Disappointments.

It was such a shame today. I was so looking forward to my monthly meeting with Mel in Derby which promised to offer a little blessed relief from this horrid health business. But try as I might, I couldn’t stop the waves of mental nausea sweeping over me every so often carrying images of hospital corridors and scanning devices, not to mention the possibility of undergoing hideous procedures and maybe even being thrown onto the unfamiliar byways of the undiscovered country. The whole thing kept polluting the atmosphere and dragging me down.

Still, I did manage to find it interesting that the female manager in the coffee shop had blonde hair, whereas the serving wench underlings were all brunettes with red highlights. I asked the manager whether blonde hair came with promotion. She said ‘no’ and didn’t smile. And the only seat on the train coming back which wasn’t occupied by a human was filled by a human’s big bull mastiff. I chose to stand.

Becoming Lopsided.

One worrying aspect just occurred to me with regard to having a kidney surgically removed. You’d  become asymmetrical and therefore unbalanced, wouldn't you, so you’d always have to be careful never to walk along the canal bank because you might suddenly lurch sideways and fall in.

Mixed Feelings.

You know, part of what so disturbs me about all this medical proceduring (I know it isn’t a word and I don’t care) is the way it takes me out of my world and shackles me to one created by others. I interface with this culture when it suits me, and sometimes it can be quite pleasant for a change – like having coffee and a chocolate muffin in Costa while exchanging light pleasantries with the serving wenches, for example – but I so dislike being drawn down below decks where I feel claustrophobic and alien.

My world is all about feeling the magic of moths gorging on nectar during a summer twilight, of thrilling to the rush of bats racing past my ear, of wishing the birds well as I see them carrying food to their young, of nuzzling the nose of a beautiful horse who doesn’t seem to mind. Hospitals have something about them which carries an undertone of incarceration. After I’d had my interview with the surgeon today, and finished the MRSA swabbing, and completed the questionnaires, the nurse said ‘OK, you can escape now.’ ‘Escape’ was a well chosen word.

Having said all of which, I do appreciate the fact that we still have a functioning National Health Service in Britain in spite of the fact that it’s close to floundering under Thatcher-inspired policies. The pressure it’s under at the moment seems to be largely due to the actions of right-leaning governments, as well as perhaps the administrators of the relatively modern NHS Trusts. The people who do the job at the workface, those who carry out the clinical and support functions to which end a hospital exists, are splendid people – pleasant, helpful, dedicated and skilful. They do their best to smile and encourage away the fears lurking behind the eyes of their patients, and I can’t praise them enough. So whatever my personal feelings about being forced into an alien world, a sincere word of thanks is due to those who genuinely try to help.

Kitty's 95% Problem.

Today is Monday, and as previously notified on this blog, Monday was expected to sound the knell that summoned me to heaven or to hell (with a 95% chance it would be hell.) Ever since I got the dreaded letter last Friday I’ve felt like a kitten locked in a cage with a dozen hungry but sleeping Rottweilers who will be wanting their breakfast when they wake up.

It wasn't as funny as you might think, but the day didn’t quite turn out as expected anyway. Here is a brief summary of how it did turn out:

1. The CT scan showed something loitering in one of my kidneys and the consultant is 95% certain it’s cancer, but he can’t be absolutely certain until he puts a probe in under a general anaesthetic.

2. Such a probe will be part of a surgical procedure which will culminate in the removal of the whole kidney if cancer is confirmed.

3. Before he can do that he has to establish that the presumed cancer hasn’t spread to my lungs, which means I have to have yet another CT scan on my chest.

4. If cancer does show up in the lungs, the permutations become complex and very disturbing. I prefer not to think about that possibility, so I’ll try not to.

How’s that for succinctness?

It seems the most likely scenario is the relatively simple one of removing the kidney. I gather having two kidneys is unnecessary because the body can function perfectly well with one, but I asked the most pressing question anyway: will I still be able to drink alcohol with only one kidney? ‘Yes,’ said the surgeon, ‘in moderation.’ There are times when even I am not stupid enough to request a clinician’s definition of ‘moderation.’ But there are other problems.

