Scanxiety
The Cancer Diaries: Pt 13
Since being told officially I was in full remission on July 19th last year I’ve been just cracking on with things and enjoying me life. Dealing with Jackie (My temperamental Stoma) has been an experience (which I’d very much like to fucking end soon but hey ho…) but generally the whole Cancer journey and the treatment I had has faded to the dim and distant recesses of my mind. I look at pictures now and then and get reminders from various social media posts I dropped into the mix back then to note important milestones but that’s more or less it…I’ve even stopped telling people. Honest I have!
So, when I got a hospital letter a few weeks ago inviting me to a CT scan as part of a yearly check up it was a bit of a wake-up call and it’s fair to say that my arse metaphorically twitched! Once I got there I was soon back in the routine though. Pants down. Injected with the contrast stuff so it feels like you’ve pissed yourself. Everyone else exits the room ‘cos the radiation’s too dangerous for them to be in there but as you’re full of it already you can stay in there and cook your insides a bit more.
Then I was out. Walking past the entrance to Scarborough Hospital in the sunshine I had a little flash back to almost a year ago when I was being discharged for the second time (the whole nearly died thing – Cancer Diaries PT12) and I was sat in my wheelchair outside in the sun waiting for my lift and feeling pretty chipper. I almost broke into a smile at the thought of it.
Then two days later I got the call inviting me to York Hospital for a colonoscopy and while I was initially unfazed by it my mood started, almost imperceptibly, to dip. I felt as though, having been diagnosed as stage three in August ’21 and knowing that was canny bad, I’d somehow got away with it and was living a bonus life full of beer, sunny days, football, great gigs and good mates but knew that could all be snatched back away from me now.
I knew logically that the tumour had gone and the removal of my offending bit of bowel and all of the surrounding nodes had made the chances of it coming back pretty slim but even optimistic me (and I am pretty fucking chirpy these days like - sorry! ) started to panic at the thought of entering the long, dark cancer tunnel again. This was then compounded when my ‘prep’ pack arrived. I’d been on a low-residue (ie fucking bland shite!) diet for over a year but in in recent months had taken to throwing caution to the wind and eating whatever I wanted (and it was bloody great!) and that was being taken away again. It all just added to the anxiety that was starting to creep into my mind.
I was also confused as to why I had to do the ‘prep’ anyway as basically it involves eating nowt for about 24 hours prior to the ‘Oscopy’ and drinking absolutely fucking rank laxatives the night before to clear out your bowel, however, I couldn’t see why this would apply to me and I’ll explain why in the next sentence – if you’re a little bit squeamish you might want to give it a miss…
My bowel was effectively chopped in half last June and everything I now eat goes in my mouth, travels through the small part of my bowel and exits via the natty little bag attached to my stomach. With me so far? Good. The part they wanted to check is much, much lower down and in the ‘half’ of my bowel that hasn’t seen any traffic in over a year so I would basically be cleaning out the section where the camera wouldn’t be going. I tried to explain this in two phone calls to the nurse but she was adamant they knew I had a stoma and it was all in hand so I assumed they knew what they were doing.
And so the night before, like a good little patient, I necked both pints of the vomit inducing laxative. The first pouch claimed to be ‘Mango’ flavoured (fucking wasn’t like!) and the second was ‘Fruit Punch’ – it’s fair to say it didn’t have me bopping around to Club Tropicana in my matching 80’s shorts and vest like a better looking Andrew Ridgeley but it was marginally less shit than the first one.
Then the next day I’ve got there (York hospital’s about an hour’s drive from me) and hit the waiting room full of Leeds fans, absolutely lorded it up over them and then got called in by the standard lovely nurse. Usual drill. Kit off, weird backwards paper shorts on, get on the bed.
Right, squeamish types…you might want to stop now. Just go to the bit at the bottom where you can click on some other stuff I’ve written. Anyone else still here? Good. Lets go…
The consultant got me ready, the gas and air was within reach, the train went into the tunnel (that’s a euphemism – I am a writer after all!) and we were away.
Except we weren’t.
Apparently there was a problem with the batteries (nightmare that ladies eh?) and the camera came back out again while the nice nurse tried to distract me.
Batteries sorted, back in.
Another problem – undisclosed this time, back out.
Nice nurse starts asking me what I’m doing at the weekend. If this was in my single days she’d have had my attention. It isn’t and she didn’t.
And then we were back in!
No problems this time as I watch my insides fill the screen. There’s a lot of grey though. Fuckin’ hell, it’s not only come back but I’m riddled with the bastard! My morale plummets as I contemplate more Chemo and a much shorter life spent mainly in hospitals.
‘That grey stuff’s Mucus Andy’
‘Eh?’
‘As you haven’t used this part of your bowel in a long time it hasn’t had the chance to expel it, it’s all quite normal.’
Mint. Chirpy as fuck again even though I’m being violated in a room with three strangers and the only pretty one isn’t even at the business end.
‘Can I ask though did you do any prep for this?’
‘Yes Doc, I drank both pouches of the solution. It was horrible.’
‘You had an oral solution?’
He’s got a ‘for fuck’s sake’ face on – turns out I was right about the fucking ‘prep’ after all!
Then he showed me the ‘join’ from my previous op, could even see the stitches that were still there, and said the magic words.
‘There’s no sign of any recurrent disease here Andy.’
Woohoo. At least another year of the aforementioned sunshine, football, gigs and booze stretched out before me.
I celebrated the next night at Scarborough open air theatre as we had tickets to see Blondie who were only supported by one of my favourite bands The K’s – the big fella was definitely looking after me. Sadly though I got some bad news the next day when I found out that two of my old friends from my bedsit days in Banbury were both in very bad ways leaving me to reminisce with a couple of pints on the Friday night about the times we’d had back in the nineties and reflect on how far I’d come. I’d been very lucky (and hard as nails obviously!) to have got away with it but not everyone is and the universe definitely has a way of reminding you to keep your wits about you.
I know you’re bored with hearing this from me now but it’s the best advice you’ll ever get from anyone, anywhere :-
Enjoy every minute of ya life – even Mondays, tell your family you love them and please, if owt’s wrong or different, GET FUCKING CHECKED!
Paul, Tony, rest easy lads and we’ll have that pint again one day.
Fuck Cancer
Rivs
