It’s a simple enough phrase when delivered, just three words. “You have cancer.” But those three words tell you everything, and nothing at all.
I’d passed a bit of blood in my urine, which meant inserting a thin tube with a camera, light and heaven knows what else into a part of the body that no gentleman ever wants a camera inserting. I was determined not to look at the monitor, but opened my eyes just as the camera swivelled round and showed the bright red patch on the otherwise clear lining of my bladder.
My concern at my manhood being manhandled by another man while an audience of four women looked on quickly vanished.
As for the unexpected offer of a digital rectal examination while I was there and on display… I made a joke about a visit from Dr DRE. They laughed. The next part went as you would expect, and needs no words from me… ahem.
Then I’m sat down in a literal corner of the room while the two radiologists box me in, facing me to tell me it’s cancer.
I have no idea what their actual words were – why would I? I just recall them being very insistent that it was, indeed, cancer. Okay, I can cope with that… but why the insistence? That was confusing. I said “tumour”; one of them said “no, cancer.” Scary. As was the part about them getting me in early next year to whip it out. You can read more about the process for bladder cancer on the NHS website.
Now: I know how it works. Scrape out what’s there, analyse it, determine if it’s just ‘on the surface’ or if it’s spread further. But I also know there are different stages of these things. A ballpark would have been nice. Does it look like something relatively ‘normal’, or does it look like something that has metastasized so that my life expectancy can be counted in months rather than years?
Obviously they can’t commit to a diagnosis until they’ve had a proper look but they fact they want to whip me in early in the New Year, during the Time of Covid… well, it doesn’t look good, does it?
Or perhaps… I’m reading too much into this?
Perhaps this is just the normal process, and they do this with all patients? In which case… a bit of a steer there would have been nice as well. Perhaps another leaflet instead of a business card with a number for a specialist nurse to call if I have any questions. I don’t need to talk to someone, I need to see things written down – then I can ask questions.
In fact, the nurses seemed better at putting me at my ease. Then again, as those of you who know me well enough, simply telling me I have cancer and I’ll be going under the knife doesn’t tell me enough to get worried.
Moral: how you tell your message is as important as the message itself.
All the above took place during one hour yesterday, which was another issue. The invitation letter said it would take two to three hours, and that I should bring a dressing gown and slippers. In my case, buy a dressing gown. But that turned out to be the pre-Covid standard letter… wonder if I can return the dressing gown, as I’ve not worn it yet?
Then I had to go back in the afternoon for the CT scan, which is a whole other experience to document. Could things perhaps get worse? Won’t know until at least next week, or next year – whenever the results of the scan and the blood work from last Friday are assessed. Curse you, Christmas and New Year (and curse me for not calling the Doctor earlier).
I suppose one of the things that’s bugging me is that one of my cousins has cancer (she didn’t say which type), and has not been getting any better the last three years. But that’s better than my old school friend, Chris; diagnosed with bowel cancer in August 2019, dead by the end of May 2020. Where am I on that scale? Might I be ‘cured’ of it after the operation, and not have to worry again once the regular post-operation check-ups are done? Or should I buy next year’s Christmas cards in the sales, as I won’t be around to do it next November?
We shall see, I guess.
Until then… keep calm and carry on? Much easier said than done.
Merry Christmas – and see you in 2022.