On Monday I was back at work, unable to eat after 11am to prepare my body for the PET CT scan. Water only for 6 hours before the procedure.
I allowed an hour to get to the hospital, park up and find the scanning unit. I was glad I had as traffic built up at a major round-a-bout, backing up for a mile on the approach. The ‘free’ car park I was led to believe would be available was not clearly to be found, so had to park in a different one and walk.
The unit was in a large mobile, like a double mobile classroom schools had in the 70’s and 80’s.
I sat myself on a padded chair and waited to be seen. Presently a nice young chap with pink hair appeared. For the sake of privacy, I shall not give his name, though it was not a normal name. He proceeded to ask me the regular questionnaire questions, before offering me a glass of water from a dispensing machine and letting me know that someone would be along to deal with me shortly.
I was taken through a door by a nurse who wanted to take my height and weight, and then shown back to the waiting area
I imagine that only one person could be scanned at time so settled back to watch a quiz show on the TV. The young man re-appeared and lead me through into the main body of the mobile unit and round into a small cordoned off area with a comfy chair, a side table with well-thumbed magazines and posters, and left me there. I read the posters whilst waiting, seeing how many letters of the alphabet I could find in the main two to pass the time.
I overheard a conversation between a woman nurse and someone else in which she said I am from Jamaica not Africa.
After a few minutes the lovely Jamaican woman came round the parting wall to ask me the questions again, as if I may have changed or they may have the wrong form. This time she asked if I had been born a male. To my answer in the affirmative, she replied ‘good’. It is not for me to judge what she meant by her reply, but we both smiled. She then asked if I was okay with injections. I said not really. I would never get a tattoo. She responded that she was considering getting one. I suggested she left it at the consideration stage and that even a small butterfly would not suit her.
Asking me to roll up my sleeve, she mopped the inside of my elbow and stretched out a tourniquet. ‘Can you make a fist please?’ and she tied to tourniquet tight to expose the vein before slipping the small tip of a cannula into my arm. This was stuck down with tape and a small injection given to make sure it was working.
Then came the radioactive dye. She stood back and played with a machine which seemed to have been designed in the 19th century. I felt a little cold liquid pass into my arm, but no more.
‘Okay, someone will be back in a hour so make yourself comfortable. If you need to go to the toilet, please pull on the rope.’ And with that I was left to my own and the pile of magazines.
I read about Princess Kate and that edited photograph; about the Oscars; about Christine McGuninness and her trip on the Pilgrimage; and about Wayne Sleep and parties he had had with Freddie Mercury and Elton John.
The young man with the pink hair re-appeared.
‘Okay darling, we are ready for you now. Do you need to go to the toilet first?’ I did. It felt and smelt like I had been eating asparagus.
He led me through to the scanning room and invited me to lie down. He then asked if I could push my trousers down below my knees before trussing me up like a turkey for Christmas, arms securely fastened beside my body, keens supported by a padded cushion.
Fifteen minutes or so later they were done with me. ‘All finished, darling. You’re free to go now.’
And with that I was allowed to dress myself, collect my personal bit and pieces and walk back to the car to drive home. I was hungry and tired.
It was 7.30 by the time I arrived home. 12 hours after leaving to go to work. My poor wife works 12-hour shifts in total, overnight. The radioactive dye was beginning to work it was through me and I felt it was making my bowels more like a liquid. I visited the toilet several times, and then again in the morning half a dozen time in 20 minutes.
During the day I had a mini accident concern, but was able to clear myself up, before spending more time on the toilet in the evening.
‘It’s not normal,’ was all my wife could say. ‘Think of soup,’ I replied. ‘In the fridge it is solid, in the pan with heat it is wet. I feel the same’
‘It is okay. All will be okay’ she responded, reassuring herself and me. I did not feel too good or comfortable, and despite being very tired and ready to go to bed at 8.30 it was another hour before I felt I could trust my stomach / bowels not to make a mess.
In preparation for a period of convalescence I had bought myself DVD’s of Ewan McGregor and
Charley Boorman’s trips on motor bikes. These had arrived and we chatted about them. She knew
McGregor as an actor. I said he was in Star Wars. ‘A bad Man? Is he dead?’
My wife believes all famous actors or singers are dead. I assured her he was not, and that he played a good man in Star Wars. I was not sure she would want to watch the DVD’s, though.
And another week passed, waiting.
