The nurse and consultant looked at each other, then suggested they give the unit a call. I was handed the phone once they had made contact and an appointment was hastily arranged for the following Monday evening.
I was then told what the consultant expected to do in the surgery – cut a section of the bowel out, remove the tube and cancer, then stretch the bowel and re-join. I would be in hospital until I was able to walk comfortably again, perhaps up to 5 days. In that time, I would have a panic button if things got too painful; I would be given pain killing injections; I would be helped to walk round the ward. It was all considerably bigger than I had expected.
I could have a poo ‘Stoma’ bag for 3 months, perhaps 6 months. I would have personal pain killing injections to administer myself for a month; I could not drive for a month afterwards; I would be signed off work for 6 weeks. My mind was a blur. The consultant tried to ask my wife a question, but with his think Indian accent and with her Portuguese brain, she did not understand what he was trying to ask, so looked at me and I shook my head and waved my hands.
I was asked to lie on my side so the consultant could establish where the cancer lay. I dropped my trousers and hunched up my knees as I listened to the unnerving sound of a glove being stretched over a hand and snapped close to expel the air. He then roughly inserted his finger inside me. I felt like I was being raped. It was thoroughly unpleasant. His attempted joke as to how far he inserted his arm fell on distinctly deaf ears. I hoped he would not be so rough in performing the surgery.
The nurse then proceeded to show me a couple of poo bag options, like encouraging the purchase of accessories in a clothes shop, before flicking through a book all about the procedure and aftercare.
Needed a coffee and to get out of there.
We collected the book and box of papers and left to find the parking meter and leave. Even that seemed to irritate me, giving me a price 50 p more than advertised and then not making the payment process clear, especially as it was at waist level and I had to bend down to read the screen. I had inserted my bank card and waited, expecting it to ask me my pin code, when it announced the process was complete and to take ticket. What Process complete? I exclaimed. A man waiting nearby to use the machine unhelpfully replied, your payment process.
How should I know when it has not asked me for my PIn?
I wandered off muttering and swearing under my breath, the stress of the morning building up. We drove home in virtual silence.
We sat outside with a tea and coffee, digesting what had happened and talking through what we could remember. After a small lunch we headed off to a local garden centre, my wife needing to do something.
I bought her some flowers for our garden. She bought us coffee and cheesecake.
At 6 o’clock that evening she eventually went to bed, some 28 hours after waking up. She slept for 16 hours.
I sat and watched TV and contemplated what I was facing, and how it would work practically.
Our house is an old cottage, and the stairs are in the wall and though not steep the bathroom is downstairs and away from the bedroom.
If I needed to work from home, I did not have a desk and did not know what leads and appliances would be needed for laptop and telephone. I could not drive. I could not go out, without hobbling and being close to a toilet. How would I sleep with a bag attached?
I drifted off to bed and slept fitfully.
The weekend was a long one with neither of us working. We needed to do something. On Saturday evening we visited the grandchildren, then on Sunday we drove to the coast to play the 2p slot machines in the arcades, but primarily to do something. We won three key rings without spending too much money but eschewed the chips at £13 a head.
