The Demise of Rolans Ratso

The demise of Roland Ratso. January 2009. It probably started about a year ago in 2007 when I had a low blood count during my diabetes routine screening and my doctor ordered me to have another blood test. This came back normal and nothing further happened. Doctor Lowe has now retired and I am in the process of training Doctor Lewis (or as she put it - she is training me - which is actually a moot point as to who is actually training who.) Another blood test in December 2008 showed another anaemic situation and when I was summoned to Doctor Lewis I also told her that my stools were foul smelling and that I thought there was blood in them. She said that she would need to examine my “tail end” or if I preferred, I could have Doctor MacDonald to do it. Doctor Mac is large in every sense of the word and the thought of his sausage shaped rugby players fingers invading my derriere made me decide to take my chances with Doctor Lewis’s feminine and delicate piano player’s digits. Having been asked to take a deep breath and Doctor Lewis saying something about getting past the muscle, the “tail end” examination was complete. “Tail end “ examination completed I was duly packed off to the NHS walk in centre at the Queens Medical centre in Nottingham, well within the recommended sixty two days, to the bowel clinic. The walk in centre is a brand new building, probably a PFI and is large, bright and airy with a full size palm tree growing through the three floors. Parking is easy and simple. Having entered through the appropriate gateway I was ushered into the bowel clinic and after a quick chat was invited to get on the couch with my knees up under my chin and poking my not inconsiderable arse over the edge of the couch. The nurse was not quite as subtle as Dr. Lewis - she was straight in - and out again. There was a lump which she was going to get investigated straight away. I was told quite bluntly that the lump could be a polyps, an unidentified growth or cancer. Ten minutes later saw me in surgical gown lying on a bed in front of a flat screen monitor. I watched intently as the camera detailed all of the hairs surrounding my back passage and then I became intimately acquainted with the inside of my bowel. Roland was nestling near the entrance - a large grey blob that was definitely out of place amongst the myriad of other colours in my pulsating bowel, smiling and sticking two fingers up at me. The radiographer told me that your bowels are never still and you could tell he was really into his work! A small cactus grab then pinched pieces of Roland for a biopsy, along with several photographs and a video. (reminder – watch the TV awards for Roland’s horror film) The radiographer told me that it was the worst news possible – it was cancer. The nurse explained that my feet would now not touch the floor for a couple of weeks. A “team” would be assembled – surgeon, radiographer, oncologist, dietician and they would decide on my treatment. There then followed an MRI scan and CT scan and a barium enema. The radiographer said that he couldn’t find my appendix - had it been taken out? I assured him it hadn’t. He then apologised profusely for blowing up my bowel even more and injecting more barium, saying he had to get a picture of my appendix or I would only have to come back. I told him not to apologise – many famous celebrities pay a fortune for colonic irrigation and I was getting it for nothing. After the enema I was ushered into my own private bathroom where I was able to play the equivalent of the last post (my interpretation) while white pebble dashing the toilet. Having thought I was finished I put on my shirt and pants and went outside for tea and biscuits ( I was not allowed to eat anything before the incursion) followed by a short trip to the changing rooms through the main reception farting along the way - much to the amusements of the other inmates. Whilst getting changed “the weight came on” and I had to rush to the toilets in reception where a volcanic eruption took place accompanied by a blast of barium. I left the toilet rather sheepishly and made my way to my car. Oh no! The “weight” was on again and I had to rush into the PFI toilet quickly telling the receptionist it was an emergency. Again there was a cacophony as the air that the radiographer had injected made its way out. I heard the toilet door open and close again. I am fairly sure it was the receptionist making sure I was not up to something. Which I was. But probably not what he thought I was up to! To be continued.............................