What a weekend. . .
The background to it started on the 3rd of October this year [2007], with a routine visit to my dentist. He's a big, affable South African - probably of Boer extraction [no pun intended !] - and we get along fine.
Often times we will shoot the breeze about biking, music, the state of the NHS, etc. while he bimbles around inside my mouth, doing what dentists do best.
This visit started just the same; quick inspection followed by a 'scrape & polish' - only we never made it to the S & P.
"I'm gonna stop now" he said, with what could only be described as a look of concern on his face.
"Problem?" I asked, tentatively.
"Your left tonsil is grossly enlarged. I'm referring you to hospital."
"What - NOW?"
"No, but the hospital WILL be in touch with you soon. If I were you I'd go home and wait for their call"
The eloquence of his unspoken words impressed me. The look of concern - like one friend for another - I found a little disconcerting.
"OK, but you owe me a scrape & polish". It was all I could manage . . .
On the way home I struggled with the options; do I keep my own counsel until things are a little clearer, or do I tell the Memsahib, and if so - how? And what ? Where's Solomon when you need him . . .
Gill - the Memsahib - and I have been best mates since we first met in 1968. We eventually set up shop in 1995, having rid ourselves of all the bad bits with other people - it's a long, convoluted tale and it will no doubt appear here at some stage - and she's managed to adopt some of the more sanguine parts of my take on Life. I decided that, rightly or wrongly, now would NOT be a good time for secrets.
By the time she got home from work, the hospital had called and I was to attend the ENT dept. at our local hospital on the 5th.
"I'll take the day off" she said "I want to hear this with you".
'They broke the mould with this one' I mused, appreciatively. I was right about secrets.
The first guy, an elderly 'favourite uncle' type, was a maxilo-facial consultant. He exuded a serene air of capability which was instantly reassuring. A thorough visual inspection, then an equally thorough digital palpation [a prod & a poke, for the benefit of the viewers at home] led him to the following conclusion:
"You've got cancer of the left tonsil, old chap. No evidence of lymph activity - that's good - but I'd like my colleague to examine you".
I wish these people wouldn't indulge themselves in pointless euphemisms . . .
His colleague was younger, a little more business-like, but equally reassuring in his demeanor. An ENT consultant, highly respected by his peers [thank you, Google] who confirmed the initial diagnosis and agreed that, subject to various scan results, the prognosis was very good.
"We appear to have an early presentation here. Still local. I shall surgically remove it by laser [self cauterising, less risk]. This will be followed by a biopsy, which will help us to determine which regime would be the most beneficial to you. This will include radiation therapy and a degree of chemotherapy as a safeguard - you should be fine".
At least he had the decency to end on a high note . . .
Since then I've had an MRI scan (noisy as Dante's Inferno, but very 21st Century) a CT scan (a neck-to-groin image, salami sliced) and a Pre-Op chat which was a mixture of intelligence gathering and an outline of various procedures, what to expect next, etc.
It's taken 54 years, but at last I was deriving real benefit fron all those N.I contributions !
Work had been marvellous. My boss, an ex-RAF tanker pilot, allayed my concerns about absence with "That's MY problem, not yours. I've written you off until 1st December at the earliest. Go home, enjoy some quality time with Gill and don't come back until you're fit, OK?"
"Thanks Mike" I said. "Oh, one more thing"
"Yes?"
"If this goes belly up - you're welcome to my eggs and bacon"
He laughed as he left my office, but I swear his eyes filled up - blessed 'Blue Jobs' !
Are you guys STILL reading this ? Blimey.
"So, what's all this got to do with the weekend ?" I hear you both ask.
Gill and I both had a similar perception; 98% positive outcome, no worries. That left us with a measly 2% to deal with, so we did.
Getting our own heads around it was fairly painless, though not entirely tearless, it was trying to convey the same positive outlook to such as my Mum, my oldest friend Tony; Joan [an old schoolfriend with 2 lots of breast cancer safely behind her, now living in Ireland) and her husband Barry, and a few others - all very close and dear to our hearts.
By Friday night, Joan and Barry were knocking on our front door, having got the last flight out of Shannon.
Joan : "What are you like? The minute my back's turned your playing the Sympathy Card"
Me : "Worked, didn't it ?"
Barry has always struggled with my relationship with Joan; I felt doubly sorry for him now.
"I'm refusing part of the treatment" I replied, "on the grounds that it infringes on my Human Rights". The glint in my eye, though barely discernable, was all she needed.
"Go on then"
"Joan, not even you could make me wear an NHS wig"
Gill took Barry into the living room, out of harms way.
To his credit, he didn't have a single cigarette while they were with us; not even when he walked into our living room on Saturday morning and caught Joan, camera in hand, taking photos of my throat . . .
Saturday afternoon we spent with Gill's youngest son Robert and his bride of 3 months, Claire. We managed to watch the whole of the Rugby final - in the circumstances I was happy, if only for my dentist [South Africa beat England] - and destroy a lovely toad-in-the-hole dinner without once discussing the 'elephant in the room'.
The last port of call on Saturday was my mate Tony and his 'girlfriend' Mandy [another long story - some other time]. Tony and I have known each other for almost 50 years and, whilst we have never lived in each others pockets, we have always known where to find each other when it mattered.
Example: 1994. summers evening around tea-time, phone call from his [then] wife, Carole.
"Tony's at Heathrow, on his way to the Fire Fighters Games in Perth [no, not Scotland, Western Australia] and his driving licence is here at home [N.E Herts]"
"OK,I'm on my way" this'll cost him a beer . . . I made it with 40 minutes to spare before he flew !
Tony had lost his 22 year old daughter - my god-daughter Jo - this last January and I really didn't want to add to his burden but, with canny insight, Gill said "And how do you think he'll feel if you don't tell him - and then can't tell him ?"
Gill 1, Ian 0.
As we arrived, Tony opened their front door, Gill wandered over to him, he gave her a hug - and she fell apart. It wasn't long before I did the same. 'At last, a safe haven' I thought, knowing that Tony would understand.
"Well mate, I'd rather it was Athletes Foot, but it ain't, so we'll just have to do our best" Gill had heard this mantra maybe a dozen times over the last few days, but for Tony and Mandy it was a sign that all was not lost.
We took our leave from Tony's on a bright Sunday afternoon and headed for our last port of call; my sister Judy and her husband, Steve.
There's 8 years between me and my kid sister. We rarely see each other - the last time was at Jo's funeral in January - and my abiding memory is of a 10 year old girl, running towards me with tears streaming down her cheeks, crying "My brother's home!" as I walked into our estate, resplendant in my soldiers uniform. You couldn't buy that memory off me with a Kings ransom . . .
She took it all in with a look of stoicism that almost fooled me, then wished me well and scolded Gill and I for leaving 3 years between visits.
It was late last night when we finally got to our own front door. It had been a pleasure/pain of a weekend which left us quite drained, if I'm honest, but it afforded us the opportunity to gird our loins for the next bit, without too much emotional baggage to deal with, having already dealt with it as best we could.
Roll on Thursday 26th; let battle commence !
