Nothing to do with one of the tracks off the Velvet Underground's timeless, and brilliant, debut album, rather everything to do with this past week has been focused on the upcoming appointment with the colorectal surgeon.
With my wife not due to arrive until the day before, I occupied my time with a host of visitors to the house: my best friend from each of school, university and work, one of my running friends, and others. From Thursday to Sunday I was busy. It was lovely to see everyone, and I managed to get a couple of walks in. And then on Sunday I drove up to meet my family for a lunch to celebrate my nephew's birthday.
Additionally, on Friday night I spoke for the first time to an oncologist: this being a friend of a friend in the US: he agreed to review my notes just to provide some clarity and detail. He emailed me his comments a couple of days later, and advised what we suspected: some mix of chemo and surgery would be forthcoming, with surgery being first in the event of an urgent need.
On Monday night I drove up to Bristol, to take in another City match, this time the U23s in a relatively entertaining win over Birmingham. There were no more than 200 in the ground, but it was enjoyable. I stayed over with a friend, and headed to Heathrow early Tuesday morning to collect my wife. We headed home, and made a plan of what we needed to ask the next day.
So, Wednesday morning came around. We got up and headed to the hospital, checked-in, and waited. In advance of the appointment a nurse had to get my height and weight, which provided the 1st time in years that anyone has addressed me as "young man". Bang on time we were taken to the surgeon and one of the specialist nurses assigned to the team. I told them my story (I am getting pretty good at recounting that particular sorry tale), the surgeon examined me, and advised in broad terms what I could expect (another colonoscopy and scan, clinical assessment, and then a treatment plan). He was rather more positive sounding than the GP from a couple of weeks ago (speaking about recovery odds as opposed to advising palliative care). And then he left me with the specialist nurse.
As noted in an earlier post, the NHS always seems to be creaking under financial pressures, and is held together by its dedicated doctors, nurses and other staff. Now, the nurse assigned to me was one of those stars. She knew her stuff, knew how to handle a patient on the verge of a mental collapse, knew how to comfort both my wife and myself, and generally was brilliant. It was obvious she had genuine compassion for her patients, and a desire to do the best for them. She answered every question we had, clearly and unambiguously, and noted that she would be on the case of radiology and imaging to get my scans and tests done ASAP.
I wouldn't say we left the hospital with a spring in our steps, but certainly it felt like this had been a positive encounter. A few hours later, back at home, I got a call from the hospital, advising I had been slotted in for a CT scan the following morning. Seems the nurse did indeed get on the case.