Friday morning and off to hospital I go, content in the thought that my GP surely can't be correct in her absurdly quick diagnosis of possible cancer.
Enter an ear, nose and throat consultant. A fair bit of poking and prodding later I am advised that my nasty tonsil will have to bite the dust. Oh well, whilst I was rather attached to it, I don't suppose that I will miss it.
I have heard of these NHS waiting lists, I wonder how long this will be? Monday.
Monday? That's awfully prompt and the words "cancer - discovery" on the doctor's form aren't very comforting but still, this is bound to clear up the fact that at 40 and a few days it simply can't be cancer.
The big day arrives, the hospital staff are wonderful, I wear one of those really fetching gowns that show off my Brad Pitt buns (dream on!) and the tonsil is gone, replaced by a really sore throat. Job done.
A week goes by and I don't hear from the hospital which is good news isn't it? If the biopsy was cancer then they would have been in touch by now. Excellent, on with life.
Are you a fan of the Simpsons? Have you seen the doctor who laughs, no matter how bad the news. Now the call from my consultant.
Operation went well, tonsil removed without issue. Biopsy results aren't acceptable. Sorry? What was that? Does that mean that the tonsil was cancerous? Oh yes.
If you haven't had this news are you wondering what it sounds like, what it feels like? For me, nausea spreading from the depth of my stomach through my whole body. Still armed with very little information I guess that even an optimist jumps to the worst conclusions.
I did discover a new talent at this point. Being a rough, tough fella it is a new experience to be able to reduce myself to tears by simply thinking of my wife and children. For the first time that I can recall since childhood I needed a hug.
