"And I am not frightened of dying. Any time will do, I don't mind.
Why should I be frightened of dying? There's no reason for it. You've got to go
sometime."
Gerry O’Driscoll (Abbey
Road Studios Doorman)
The pain has thankfully subsided slightly and now securely
installed in my new hospital bed with my ecclesiastical visitor departed Tori
decides it’s safe to leave me on my own for a bit without me attempting to
chair an impromptu debate on the value of religion in modern society. She
leaves me to my own devices while she nips off to take care of a few things at
home. While she’s gone I decide to fill out the multiple choice questionnaire paper,
the results of which determine what I get for dinner. Before my order arrives
though I’m informed that they need to move me to a new ward. I’m wheeled into a
spacious and very plush new ward with a large round bay window complete with a
selection of comfy chairs to lookout over the alley below and observe the large
industrial dumpsters as they gradually fill up with kitchen waste. It seems that
I have this lavish new ward all to myself. After chatting to the nurse I
discover that this isn’t actually a ward after all but the Chemotherapy Day Centre
for outpatients only, and at the end of the day it is now empty. I’m here because
there are no free beds in any of the proper wards. It’s the hottest day of the
year so far and despite the quietness of A&E first thing this morning the
hospital is now proving to be a very popular day out for a lot of elderly people.
Shortly after settling into my new surroundings I’m joined by the next patient
who also cannot be accommodated elsewhere. He’s a very friendly older gentleman
who introduces himself as Ken. Thirty minutes or so later and our final guest
for the evening, Mark, joins the chemotherapy day centre after party.
We get chatting. Mark is a builder and has a lot of jobs on
at the moment, so he is not finding his suspected stroke particularly agreeable
as he needs to finish his current job by the end of the week. Long retired Ken however
has a more pressing issue with his leg that is apparently a complete and utter
mystery to modern science. His account of his epic journey to our make-shift
ward in the Chemotherapy Day Care centre this evening is a protracted and
multifarious affair jam-packed with apparent blunders and cock-ups. He does
however take great delight in holding court as he unfolds the full sorry tale
to his captive audience. Perhaps Ken will write his own blog, in which case the
chapter on his stay in the Chemotherapy Day Centre with Mark and Crispian may
provide a more meticulous account of the full yarn. Failing that you’ll have to
make do with my vastly abridged summary. It seems Ken had a bit of a fall in
his assisted living home and despite pulling the emergency cord was not
attended to for some time. He was eventually taken to hospital and has been testing
out various wards for size around the hospital whilst innumerable doctors poke
and prod him in a vain attempt to determine what the hell is wrong with him.
Ken’s version is even more colourful and rather damning in places of the staff
who I thought seemed to be doing their utmost, but nonetheless he’s clearly not
had a particularly good week. He still seems to be in a lot of pain from time
to time, but in between the spasms he is very good humoured and a most
agreeable companion for my stay.
My carefully considered dinner order from my previous ward
appears to be non-transferable and foolishly none of us booked ahead and made a
dinner reservation for this ward. Our new nurse is therefore unable to secure
us a table for three. She does however offer to see if there’s anything
leftover and returns with two small cartons of strawberry jelly and chocolate
mouse. Ken promptly bagsies the jelly, Mark prefers to go outside for a fag, so
I get the chocolate mousse. Supper is
rounded off with a selection pain-killers from the trolley.
When he has our full attention again, Ken takes Mark and I
into his confidence and proudly announces to us that he is the President of the
esteemed S.O.S. club. We both nod in quiet agreement as to what a fine accolade
this clearly is. After a brief pause I realise I need to ask Ken what the
S.O.S. club stands for as he is clearly itching to deliver his punchline. “Sad
Old Sods” Ken announces triumphantly, “I am the President of the Sad Old Sods
club – Wiltshire branch”. As luck would have it, our patient status made us
fully eligible for honourable membership, so Mark and I are unceremoniously inducted
into the S.O.S club. Ken never asks us for our home addresses so I’m not sure
how he’s going to send our membership cards, but I’ll worry about that later.
We each get one more visit from the doctor as she makes her
final round of the evening. Mark is feeling much better and just wants to go
home, but he’s told to stay in overnight so they can keep any eye on him and
then send him for more tests tomorrow. The doctor dares to suggest to Ken that
his issue may be spinal rather than his leg but he’s having none of it. He
complains that he is unable to walk to the toilet unaided so he is offered the
spare wheelchair that seems to be another of the marvellous optional extras
available only to guests of the chemotherapy day centre. Ken is delighted with
his new wheelchair and takes himself off to the toilet for a prolonged sitting,
which he later proudly informs us was once again fruitless. Indeed, the morphine
and other pain killers are making both our bowels extremely obstinate at the
moment. The doctor has little to offer me at my short consultation with her. After
eliminating the possibility of sepsis, which was their major concern, they are now
unsure whether my pain is an extreme reaction to the chemotherapy or a direct
result of the cancer itself. She suggests taking a break from the chemotherapy
tablets tonight until they can talk to my specialist oncologist in Southampton tomorrow.
Ken is keen to take advantage of his newly available
mobility and wheels himself over to the large bay window to study the the
dumpsters for an hour or so before bed. Meanwhile I lie back and wait for the
drugs to kick in.
After a broken sleep I awake to see that Mark is already out
of bed and getting ready to go out and get the morning papers and have a quick fag.
Ken has been reinstalled in his beloved wheelchair (assuming he did get out of
it last night) and has been parked up in-between his bed and mine. Mark takes
orders for newspapers from his fellow S.O.S. club affiliates. Ken orders The
Sun. I’m a little too embarrassed to ask him to get me a copy of the Guardian
so I opt for nothing. “Are you sure?” checks Mark. I was sure.
