My wife kept saying, there must be a mistake. There is nothing wrong with you.
I just replied, I feel fine, but something has been found. Let’s just wait for the results.
We sat in a local supermarket drinking overpriced coffee and eating muffins. I had wanted to go to a café, which though probably more expensive, would have offered a calmer area to sit and talk. Being a Monday, it was shut.
Denial brought on by disbelief was strong. I knew my body, and felt there was something the matter, however small.
My visits to the toilet had become more frequent, especially after my morning tea, and often comprised of more water or pellets of Poo than proper Poo worthy of the name; nothing to be proud of. I had felt increasingly hungry. As we sat finishing our coffees my mobile rang. It was a number I did not recognise, but given the circumstances answered it.
‘Hello, is that Richard? ’This is the hospital. I understand you need a MRI Scan. We have a vacant slot at 7.30 tomorrow morning. Would that be possible?’
‘Well, it needs to be done, so yes. ‘I replied
A text followed shortly after confirming time and place. In a daze I wandered round the supermarket collecting the few items we needed, insisting I paid for them and made our short way home. I sent my MD a message, stating that I was unable to drive to work afterwards until afternoon, and that I was happy to take the time unpaid.
My wife and I just looked at each other across the kitchen table. Unable to think of anything to say, I
held her hands, then moved round to hug her. No words were necessary. I mopped away the few small tears which had come to the corner of her eyes.
What was there to say? The hospital and done an investigation and found something. Now they were taking quick steps to investigate further. Were these steps a sign of worry, or was it just that we were going away the following week?
We played cards and listed to music, as most evenings together when she is not working. My MD had replied that he could come and collect me if I gave him 45 minutes notice once I was back home.
Waking at an ungodly hour of 5.45 the following morning, I sipped an espresso after a quick shower, and we made to leave the house by 6.15. The drive would normally be just 20 minutes, but my wife was convinced the traffic would already have started to build up.
It hadn’t. By 6.40 we had parked the car and ambled gently up to the Community Diagnosis Centre. It was shut.
We saw security guards in the building opposite, where we had been the day before, so walked across and asked if we could wait in the warm. The café was not yet open, but we were able to sit in the warm and watch as people slowly started to arrive for work.
At 7.00ish we ambled back to the CDC. The swish revolving doors slid open allowing us access. We were the only people there.
A few moments later a security guard wandered through, then a side door opened and two people came to open a small café area. A nurse appeared from one internal door, and briskly walked across to another, tapping her entry badge to allow her access to that corridor.
Then a receptionist appeared and without taking off her coat, started tapping away on a keyboard.
I made my way across to the desk and waited for her to look up.
‘I need to get logged in’’ she said.’ I may be a couple of minutes and then I shall be with you.’
In a couple of minutes, she was ready. I told her what I was there for and presented her with my left wrist, on which I had left my tag with my hospital number for the previous day. I had no letter to confirm an appointment, only a text message.
‘Ah, yes, here you are. If you wait in the MRI area you will be called through.’
That word again. Wait.
Patience is the key. If the tumour had been brought on by stress, then all I could do was be patient and wait. Anything else would simply make matters worse.
I was collected by a male student nurse and lead through to the MRI Area. As the building was only recently built, everything was beautifully clean and airy, with space and light.
We went to a small interview room, where I was left as he went off time find another questionnaire.
Did I have tattoos, piercings? Was I pregnant? Did I have any metal inside me?
I was led to a changing room area and once again handed two gowns, one for front and one back, and asked to take off anything with metal. In the middle of changing the student knocked on the door to ask if I was okay.
‘Yes’, I mumbled, trying to tie up ribbons behind my back which did not appear to be at the same alignment on the gown. I left it and put the second one with the opening at the front. The ribbons were not at the same alignment, so gave up after tying one pair loosely. I waddled out in shoes, socks and gown and waited for the student to return to show me the way to a set of lockers.
Handing the key in to the booth, I was lead through to the scan room and again asked my name and date of birth. I understand the need to check, but at every juncture.
I was invited to lie down on my back and made to feel comfortable. Had I had a scan done before? Yes, on a knee.
The machine would be loud and rattly. I was given ear plugs and had ear defenders placed over them then asked if I would like to listen to some music.
My mind raced back to a short period of work life when an agency worker was asked what music he listened to – early Genesis, he’d replied, Autumn ‘72 to Spring ’74. We looked at each other with blank expressions, trying not to make full eye contact and laugh. How could anyone be so specific, even with a band with such a back catalogue?
I considered asking for Ramstein, thinking this would drown out the noises but instead plumped for classical, thinking this would help me go to sleep. In the end I got nothing, jut squeaks, bangs and rattles. For perhaps 20 mins I was passed through the tube, just a few inches separating my body and the end of the machine.
All this attention, and I felt fine. I had not seen any blood for weeks, and despite going to the toilet slightly more frequently before going to work, nothing had changed as far as I was concerned.
I was home by 9.30.
Unable to drive I sent my MD an e-mail. And waited.
He called at 11.15, saying he would pick me up in about an hour.
Keen to see the man I had spoken so much about, my wife followed me out to the local garage where we had agreed to meet. He unwrapped himself from his sleek Mercedes sports car and came towards us, turning red with embarrassment. We shook hands and I introduced them to each other. He mumbled something along the lines of good to see you before he turned back to his car. I kissed my wife, and she wondered off to look at flowers and outdoor plants as I slid into the front seat and was driven to work.
