Yesterday I saw my oncologist. He wanted to know about the cystoscopy, once I'd reminded him that it had happened. He was happy to learn that the result was positive but as he'd yet to receive any report - he'd only got my word for it.
He commented on the fact that my hair (beard, eyebrows, nasal, ponytail) was turning white. 'That's the effect of the drugs.' Diana wanted to know how he explained her condition....
But, I jest. To be honest I came away more than a little chastened. He spoke of the fact that even if the nodules were shrunk to a point where they were no longer detectable, I would still continue with the 'chemo'. He said that they would re-appear and would in any case ultimately prove resistant to the toxicity of the drugs. 'At that point we will have to try something else' - but he didn't sound very optimistic.
My head knows this condition isn't curable but my head isn't always fully engaged.
We returned home and updated the 'hired help', my brother John. Invited to spend a few days with us, he has been working through a list of DIY jobs including what will be, to my knowledge, the only listed wood store in the UK. (He's very thorough).
As a 'thank you' I took him out for a meal last night. We went to a new Asian restaurant, Mughal e Azam on the Stratford Road in Sparkhill. The building is a W. H. Bidlake congregational church dating from the 1930s. It is listed grade II. I can recommend it both for the food and the experience.
It is an example of a fine building that has found a new purpose. Decorations suspended from walls and ceilings put me in mind of the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. The aim in both buildings is to demonstrate that the premises are under new management but that there is still pride in the drama and beauty of the original design.
This line of argument may not find favour with the small congregation that chose to sell up and move on.
But then, 'all change is difficult'.
Friday 24 February 2012
Thursday 16 February 2012
oh-my-goshscopy!
On Monday evening we were at the Kitchen Garden Cafe in Kings Heath, celebrating Jenny's 60th birthday. It was great to see a lot of friends some of whom have not been part of the regular round of walking, visiting and tea-quaffing - and others who have. This was an extremely potent mix of hugging and warmth from both men and women. But it's the women who make sustained and unselfconscious contact through embracing and the holding of hands. At times like these it feels as though I have attained some special status - that I have been invited into a female world that for men usually hovers somewhere nearby - we sense its presence but it exists in a different dimension.
But don't be misled - it isn't always like this.
I've noticed that as 'cystoscopy day' approached a significant number of women couldn't help themselves - they relished, in a muted but nevertheless, perceptible manner a degree of satisfaction that 'the boot is on the other foot.' I knew what they'd like to say - 'Now, we'll see how you like it when you're subjected to an invasive procedure' or 'What a fuss over an internal examination; during my pregnancy I had, goodness knows how many doctors.............'
What I hadn't bargained for was the number of women involved in administering this procedure at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. I saw one man throughout my time in the endoscopy department. He was the consultant who having shaken my hand, disappeared from sight leaving me in the hands, literally, of four women, one doctor and three nurses. I resolved to be 'cool'; even while lying prone.
Having rearranged my clothing a nurse placed large paper squares over my exposed body. She then swiftly pulled the centre of one square into a mini peak and tore it to leave a strategically-positioned opening . Like an Inuit over an ice-hole the doctor then went fishing.
I'd expected them to be clinical and 'matter of fact' but I'd also been told in the prep room that it would be 'a very thin' tube that would be inserted into my 'water pipe'. ('Urethra' I'd corrected her - we're all professionals here.)
The instrument was considerably more robust than that which I'd imagined; a shiny black object tapering to a mobile, flexible tube with multi-coloured eye at its tip.
There was certainly no 'foreplay'. I'll spare you the details but suffice to say I was soon watching an image of the coloured tube that is my urethra. I had assumed that the screen above the operating table might have been used for something entertaining like a re-run of the Swansea - Norwich match from the weekend. Nobody looked like they were being entertained though I was making a brave attempt at it. 'Is that filmy tissue in the picture normal?', I asked in what I hoped was a nonchalant voice.
The young doctor commented on the narrowness of my urethra and tried to make her request that someone find the consultant sound perfectly normal. Then after much tentative manipulation and with the help of another nurse she finally managed to make progress and we were looking at the creased walls of my bladder. She cancelled the request to reach the consultant, went on a Cook's tour and concluded that all was well.
The alien one-eyed worm was swiftly removed. Boy, that felt a better. I didn't hang about. With my hospital trousers rapidly hitched up, she detained me long enough to say that there was nothing she could see that was of any concern. If I had further problems I should contact my G.P.
In the recovery bay I exchanged some effortless banter with another male patient before the nurse discharged me with the injunction that I drink lots of water for the following 24 hours. Some hours later my bladder is calming down.
A couple of days earlier the results of my upper spine scan came in. On the phone, the consultant said they were perfectly normal.
So far, in 2012, things have gone pretty well; shrinking nodules, a functioning cervicothoracic spine and a urethra that does undoubtedly lead, eventually, to a bladder. I wonder how many other parts of me can be confirmed as normal?
As for the female cystoscopy team, I'm not saying they enjoy their work exactly but I don't think I would want to be in the canteen when they were sharing some 'down time'.
