have a high pain threshold but the biopsy isn’t about pain. It’s, well, there isn’t a word for it. A whole new word needs to be made up to describe having a probe the size of  a vaulter’s pole, shoved up your bottom, twisted from side to side then pushing a compass point into it to administer an anesthetic. I can’t say if the anesthetic works or not but I wouldn’t want to try and find out.

First time round I didn’t know that they took ten samples. That’s TEN samples. Ten times something I imagine has a tongue and teeth biting into your prostate. It’s not fun. I keep reading on the internet (not that I research such things you understand), that prostate stimulation is becoming more and more popular amongst the sexually advanced elite. You can shove that! Man it stings. Imagine being stung up your bottom by an angry wasp ten times. It’s obviously an “in joke” with the perpetrators of the incision to ask after sting number five, “Are you counting Mr. Campbell?” Am I counting? They must be joking! I barked “Yes” to muffled laughter from behind me. They are always behind you. I think there should be a mirror in front so you can see who is behind you and what they are doing. This is particularly relevant after biopsy number two. After the tenth “sting” there was a short period of unusual silence. I was suspicious and for a horrible moment wondered if they were going to carry on and give me some bonus stings, something for me to remember them by. It wasn’t that. The operator had pricked her own finger with my last sample. Not a problem for me but a big one for her. I did feel sorry for her. It cannot be a dream at 17 when a girl leaves school to spend her days shoving things up old men’s bottoms. Even worse to prick your finger with what you brought out. There ensued five star treatment. Apologies flowed ten to the dozen and I ended up apologizing to the poor girl for having my bottom in the line of fire. Aids tests had to be carried out (on me) for her and I had to answer a long questionnaire about my sexual habits. Fortunately they are so far in the past they weren’t relevant. All this time Janet is sitting with me, the look of concern never leaving her face. Only once were we separated. The nurse wanted to ask a “personal “question. She was pretty and my hopes were raised. Basically she wanted to know if I had ever had gay sex. I was tempted to ask what was classified as gay sex but didn’t. A loud “no” seemed sufficient.

So I was on my way, an hour later than planned. Take that hospital car park! It wasn’t a ruse to get more money out of us as cancer patients get free parking! What a bonus! On top of free prescriptions I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. That was until the results of the biopsy came through.