Hi Friends….
OK, so it’s been a while since the last blog – but there really has has been beggar all to tell (unless you want to know about my toe nail cuttings……..No, I thought not)
Anyway – yesterday I went to Salisbury to see my Consultant or, as the letter said, a member of the team. Two weeks ago I had an MRI scan to see if the cancer had escaped the prostate and had found its way around the rest of my body - heaven knows, there’s enough body for it to use.
My appointment yesterday was to give me a prognosis (is that the right word?) and a future plan – sounds very up-market to me. So – up I go, driving the twenty-odd miles from home with a bottle of pee in my pocket, ‘cos they said they needed another sample, and feeling very guilty because I was not going to drive all that way with a full bladder. I would top up when I got there. Top up? Sounds like a pension plan, doesn’t it?
Anyway – parking was easy and I checked in with more than half an hour to spare. Told to sit and wait, I found an old copy of a motoring magazine (did you know that the Austin 7 is available in any colour from 14 different shades of black? And it’s only £100 plus Purchase Tax?)
Yup – true to form, I was only there for a few minutes and the nurse called my name and ushered me along another corridor. “Mr Cross,” she whispered, very conspiratorially. “Have you got a full bladder?” Are these corridors bugged, I wondered.
“No,” said I, “I didn’t think I would need one. I know what’s wrong with me. Today is all about solving my problem.”
“But your letter said…….Oh never mind. There’s the water. You need to drink at least five cups. I’ll put you to the back of the queue.”
So, mild as you like, I started on the water. One – two – three - four – five - - - - -six - - - - - - seven.
“Nurse………I’m ready………..”
No nurse.
“Nurse……..”
Then, a door opened and I heard my name called. Not ‘my’ consultant (as if I own him) but a French subsidiary.
At this point, you must read some of this in a French accent……. "Mr Cross, you know why you are here?”
“Yes – I have been diagnosed with Prostate Cancer, I had an MRI scan a couple of weeks ago and you are about to tell me if it’s spread to the rest of my body.”
(and I would like a pee, please)
“No, Mr Cross, your MRI scan is OK.”
Now does that mean that I’ve not got PC? As John Wayne once said….”Tha hell it does.”
Please – I’m not being nasty. The registrar was really, really nice. The cancer was contained within the prostate capsule – it hadn’t bought an AwayDay ticket and gone to visit some other part of my anatomy. (Although – where could be better to spend a holiday than my prostate?)
He asked me what I felt was the preferred course of treatment for me…….Come on, I’m a building surveyor. How the heck should I know? Good grief, if I was a lean-to, I’d pull me down and start me all over again.
But no, all along, I have said that I believe that surgery was best. Cut the beggar out and be rid of it. I’ll deal with the side effects in my own way. So that’s what I told him. I wanted a radical prostatectomy (did I really say that?) I’ve seen the video of the da Vinci robot. I want one of them, please……..
(and a pee might be a good idea…..)
“Ah, I am so sorry, Mr Cross. We do not have a da Vinci down here. In fact, we are not even authorised to do laparoscopic surgery without someone …….mentoring – is that the right word? Yes, mentoring – you know – watching us. You know, looking over our shoulder while we train.”
My mind created thoughts that I dare not speak……”Yes – on your bike, sunshine. You’re not fiddling with my bits while you’ve still got L plates on.” My voice, on the other hand, said “Well, that’s OK then. I’m happy with open surgery. “
(and can I have a pee, please?)
What was I saying? Open me up? Have a party in my abdomen? (Alright – I know it’s probably big enough for a party. I’ve tried to lose weight – honest I have.)
But that’s what I said – and that’s what I’m standing by. Well, laying by. Asleep. I hope.
And that was it. He told me that I would be put on the list and that I would be seen is a very short space of time, and have I got any questions?
“No, I’m fine.”
(I need a pee, though. Why did I wear light-coloured trousers?)
As I walked out of the door, I heard him start to dictate notes into a small recording machine.
I, on the other hand, headed straight for the nearest loo.
So that’s it, my friends. Steve’s contaminated prostate is coming out. Sometime soon, I hope.
More news when I hear.
Much love
Steve
(Oh – and they never wanted the bottle of pee in my pocket, either. I’ve put it on eBay – who knows what it will fetch?)