But don't be misled - it isn't always like this.
I've noticed that as 'cystoscopy day' approached a significant number of women couldn't help themselves - they relished, in a muted but nevertheless, perceptible manner a degree of satisfaction that 'the boot is on the other foot.' I knew what they'd like to say - 'Now, we'll see how you like it when you're subjected to an invasive procedure' or 'What a fuss over an internal examination; during my pregnancy I had, goodness knows how many doctors.............'
What I hadn't bargained for was the number of women involved in administering this procedure at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. I saw one man throughout my time in the endoscopy department. He was the consultant who having shaken my hand, disappeared from sight leaving me in the hands, literally, of four women, one doctor and three nurses. I resolved to be 'cool'; even while lying prone.
Having rearranged my clothing a nurse placed large paper squares over my exposed body. She then swiftly pulled the centre of one square into a mini peak and tore it to leave a strategically-positioned opening . Like an Inuit over an ice-hole the doctor then went fishing.
I'd expected them to be clinical and 'matter of fact' but I'd also been told in the prep room that it would be 'a very thin' tube that would be inserted into my 'water pipe'. ('Urethra' I'd corrected her - we're all professionals here.)
The instrument was considerably more robust than that which I'd imagined; a shiny black object tapering to a mobile, flexible tube with multi-coloured eye at its tip.
There was certainly no 'foreplay'. I'll spare you the details but suffice to say I was soon watching an image of the coloured tube that is my urethra. I had assumed that the screen above the operating table might have been used for something entertaining like a re-run of the Swansea - Norwich match from the weekend. Nobody looked like they were being entertained though I was making a brave attempt at it. 'Is that filmy tissue in the picture normal?', I asked in what I hoped was a nonchalant voice.
The young doctor commented on the narrowness of my urethra and tried to make her request that someone find the consultant sound perfectly normal. Then after much tentative manipulation and with the help of another nurse she finally managed to make progress and we were looking at the creased walls of my bladder. She cancelled the request to reach the consultant, went on a Cook's tour and concluded that all was well.
The alien one-eyed worm was swiftly removed. Boy, that felt a better. I didn't hang about. With my hospital trousers rapidly hitched up, she detained me long enough to say that there was nothing she could see that was of any concern. If I had further problems I should contact my G.P.
In the recovery bay I exchanged some effortless banter with another male patient before the nurse discharged me with the injunction that I drink lots of water for the following 24 hours. Some hours later my bladder is calming down.
A couple of days earlier the results of my upper spine scan came in. On the phone, the consultant said they were perfectly normal.
So far, in 2012, things have gone pretty well; shrinking nodules, a functioning cervicothoracic spine and a urethra that does undoubtedly lead, eventually, to a bladder. I wonder how many other parts of me can be confirmed as normal?
As for the female cystoscopy team, I'm not saying they enjoy their work exactly but I don't think I would want to be in the canteen when they were sharing some 'down time'.
Sunday 5 February 2012
My magnetic personality
Last Thursday, seated in the 'ante-room' to the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital MRI scanner, the radiographer was going through the usual checklist of questions designed to ensure that a part of me didn't become overly-attracted to the super-powerful magnet I was about to enter. I established with her that the shrapnel the military medics had been unable to remove in my left leg would be well outside the neck and chest (cervicothoracic) region under investigation. She made a monotone response to indicate she had heard this one many times before but this only served to strengthen my resolve to come up with an original line and make her, or a colleague, chuckle in appreciation.
Next, I thought it best to establish that this new ROH scanner (one of many that I've visited in the West Midlands!) was as I remembered, 'doughnut-shaped' -and reassuringly open on both sides. Her brow furrowed and she told me that though it was more capacious than the one in which I'd had my claustrophobic experience (see Thursday 16th June 2011 post) it was still of the 'tunnel' variety and that I would need to be taken fully into the scanner. This instantaneously squashed all ambition to amuse her. I could already sense a warm fluid rising through my trunk and limbs and the automatic intake of deeper breaths.
We agreed that I'd have a go.
Inside the tunnel I was focused on only one thing, the small mirror locked into place above my head and set at a forty-five degree angle so that I could see into the airy, life-enhancing and spacious room I had so recently entered. I had been assured that the procedure would take only fifteen-twenty minutes. I wasn't told, however, that, once inside the tunnel, you enter a 4th dimensional time-warp. This was the longest twenty minutes of my short life. Only the blurred sense of people in hospital uniforms pursuing their normal lives beyond the viewing window and my enhanced yogic breathing kept me from the hazardous cliff edge of panic. The headphones gurgled some baroque music, intermittently obliterated by the thunderous roar of the scanner that gave every impression of trying and failing, to reach a speed that would enable it to take off.
But, I hear you ask; 'How did you get to be in yet another scanner? Surely every part of your body is already, intimately known to modern science?'
