I'm going for the Open
Patient policy. That is, I talk
about it, as necessary. I talk if talking is going to help. That's
help
as in to help me, or to help someone else, be that someone else a
family member, a friend, or just my Fellow Man.
(Should I have said “Just” there?) Hey! The Fellowship
of Man is important; let's not
downplay it. Fellow men, I address you all: Dear FM!…. We know
what we're made of: slugs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails
as the old nursery rhyme goes; so yes – talking about it is
sometimes going to involve some messy stuff.
I
promise, as far as reasonably possible, to use gentle euphemisms when
the details get onto the very messy stuff, the very-very messy,
inconvenient and sometimes agonisingly painful stuff. This won't
suit every reader nor every sub-topic, so remember, whatever device
you're reading this on, it has a [back] [cancel] [get-outa-here]
button and I shan't mind if you feel the need to use it.
Once
I started telling people about it, most reactions were very helpful
and reassuring. “My dad had that and lived another x
years” that sort of thing. There was even the friend who said
“Everybody's had
that; I've got a hormone implant, here [points to chest] – like a
chicken.” What varied a lot from one also-patient
to another was the story about how they first came to get tested and
diagnosed. It seemed that everybody's story was different; so for
what it's worth, here's mine.
I
was noticing that I woke up in the night a lot wanting to pee, but
not a lot was forthcoming. I've woken up for the sake of 200 ml.
What's that about? So I went to see my doctor and told him adding
“Do you think my prostate needs looking at?” Yes, he said.
First we need to do some blood and urine tests. More or less from
that instant, it seemed that the combined teams of urology and
oncology at the renowned Cambridge hospital of Addenbrookes had been
deployed on my behalf. Appointments followed each other with such
bewildering speed that sometimes it took a look-up on the Google
calendar to remind me what I was there for!
So
far, most of my appointments have been diagnostic or consultation
rather than treatment, so it's still early days. Meanwhile, dear FM,
some good news and bad to share. Good: once you're a cancer patient,
you're top priority; you get the next available appointment for any
treatment. My first pre-consultation appointment was for an MRI
scan. That was a day to remember. The priority queueing system
meant I got a can-you-come-in-tomorrow call for 8:30 for a day
when I had a family funeral to go to in the afternoon. The MRI scan
was fine. You just wear ear defenders and lie down in the mouth of
what looks like a huge washing machine for half an hour while it
makes loud rhythmic noises. I think I fell asleep. The hardest part
of the day was circulating around family members all asking “How
are you?” and having to say fine because nothing was known
yet.
Four
days later I had my first urology consultation. Urologist announced
that the MRI scan had showed something important, and I needed an
ultrasound scan on the bladder –like immediately. Turns out my
prostate was so enlarged that it was restricting urine flow so much
that I had a serious peeing deficit. “You're not going home
tonight,” he said, “We need to fix you up with a catheter so all
this can drain off.” “But at least it's probably not cancer; we
can fix that with simple surgery in a few weeks.” They reckon that
the catheter drained off 1.5 litres that was causing back-up pressure
that could have had me collapse with catastrophic kidney failure at
any moment. I reckon it was nearer three litres, based on my body
weight before and after. (Bad news, dear FM): sometimes even the top
experts miss something. A few days of thinking all was well ended
when closer study of the MRI showed some lesions; and soon it was
time for a biopsy.
The
biopsy: well, yes. Now I'm an East Anglian and we just love
the understatement. Folk from that little bum-shaped area of eastern
England believe that if you really want to make your point in a
discussion, the quietly spoken understatement beats any amount of
exaggerated shouting. Bearing that in mind, the patient info leaflet
on prostate biopsies, in particular the line that reads “You may
experience some discomfort” was probaby written by the extremist
jihadi wing of the understatement mafia. No FM, you will not
“experience some
discomfort”. This
procedure knocks any mediæval torture you may have come across in
Horrible Histories
into a cocked hat. I endured it by reminding myself that (at this
stage anyway) it was probably preferable to a grisly death; by
thinking of all that moral high ground I had scored by signing the
bit on the consent form that says yes you can take “a few extra
samples” for research; but mostly by grabbing a mouthful of the
pillow I was on and biting as hard as I could. “You may need to
sit and rest for a few minutes afterwards” says the leaflet. I
didn't. I needed to lie on a recovery bed for an hourand a half
sipping water and nibbling biscuits until I was fit for anything.
A
few more days of waiting brought the results. Cancer confirmed;
treatment described (hormone regulators to befollowed by radiotherapy
after a few months); a MacMillan nurse and a Navigtor
allocated. (That's an advisor, who is a great help.) Oh yes, and a
huge pile of printed paper (leaflets, letters, books) to take home
and read.
So
that's the beginning of the journey. The battle. And the battle
against cancer is about normal life carrying on despite it.
No comments:
Post a Comment