I had texted Tori the night before to confirm my new location
and she arrived just after Mark had returned with the papers. Tori takes the
seat by my bed on the opposite side to Ken. She looks over my bed to Ken who
lowers his paper enough to smile at her. They exchange greetings and before I
had the chance to warn her, she asks him what he is in for. Ken carefully folds
his paper and places it down on his bed, there’s no way he’s going to pass up
an invitation like that. Ken settles himself in his wheelchair and cheerfully embarks
on a verbatim retelling of the full account of his last week. I lie back in my
bed so he can talk over me more easily. I lie quietly successfully anticipating
each facet of the saga. However, just as I think he has reached his conclusion
a new epilogue is tacked onto the end of the narrative to cheerfully expound
upon how he has now acquired a wheelchair and is able to freely transport
himself between the three key locations of his current world, the side of his
bed, the bay window and the toilet.
Ken’s cherished mobility has enabled him to locate a pound
coin which he places on the bedside table and shouts over to Mark that he has
the money for his paper. Mark doesn’t
want the pound; he was happy to buy the papers. Ken is not however happy to not
pay for his paper so a long debate develops over how Ken can repay Mark. Perhaps
Ken can buy tomorrow’s papers? I feel fully justified in my decision to forgo
today’s printed news. The payment debate is never fully settled and the pound coin
remains steadfastly on Ken’s bedside table with neither party prepared to claim
it.
As we’re in the Chemotherapy Day Centre rather than a proper
ward, there are no official visiting times and the nurses are perfectly happy
for Tori to stay in the ward with me all day, so I’m able fully appraise her of
the current plotlines in the Chemotherapy Day Centre Soap opera in which I have
been unwittingly cast. Tori’s eager to stay too and see how things pan out,
both with me and my fellow club colleagues. She’s doesn’t seem at all affronted
that she is not offered S.O.S. club membership herself.
Having just had a CT scan a few weeks ago there seems little
point in doing another one. Some sort of test or scan is however clearly
required to try and get a better idea of what is going on with me. This morning’s
doctor opts for a chest X Ray and an ultrasound scan. I’m taken off for a chest
X-Ray later in the morning which doesn’t seem to shed much more light on things.
In the afternoon I’m taken down for an ultrasound scan on my abdomen to see if
they can catch sight of any of the tumours misbehaving. My previous experiences
of Tori’s ultrasound scans before the children were born had always been rather
joyous occasions, indeed they even gave us a rather blurred photo as a momentum
of our visit. The mood of today’s ultrasound scan is far less jovial. I’m
smeared with some sort of clear lubricant and the doctor forcefully trawls the hand-held
scanner back and forth across my tummy. Every man who’s ever undergone this
procedure before me will have amused the doctor with an hilarious maternity themed
quip, and my doctor will doubtless of have heard them all. As I’m sure she’ll
be unamused by any predictable baby gags I remain quiet on the subject.
Straining myself I remain mute until almost the end of the scan when I’m
finally compelled to ask, “Is it a boy or a girl?”. The doctor was suitable
unamused. Not only did the scan fail to reveal the gender of my tumour it
seemed to be pretty inconclusive in every aspect. She thought she saw a bit of
tumour, but it was apparently hard to tell through all the fat.
Back at the Day Centre several chemotherapy outpatients have
been and gone. There’s currently one in the chair next to Mark’s empty bed
hooked up to her poisonous drip. I ask Ken and Tori what has happened to Mark
and learned that he had been discharged. His suspected stroke probably wasn’t a
stroke after all, and even if it was it doesn’t seem to have done any damage so
much to his delight he’d been sent home.
Later in the afternoon I’m visited by an oncologist who has
viewed today’s inconclusive scans and also had a chat with my consultant
oncologist at Southampton General. Their best guess is that I’m simply
suffering with the side effects of the chemotherapy and the best course of
action is to start taking the chemotherapy again and dampen down the side
effects with as many counter meds and painkillers as possible. Not an
especially satisfying conclusion but I take some solace in the fact that if the
chemotherapy is causing me this much grief, it must surely be antagonising the
cancer somewhat too.
Before Tori leaves for the day she asks Ken if he needs
anything. He asks is she could bring him a copy The Salisbury Herald and The
Sun tomorrow. Tori agrees so Ken picks up the pound coin from his bedside
table and offers it to her. Without
objection Tori takes the coin and heads off home for dinner. She plans
to return again later this evening. As the afternoon rolls on the last
chemotherapy outpatient leaves and Ken and I are alone again. We make playful plans
about how we can turn the Day Centre into some sort of night club with a fully
stocked bar, disco lights and a mirror ball when everyone has gone home. Our
fantasy is however immediately thwarted by the porter who arrives to take me
off to a proper ward where a space has now been found. He’s a chatty fellow
this porter. He starts talking about the band he plays in and I turn around and
recognise him as the porter I had last year when my cancer was originally
diagnosed. We get onto the subject of early 70’s progressive rock and he mentions
that he’s just acquired a copy of the first Genesis album. “From Genesis to Revelation?” I inquired.
“Yes”, he says, sounding impressed, “Most people think that Trespass was the first album as Genesis to Revelation wasn’t originally
very successful.” I was hoping to steer him onto The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway as I much prefer that album, and
then perhaps we could get onto some Jethro Tull, but we’ve arrived at my new
ward already.
You could have given him a short sharp shock...
ReplyDelete