Well, let me take you back to the last post - the one you, unkindly, thought would never end . If you recall I had mentioned then that my next appointment, in late January, was to be with the consultant at the ROH. I expressed the opinion then that I was so fed up with the neurological and mechanical discomfort in my back and leg that I was prepared to request a surgical procedure on my poor scoliotic spinal column.
The surgeon had other ideas.
I imagine that medics are taught that there are at least three sources of information that might help them diagnose a patient's condition; physical examination, technology-based testing (such as blood and urine samples, all manner of scans and 'oscopys') and finally, 'verbal feedback'. However, asking me questions about my back pain is something in which my consultant isn't particularly interested. He is a 'scan man'. He has looked at them before I enter his office and so knows what outcome he wants - and assisted by a personable, authoritative style he usually gets it.
Having established that the epidural (see 23rd November 2011) had been unsuccessful he proceeded to dissuade me from asking for major surgery by showing me the MRI scan of another patient whose spine was liberally studded with ghostly pins. The man's back had been unable to take the strain of linking these pinned vertebrae to the first 'good' vertebra in the lumbar region causing one of them to fracture. The man was now bent double when he walked.
'And your point is?' I wanted to ask.
Not that I was looking for major surgery but I did have a small speech prepared much of which had already been rendered pointless by his conclusion that there was nothing more he could do for me. He did offer to refer me to the pain clinic at the QEH and I hope for an early appointment but he otherwise intended to discharge me from his list.
Then I remembered part of the 'speech'. I wanted him to know that I had also experienced a change in the way I used my left arm (and not only my leg). I relayed some of the symptoms which threw him into some consternation as he had already intoned summary and final letters into his dictaphone.
'Have we scanned your upper back?'
We established that 'we' hadn't. So that's how I came to be in the MRI room, renewing my relationship with the guardians of the scanner. There is obviously a powerful attraction there.
Next, I thought it best to establish that this new ROH scanner (one of many that I've visited in the West Midlands!) was as I remembered, 'doughnut-shaped' -and reassuringly open on both sides. Her brow furrowed and she told me that though it was more capacious than the one in which I'd had my claustrophobic experience (see Thursday 16th June 2011 post) it was still of the 'tunnel' variety and that I would need to be taken fully into the scanner. This instantaneously squashed all ambition to amuse her. I could already sense a warm fluid rising through my trunk and limbs and the automatic intake of deeper breaths.
We agreed that I'd have a go.
Inside the tunnel I was focused on only one thing, the small mirror locked into place above my head and set at a forty-five degree angle so that I could see into the airy, life-enhancing and spacious room I had so recently entered. I had been assured that the procedure would take only fifteen-twenty minutes. I wasn't told, however, that, once inside the tunnel, you enter a 4th dimensional time-warp. This was the longest twenty minutes of my short life. Only the blurred sense of people in hospital uniforms pursuing their normal lives beyond the viewing window and my enhanced yogic breathing kept me from the hazardous cliff edge of panic. The headphones gurgled some baroque music, intermittently obliterated by the thunderous roar of the scanner that gave every impression of trying and failing, to reach a speed that would enable it to take off.
But, I hear you ask; 'How did you get to be in yet another scanner? Surely every part of your body is already, intimately known to modern science?'
Well, let me take you back to the last post - the one you, unkindly, thought would never end . If you recall I had mentioned then that my next appointment, in late January, was to be with the consultant at the ROH. I expressed the opinion then that I was so fed up with the neurological and mechanical discomfort in my back and leg that I was prepared to request a surgical procedure on my poor scoliotic spinal column.
The surgeon had other ideas.
I imagine that medics are taught that there are at least three sources of information that might help them diagnose a patient's condition; physical examination, technology-based testing (such as blood and urine samples, all manner of scans and 'oscopys') and finally, 'verbal feedback'. However, asking me questions about my back pain is something in which my consultant isn't particularly interested. He is a 'scan man'. He has looked at them before I enter his office and so knows what outcome he wants - and assisted by a personable, authoritative style he usually gets it.
Having established that the epidural (see 23rd November 2011) had been unsuccessful he proceeded to dissuade me from asking for major surgery by showing me the MRI scan of another patient whose spine was liberally studded with ghostly pins. The man's back had been unable to take the strain of linking these pinned vertebrae to the first 'good' vertebra in the lumbar region causing one of them to fracture. The man was now bent double when he walked.
'And your point is?' I wanted to ask.
Not that I was looking for major surgery but I did have a small speech prepared much of which had already been rendered pointless by his conclusion that there was nothing more he could do for me. He did offer to refer me to the pain clinic at the QEH and I hope for an early appointment but he otherwise intended to discharge me from his list.
Then I remembered part of the 'speech'. I wanted him to know that I had also experienced a change in the way I used my left arm (and not only my leg). I relayed some of the symptoms which threw him into some consternation as he had already intoned summary and final letters into his dictaphone.
'Have we scanned your upper back?'
We established that 'we' hadn't. So that's how I came to be in the MRI room, renewing my relationship with the guardians of the scanner. There is obviously a powerful attraction there.
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