Now that I have outlined some of the more prosaic issues relating to chemotherapy I will move on and discuss meeting old friends. As covered in my last post I have now had to reacquaint myself with my local district nurse service. On ringing them up to ask about getting back onto their books the lady who answered the phone recognised my voice. Whist this was mildly surprising what was miraculous was the fact that she was happy for me to come back! When I left, for what I hoped was the last time, at the end of my first round of chemo I cheerfully said I hoped I would never see her again. On realising that there was more than one way of interpreting this statement I quickly retraced my steps and clarified that I hoped I would never meet her again under these circumstances. Oh well, life can suck. In hindsight it is quite clear why she and the team would be pleased to have me back. Having the opportunity of another 6-7 months of me regaling them with stories about in-oven internal meat thermometers, how my external Christmas decorations and plans were developing (including power point presentation it required), my view on how the latest store reorganisation at Tesco/Asda is not customer focused and how the unusual juxtaposition of realism with cubism when stacking toilet rolls is much overlooked, to name but a few, is clearly quite an intoxicating thought.
It is not just the district nurse that I have been back in touch with though. For those with long memories you will remember Harry, my umbilical hernia, caused by ascites associated with my liver failure. After my right hemicolectomy my surgeon, yes that one, Mr Haq, he of the firm handshake, said it was highly likely that Harry would make a reappearance one day. What Mr Haq didn’t say was that this time Harry would bring a friend, Harryetta. Although smaller in size, Harryetta was a hernia coming through my liver transplant scare. The thing about hernias is that you can have them, often without knowing it, and they cause little in the way of problems. Unfortunately this was not the case for me. One day, out of the blue I suddenly started experiencing intense pain. At the same biblical level as the pain I got from my kidney stones. After about eight hours I had to leave work and decided I had to go to A&E. However the pain was so intense that I missed the turning for the hospital and ended up at home. Fortunately within another 4 hours the pain subsided. This was clearly a warning and one that I did pay attention to. Shortly afterwards I mentioned this to my gastroenterology clinical nurse specialist. She was concerned enough that I was offered an appointment with the badly nominally determinatived named Mr Haq. Following one more episode of intense pain, (which I discovered I could partially manage by pressing firmly on my hernia for about a minute (thereby pushing the hernia back in to the abdomen) ) I found myself in a waiting room ready to meet my surgeon. (Note: Mr Haq of the firm handshake is now known as Mr Haq with the slightly less firm handshake. Still firm enough though to inspire confidence).
At this juncture I must just mention the occupants of the waiting room which were in stark contrast to those I have mentioned previously in regard to Maidstone Hospital A&E. Firstly, age. I’m guessing that I was one of the youngest in the room and that the average age of people present was around 68. Perhaps not surprising as the older you get the longer you have to develop side effects to living. One thing I certainly didn’t see was anyone not drunk but suffering from neurodegenative problems! What was different was sitting in the waiting room with someone who felt that no one would be bothered by him playing prayers, incantations, sermons and bible readings, out loud, from his phone. As I thought on numerous occasions, hallelujah brother, if only God wanted to see you now.
Back to my consultant. Having been ushered into his office and 1.5 seconds after sitting down I stood up again to expose Harry and Harryetta. He confirmed, with the use of just sight, that they were hernias. Many years of learning medicine had now clearly paid dividends. What then followed was more of a surprise. What was meant to be a gentle poke of my hernia by the consultant felt more like a right punch into the solar plexus from Mike Tyson. He seemed unsettled when I was unable to answer his question immediately, as to whether poking my hernia hurt, just because I was gasping for breath and trying to work out if he had operated on my hernias without the use of surgical paraphernalia such as scalpels and anesthetic. A moment later, having regained my composure, I was able to answer. I then detailed the issues I had faced although I was disappointed that he didn’t compliment me on my ‘self operating procedure’ for pushing my hernias back in. Following further back and forth questions he announced, in a rather scary and menacing manner, that I required a total abdominal reconstruction. At this point, whilst there many things I could have brought to the conversation, I thought silence would be the best policy.
Whilst I had not expected this sudden and, quite frankly unwanted, turn of events there was a slight silver lining. Due to my chemotherapy he isn’t prepared to reconstruct (assimilate sounds less scary (star trek reference) me until the chemo is completed. This is because they would have to pause my chemo for up to 6 weeks to allow me to recover from what would be a 5 hour operation. I not sure if this counts as a ‘benefit’ of cancer but positivity and all that.