Last Wednesday, 17th March I got invited to be a patient for 5th year medical students who were taking their final exams. I had done it before at the City Hospital but this time it was at the Queen’s Medical Centre. The taxi turned up at ten past eight and by nine o’clock I was on the examination couch in my gown. The students have to do twelve practical exams and they had all twelve programmed in one morning so it was very busy. There were supposed to be two abdominal patients but the other one didn’t turn up so I had them all to do. Each student has six minutes to complete their examination. The examining consultant was a pancreatic surgeon and he wanted to examine me before the trainees were let loose on me. He looked at my stomach and noted a blue scar. “Radiotherapy tattoo?” he asked. ”Not there I said. I have got three – one on each hip and one on my back above my bum. “You must have been a coal miner then” Any cut that got coal dust in it used to leave a blue scar. “Very interesting” He looked at my operation scar and noted two small scars either side of my main scar. “Have you had keyhole surgery as well?” I tell him I haven’t. Then it must be drains. Then he asked if he could look at my bum so I assumed the position. “What a beautiful job – really neat and so much better than when they just stitched everything up.” Well it doesn’t feel very beautiful and it still hurts.
The first victim comes in. Or am I the victim? The other consultant the last time said it was rather like taking a driving test – there is a set procedure. She introduces herself and starts her examination. Eyes, mouth, neck and then lift the gown for a nipple to knees exam except I am allowed to keep my underclarts on for a bit of modesty. She has a good feel round – liver, kidneys and spleen and then relates her findings to the consultant. “What would you do next” he asks. “Bloods, blood pressure, urine followed by an examination of his anus and rectum, if he has one.” “Why wouldn’t he have one?” he asks. “Because I believe that he has had an abdominal perennial resection.” The consultant is extremely impressed. “Why do you think he has had that done?” “Because Mr. Wilkie has got a stoma in his upper left quadrant and a laparoscopy scar.”
After she leaves, he tells me how impressed he is with her and wonders if anyone else will get it. He says that I am a very interesting patient. Only one more gets my diagnosis correct without prompting from the consultant but one of them did get my blue scar as a coalmining one and not radiotherapy.
The hospital provided a buffet lunch and then I went for my taxi which was waiting at the main entrance. The driver was an Asian with the broadest Nottingham accent I have ever heard. “Taxi for Wilkie?” I said. “Yes my duck!” he responded. His driving left a lot to be desired and he is also having a domestic on his mobile phone with his wife but hey ho what’s a few clipped kerbs between friends. I realise from re-reading this blog that it is now nearly a month since I have written anything I don’t really know why but I have been extremely busy. I have been back to the consultant surgeon to discuss my pre-sacral collection. He had a really good look in my groin and slatted my gonads from side to side. Now I have got to have an imaging examination to make sure that the liquid is oozing from my groin is not urine. “A bit of dye up your willy!” said the consultant. Oh joy of joys! More bloody torture. No wonder the poor thing has only just started coming out from the last lot of torture and now he is going to have something else done to him!
I went to have my cataract examined last week. Sat in the waiting room for over an hour was not my idea of fun especially when we were then ushered into another waiting room for another hour. Antony had skived off work to take me – they have to put eye drops in which dilate the pupils and you can’t drive until the effects wear off. It makes everything so bright – rather like turning your stereo up full but it’s your eyes and not your ears that hurt.
Finally I was called in after sitting with the family from hell who had a daughter who insisted on winding her mother up at every opportunity by poking and prodding her, stroking her hair and generally annoying her at every opportunity. The son, who was about fifteen was aggressively questioning his father why they had to pay for parking. He had a point but I don’t know how he expected his father to do anything about it. My derriere was radioactive by now – two hours was far too long for me.
I sat in the chair in the consulting room and put my chin on a frame rather like a submarine periscope. The consultant turned on the slit lamp and the light scoured the back of my eyeballs through my dilated pupils. “You have a large cataract in your left eye and your eyesight has deteriorated.” That’s why I am here I tell him. “Oh, you want to go on the waiting list.” Memories go back to the last time I was there when I spent the obligatory two hours in the waiting room followed by a half hour exam only to be told that they would not do my cataract because I was on chemotherapy. I started off that consultation by telling them I was on chemo and radiotherapy but they seemed to ignore that until they had got my hopes up.
The consultant then told me I needed to go to the cataract assessment unit – he telephoned them and they said they could do me but there was an hour and a half wait. Antony couldn’t wait any longer so I had to decline his kind offer.
I went to a close friend’s funeral the other day – she died of lung cancer and there were only two hundred and fifty there which was a great send off if that is what you could call it. We went back to the club and I got very drunk in spite of me telling Irene not to leave me any money so I wouldn’t stay all day. Picko and I staggered up the road at seven pm.
It’s been quite a bad month for me as far as cancer is concerned. Bertie Bassett, Indie Chick and now Kezzerbird. And Irene’s sister has told us that she has got breast cancer. Bloody bloody buggering disease.
I start work tomorrow after six years in the wilderness I am going back to the welfare. Yes folks, the piss artist formerly known as Drew is on his way back. Just think of a really sophisticated Phoenix Nights and you won’t be far wrong!
