"Ah! There it is"
With those four words, I joined the numbers that make up the statistic that is often quoted on TV and newspaper adverts for cancer research fundraising : 1 in 2 of us will develop cancer in our lifetimes.
For me, the 'C' word was always a Schrödingers-type of affair: every year that went by without it made it somehow (irrationally) less likely I would get it but, at the same time in my horribly fatalist heart, I knew I was counting down to it, an inevitability. As much as I tried to ignore the high probability that I would get involved in some way, shape or form with cancer (remember the 1 in 2 statistic? plus my less than ideal lifestyle), that thought lived alongside a parallel thought train that had me convinced it would never happen to me. Utter realism mixed with magical thinking. One of these was going to be proved wrong.
Six weeks ago, having a Thursday mid-morning pee, I noticed that I seemed to be dispensing a lovely rosé wine into the toilet bowl. I called Elaine up to confirm my opinion that this was not a normal state of affairs. Once we had agreed that blood was definitely involved in my pee, I got in contact with my GP. There were no slots available for that day but they promised to phone back ASAP with the next available appointment. They phoned the next day as we were on our way to Birmingham to dogsit for my brother-in-law and gave me an appointment for the following Monday. By now, my pee was the colour of a nice claret and was definitely worrying me. The colour faded back to a light rosé over the weekend but was stiil there in the sample I took to my appointment on the Monday.
I was seen by the nurse practitioner who, after talking me through all the potential reasons for blood in the pee ("Any trauma to the abdomen or lower back? Any pains in the groin or lower back?") or the pink colour ("Eaten beetroot?"), she made the first mention of the 'C' word: she raised the possibility of kidney cancer because she didn't want the first time I heard the phrase to be the point where I was diagnosed. As far as lowering expectations/getting real went, it wasn't exactly a gut punch as I'd already thought that's what it might be (from thinking I'd never get near the disease to going all in on the worst possible outcome is just so me!). Anyhow, I was told that the urine sample would be sent away for cultures and further analysis and I would either be told I had a bladder infection (most common cause of blood in the pee) or need further investigation.
The following week I was called back to the GP surgery. There was no evidence of bladder infection so something else was to blame. I had blood samples taken and a manual check on my prostate (yep, the finger up the bum delivered by the nurse practitioner who admitted that she might need to call a male doctor in, purely because his fingers were longer!). The next day, I got notice of a date to attend the Rochdale Infirmary for a cystoscopy. If the finger up the bum is a little 'eek!' inducing, the cystoscope is worse: the camera inserted all the way along the urethra until it emerges in the bladder where the interior can be checked for nasties. It was a week or so away so I had time to come to terms with my latest dignity-stripping investigation.
That weekend, I went down to see my mum and, on the Monday, in the middle of the square in the centre of Crawley, I got a call from booking at the Royal Oldham Hospital asking me to come in for a CT scan of my kidneys and bladder. This was duly arranged for the Thursday, the day after I got home from mum's. It was explained that by having the CT scan in advance of the cystoscopy, all the results could be given to me at the same time, the latter test producing results on the spot.
The CT scan out of the way, it was a few days later that I travelled to hospital for my cystoscopy. Sitting down with the doctor before the procedure, my spirits were bouyed up when he said that my kidneys were fine. I didn't realise that there was still anotherr shoe that hadn't fallen. We began the cystoscopy, a slightly surreal experience as I could see the screen where the inside of my urethra and bladder were displayed in vibrant colour. "Large prostate" the doctor remarked as the camera moved towards the bladder, just as if we were admiring a church as we drove through a pretty village in the countryside. Inside the bladder, the camera moved over all the surfaces until the doctor announced "Ah! There it is". Whilst the CT had ruled out kidney problems, it seems it had shown a growth within the bladder and, indeed, there it was on screen: what looked to be a little patch of pink anemones or pink broccoli standing out against the rather more drab bladder wall. The tumour.
The doctor was very laid back about it ("Only small - around 1cm and superficial") and was confident it would be easily removed. Even the slightly alarming words "large prostate" were dismissed when I asked if I should be worried ("Do you have any obvious sighns of prostate problems? No? Then sometimes a large prostate is just that - a large prostate").
Tests all over, I got a call to arrange the date for removal of the tumour - June 2nd. That seemed like an absolute age away and also meant that our trip to France would have to be rearranged because of the recovery time involved. It gave me totally mixed feelings: happy it was going to be done and I had a definite date, but worried that it gave me more time to brood and get into a negative headspace. A day later I got another call: a cancellation meant I could have the op on Saturday, only three days ahead! I definitely felt I was back in a positive place!
