Oh dear, I have some bad news and some worse news. Monday 27 July 2011 and I have to get up early to see some important clients into the club. The weather is sweltering and I am aware that I have got the oncologist at 1420 this afternoon. I check my analogue/digital chronometer and go home so that I can have a shower and get ready for the onco. It was about this time last year when I saw him – I am on a six monthly review – and Wimbledon was on and I asked him if he watched the tennis. “No I do not” he replied curtly, “Only I was just wondering because I thought it might have given you the idea of whacking my knackers from one side to the other.” (He was looking for a fluid leak in my groin.) Not a smile, not a snigger. My onco has had his sense of humour chip melted.
I get showered and get my best underclarts out of the drawer ready to impress and Tim drives me to the hospital. We are three quarters of the way there when I “feel a smell.” During one of my coughing fits Tom-ass has ejaculated my bag. “Shit!” I cry out. Literally. I frantically tell Tim that I need to go home and we debate where to turn the car around. Tim drives down an underpass to a roundabout when I tell him to carry on – it is not too bad and I can clean myself up at hospital. One more coughing fit later and I am in dire straits. I shutter myself up with various waste bags, wipes and other bits and pieces and we arrive at the drop off point with me holding on to a pile of assorted rubbish. I undo the seat belt and realise that it is covered. I ask Tim to get hold of it so it doesn’t retract into its little house and gingerly I make my way to the disabled toilet.
Someone is in there. So I go in the gents. Both are engaged and then someone comes out. I go in and find there is no toilet paper. Things are getting desperate. I go back the disabled toilet and it is free and start to disassemble myself. I take off my shirt and trousers. They are covered. And my belt. I start scrubbing everything stood just in my underclarts which were luckily untouched. It is a bigger job that I first envisaged. I get my belt clean followed by my trousers. The paper hand wipes that I am using have disintegrated with the water and everything is covered in mottled white but at least they are clean(ish)
There is a knock on the door. “Hello” a voice says, “Are you OK?” I reply that I am. “Can you open the door please, I need to see that you are O.K.” I respond that I have got no clothes on. “I still need to see you” the voice replies, if you don’t open the door I will have to have it opened.” I open the door and stand facing a grand little chap with pebble lensed glasses. “I am O.K.” I tell him, “I am up to my neck in shit – no bullets yet” and ask him if he wants to join in and give me a hand. “ No that’s alright” he responds “As long as you are O.K.” I tell him I am but his toilet might not be.
I duly make my way to the reception desk on Gateway I on the second floor. The receptionist takes my invitation and taps her computer keyboard. One puzzled frown later and she tells me that the appointment is for the 27 JULY. Bollocks! Chemo brain strikes again!
I make my way back to the car and ask Tim how he got on with his part of the project. He asked an ambulance man who had parked next to him and he got wipes and cleaner and sorted everything out. How lucky was that?
Well I can’t blame my digital/analogue watch on that one!
