So, a bit of a gap since the last post. Everything was looking towards this morning's appointment with the consultant to get the results of the various tests, and I had been spinning my wheels since the colonoscopy, without even Bristol City's whimpering season end to fall back on.
Since then I have popped up to that there London, to visit my #niècepréférée and to borrow a car from a friend. It offered up a chance to savour the delights of Borough Market, and Arabica gets a thumbs up from me. I also got a visit from a long-time Uni friend over the weekend, and had a great few hours catching up with her. In advance of today's meeting, my sister popped down the night before, and we had a good night eating, drinking and watch the footy. And then to today.
We got to the hospital and waited for the consultant to get free. We met with him, and another wonderful nurse from the colorectal team (Christ knows where they find these gems, but I cannot speak highly enough of them.) My wife was also on speakerphone. I recounted the story again, starting with the stomach cramps, the cider allergy, the non-appendicitis etc: you all know the details by now. And then over to him. He noted that the multi-disciplinary team had reviewed my file, tests, results, etc. advised the possible courses of action: chemo, insertion of a stent, and full-on bowel surgery. Based on various issues, he was inclined to discount options 1 and 2, and pending further discussions he would have later today, he was erring towards surgery in the very near future. Which, if nothing else, means I need to buy a pair of slippers. He segued from that to the somewhat crappier news that the spread into the liver and lungs was bad, and likely means that my condition is not curable. I think we can all agree that this is not great news to hear, and I could feel my voice wobble somewhat. I also heard my sister gulp, and thanks to a less-than-perfect WhatsApp connection, I couldn't hear my wife crying over the sounds of fidgeting dogs.
Asking a person who you met 30 minutes previously "how long do I have to live?" seems odd, but I asked it anyway. He said that he has seen people with my condition survive for years with managed chemotherapy and other treatment. The fact that he said it was likely not curable affords some hope, and being the sort of person who can out-stubborn most people, I still have the fight in me. I put it a 3, on a scale of 0-10 where 0 was shitty and 10 was best.
Me and my sister wobbled a little more as the specialist nurse walked us out and sent us to Pre-Op Assessment. Another batch of forms to fill in, and a short wait before the nurse took me in for blood pressure, pulse, yada yada yada. He did ask how I was doing, my reply of "aside from the cancer you mean?" brought a wry smile, and I think he realised I was attempting humour as opposed to being snippy. I was sent back out, armed with leaflets, waiting for another nurse to draw yet more blood. Flipping through the "so you're about to get cut up" pamphlet I noted the request to remove false nails/nail varnish in advance of being admitted. Already all over that one.
The next nurse hit with the curveball of "did the other nurse advise we need a rectal swab?". Well, now you mention it, no, he didn't. Demeaning task of the day, walking past my sister, swab in hand, heading for the toilets, responding to her curious look with "we'll discuss this one later." Swab done, blood work done (getting close to Tony Hancock territory this time. And then had an ECG. Heart working fine, even if other bits of me are not, The nurse asked what I had planned for the rest of the day, I replied with likely sitting at home pondering my situation, and almost lost it there and then.
Me and my sister left, and I gave my wife a call, and sent an update out to friends and family. The slew of responses sent me over the edge and resulted in me spending a large part of the journey home with tears rolling down my cheeks. The impact of the messages of love and support cannot be overstated. It is something that helps keep me going, and I trust that they won't stop any time soon. No single message stands out any more than the rest, but one from an old uni friend was particularly moving, who noted that his first few weeks of university were disorienting, and he only made it through with the support from the older lads, including me and my best friend. Another one made me laugh, with a friend noting that he fears more for the NHS staff who have to face my sarcastic bravado, than he does for me.
I had planned to attend a support group meeting on Friday morning, and decided to travel back up with my sister, to spend the night with her, and my niece and nephew, before diving headfirst into the help-group pool tomorrow. Which itself will be interesting, with me not being a sharing, touchy-feely, sort of a person.