I was told that after such an operation the patient has to avoid any kind of strenuous activity for a period of three months, and that includes driving. So how am I supposed to live in a village for three months with no shops and no bus service and the nearest town located seven miles away? And if driving is forbidden, what about vacuuming the carpet, mopping the quarry floors, and making the bed? Etc, etc, etc. As for my country cottage garden, it will surely morph into an environment suited only to a menagerie of wild and dangerous creatures.

What really concerns me, though, is how the remaining kidney will deal with the loss of his beloved twin. Will he grieve and be very upset for a very long time? This is important.

Further developments will be notified. The wait goes on. The kitten escaped the canine jaws on this occasion, but there’s another cage waiting for him a little way down the line.

Strange Bedfellows.

Time to go and get a few hours sleep before I face tomorrow. It’s a tense time, but an interesting thought occurred to me:

If ever I were required to tell Mel that I have a terminal illness, she would feel sorry for herself. If I were to tell her that I have a serious illness but they intend to cure me with some hideous procedure, she would feel sorry for me.

How fascinating that logic can have such an ironic edge.

Attracting Bad Karma.

It’s occurred to me to wonder several times of late whether there is anybody out there who would rejoice at my death. The issue which springs to mind, you see, is that if you rejoice at somebody’s death it implies that, consciously or unconsciously, you wished them dead. And since I happen to place some credence on the notion that thought is energy, it seems to me that wishing somebody dead amounts to a kind of murder by proxy. I suspect that such a deed might have repercussions for the subject after their own curtain falls, even though I have nothing but anecdotal evidence for such a suspicion.

When Mrs Thatcher died a lot of people in the poorer parts of Britain held street parties in celebration and they disturbed me. I had never been a fan of the great architect of social division myself and so I admit to having had mild feelings of satisfaction at her demise, but it fell way short of rejoicing. I would never have attended a street party.

Somebody did wish me dead once, verbally and aggressively, and I remember feeling slightly stung but mostly confused since he had little substantive basis for such an outburst. I think I might feel differently now; I think I might feel sorry for him.

Help or Hindrance.

You know, I’ve always had a trait which I considered unfortunate: Whenever I was in a situation which was interesting and unfamiliar, part of me always stepped outside my head to watch and feel the nature of the situation rather than fully engaging with the situation itself. (The two things are not the same; the former is all about observing yourself relate to apparent reality, and it has diluted a few sensory experiences down the years.)

So now, when times are rough and I need a bridge over troubled waters, I wonder whether I can put that trait to good use in pouring oil onto the swell. Alternatively, it might be a reason to be all the more scared. I don’t know yet.

And I think I might be well advised to stop talking about this issue until I’ve been apprised of what the medics know about me which I don’t.

Continuing the Story.

In case anybody’s interested:

I just received the dreaded letter from the hospital, the one which says simply a further appointment has been made for you. No details, no instructions, no notified procedure. It's so soon after the last scan and the appointment is for Monday morning with the urology consultant. It's all far too urgent for comfort and there can be little room for doubting that they have bad news for me. The weekend might be a little tense. I expect I’ll have more to report on Monday night.

A Matter of Space.

In spite of my earlier muse on the relative merits of motherhood and fatherhood, it occurs to me that women do have it easier in certain ways, not least the fact that they don’t have to stand in unwholesome proximity to a perfect stranger while urinating in a public toilet.

The public toilets in Ashbourne have three urinals, and every time I go in there some bloke of mildly dubious appearance and manner has taken custody of the middle one. Why not take the end one so that the person who follows will be at maximum distance? I always imagine that such people probably park their cars badly, too.

Learning from Adversity.

When I was having my abdomen assaulted by ultrasound last week I asked the technician: ‘Is its heartbeat OK?’ A paltry joke maybe, but pregnancy is what we most associate with examination by ultrasound.

Something occurred to me walking back to the car later, something I’d obviously realised a long time ago (and even written a blog post about) but which had never really sunk in: just how much more profound a concept motherhood is than fatherhood.

After the initial contribution the father does nothing; the mother does it all. She goes through nine months of getting fatter, heavier and wearier while the miracle of a new life unfolds within the confines of a body which was once exclusive to her. She exposes herself to what can be substantial health risks and submits to the processes designed to minimise them. At the end of it she has to suffer the pain of having a large square peg pushed through a small round hole of limited tolerance. And then she is the first to bond with the new little human she has been guarding from the outside world for thirty eight weeks.

How can fatherhood compare with that, no matter how assiduous his support throughout the process?