One of the aspects of being a patient is the sharp contrast between periods of busy-ness and not. There are times when you're being inundated with appointments, correspondence, and medications; there are times when you seem to be just waiting for the next event. Now it's one of those intermediate days. I've had the first bone scan: the one where they inject you with the radioactive element technetium, which for a couple of hours frows around your blood looking for bone tissue, then take an image of it. The half-life of technetium is about six hours and your kidneys are very keen to get rid of it, so after a few days the residuum is vanishingly small. I've also had the second bone scan ('DEXA') where they take an X-ray image of the pelvis and femur to estimate bone density. All that is to ensure one is fit to receive the radiotherapy in due course. (What to do if the answer is no, I am not quite sure: "Were taking an X-ray to see if you're fit to be treated with X-rays".)
Last week I had a scary moment. Worried about the pee smelling a bit like month-old forgotten cabbage in the fridge, I called [first port of call] MacMillan nurse. She recommended getting a sample checked at the GP surgery. That done, I was prescribed antibiotics. Within a couple of hours of taking the first tablet I appeared to be peeing blood. Mustn't get despondent, it's not actually much blood, I was told; tablets will soon clear it up. They did. Another couple of hours and problem had disappeared. Earlier this week I should have had TURP surgery (of which more later). Arrived at hospital, urine sample taken, got gowned up, had the surgeon's cautionary talk for consent form. Minutes passed. Then surgeon re-appeared to say that today's events are postponed. I have an infection courtesy of the Proteus Mirabilis bacterium. (The only bacterium to have a Roman emperor named after it.) [Long-story-short]– Surgery postponed by only four days while more antibiotics are deployed. These things happen, dear FM, do not let them make you despondent!
Another variable is how upbeat or downbeat the various doctors are. Some, like the surgeon giving the pre-op talk, need to talk about the worst case scenario. Others are in the middle: there was the specialist confirming my diagnosis and presenting options. "The mortality rate in ten years is just about the same for either choice…". Finally there are the upbeat ones. The specialist who saw me last week was very upbeat indeed: (let's just call him Doctor Chirpy); he had a happy attitude and was very encouraging, promising that "life like a youg stallion would soon be restored". I honestly think that the same technique should be applied to doctors' prognoses as we were taught to apply to observations in school science experiments. That is, discard the very top and bottom ones and take an average of all the others.
As I write this I'm due to go in for the rescheduled TURP surgery tomorrow. Yes of course I'm worried; but I refuse to be despondent. As I told Dr Chirpy, I dispel any pessimism by thinking about my granddaughter who's just coming up to nine years old. I want to get up and dance at her wedding, whenever in the future that might be.
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