“For me, science is already
fantastical enough. Unlocking the secrets of nature with fundamental physics or
cosmology or astrobiology leads you into a wonderland compared with which
beliefs in things like alien abductions pale into insignificance.”
Paul Davies
Mr. Campbell respectfully and knowledgably
answers the few useless questions that come to mind. Tori would have asked some
far more sensible questions had she been there. Having exhausted my questions though
I shuffle slowly back to my bed to await further instruction and the evening
visit.
Tori dutifully returns later in the evening
and is instantly frustrated by my news and the fact that it was finally
delivered just after she’s been shooed off. We were hoping for a kidney stone.
I know they can smart a fair bit, but once they’re out, that would have been
the end of it. Cancer has all sorts of other connotations. I telephone my
mother to give her the update. My wife and mother give me a number of positive
scenarios to ponder, “It’s probably benign”, “It hasn’t spread so once removed
it’ll be fine” and the perennial favourite: “Well thank goodness they’ve caught
it in time.” None of which seem to particularly help that much.
There’s one other person however I need to
update. Tonight is Winchester Skeptics and this evening’s speaker is none other
than Stevyn Colgan, renowned author, artist, QI elf and my old Cornish compadre
from Helston Comprehensive. Steve is talking tonight on the implausibility of
alien visitations, but more pertinently he’s meant to be staying at my house
this evening. We exchange a few short messages and Steve kindly makes some
alternative last minute accommodation arrangements. I’m a bit miffed though
that I will miss his talk, I was rather looking forward to it. Instead however
I have one final evening with my two new gentlemen friends in Downtown Ward. I
don’t feel ready yet to tell them my diagnosis so I lie quietly listening to
their conversation which unlike my planned evening's entertainment never once touches upon the possibilities of little green men making a cheeky unannounced visit to
our pale blue dot. I ponder instead whether once humankind have mastered
interstellar travel ourselves whether we might also adopt the same protocols that
our alien visitors reportedly deploy when visiting earth. Perhaps when our
future space crafts land on distant worlds we too will cloak ourselves from all
conceivable credible alien witnesses in favour of appearing in front of an unsuspecting local idiot that no one will ever
believe and incapacitate them with a bright light. Having taken our alien
subject aboard our ship we could then set about deploying our undercracker
removal unit to detach any garments blocking access to the subjects’ lower
exploration portal. Once the approach has been cleared our technologically
advanced descendants will insert their scientifically enhanced rectal probes
into the unwary arsehole of the alien subject. The discovery of intelligent
life elsewhere in the universe would be so monumental, what better way could
there be to communicate with and learn about our fellow intelligent life forms?
I however have an alien visitation free
night and I’m discharged the following morning and I am reminded by the mandatory
festive tunes in Tori’s car that it’s almost Christmas. I do however have one
week back at Oxford before the Christmas break. Much of my last week at work is
spent either on the phone, or waiting for the phone to ring for news on my
follow-up appointments and details of the next steps. The next step as it
happens is a bladder scan. Just a routine, I’m assured, to check there is no
cancer in the bladder as well. A simple outpatient procedure. “There won't be anything there”, the urologist
assures me over the phone, “but we do have to check.” An outpatient appointment
for my cystoscopy is promptly booked for a few days' time.
I can’t help but be a little weary about my
bladder scan. I’m told that this simple procedure requires the insertion of a
small camera into my urethra followed by a quick shufty about to make sure
everything is suitably ship shape and in the fashion of a large British port in
the South West of England. My recent experience however of having paraphernalia
shoved up my urethra was far from pleasurable and the prospect of jamming a camera
up there next fills me with enough trepidation to open my own locally sourced
free-range organic trepidation boutique.
I arrive at the urology outpatient centre
and make my presence known by entering a few details onto the welcoming touchscreen
that has usurped the receptionist's job. I sit in the waiting room with three
other men all anxiously cradling our manhood and rocking slightly in our
chairs. No one speaks. I’m eventually summoned into my dressing room where I change
into the rather fetching little arseless number that is provided, before
mounting the examination table and exposing myself to my assembled audience.
John, my urologist for the day is an extremely pleasant fellow. He asks me what
I do for a living and a brief chat about Oxford University ensues. After I’m
completely at ease he shows me the camera, which is reassuringly small and
slips it in relatively painlessly. Compared to the catheter they fitted when
they bled my plumbing the other week, this isn’t actually too bad.
Once inserted I move my eyes to the
conveniently positioned monitor and watch the view as the camera is pushed
along the inside of the penis. The image is not entirely dissimilar to the old
Doctor Who opening credits. I wouldn’t have been that surprised if a picture of
Tom Baker’s beaming mush didn’t pop up
as we made our way down the swirling pink tunnel. Once inside the Doctor Who
comparisons continue as the inside of my bladder bears an uncanny resemblance
to Lady Cassandra.
 |
| Lady Cassandra |
The clean white semi translucent walls
are crisscrossed with a few thin red tracks. All looks to be tip-top. The
only slight imperfection in my magnificent bladder was one small area that
looked a little sore. John explains that this is where the end of the catheter
tube had rubbed, he also confirms that all is indeed in order and there was
no sign of any bladder cancer. So just the kidney cancer to worry about then.
Following my bladder all-clear John
informs me that my CT scans have been discussed at the weekly urology meeting
and the decision has been made to book me in for a radical laparoscopic
nephrectomy as soon as possible. I ask john for a little help translating the term radical
laparoscopic nephrectomy. It’s actually pretty straightforward. Nephrectomy
simply means removal of the kidney, laparoscopic means via keyhole surgery
rather than a gaping incision across my belly, and radical means that they
intend to whip out the whole damn thing, no messing about with just the ropey-looking bits.
I received an appointment from Salisbury
General in the post the following day confirming that I have been booked in for
my Radical Laparoscopic Nephrectomy on the 29th December. Not too
bad I guess, I may have to spend Christmas Day shitting myself with anxiety but
at least it should be all done and dusted in time for our planned New Years Eve
dinner party.
In the meantime however I am under strict
instructions to take it easy. That means cancelling a few trips. I had planned to
spend my first Christmas back in Cornwall since I left in 1982. My youngest
cousin Sarah and her culinary wizard of a husband (Jer) are hosting a big
family get together. I’m also supposed to be driving up to Durham this weekend
to pick up my daughter after her first term at University. Neither trips are
advisable so my big family Christmas has to be postponed until next year, and
the girl will have to get herself a student railcard and make her own way home.
Travelling however, is a far lesser worry
than the fine art of piddling. Every visit to the toilet since being discharged
from hospital has been a master class in apprehension. Each time I stand there
with my old chap in my hand, there’s a mounting sense of tension as the pressure
builds and I wonder if another piece of my decrepit right kidney may have
crumbled away like a well-weathered eroded cliff face. So far though, so good,
and the resultant jet of piss has been a suitably healthy transparent yellow. I
just need to avoid any significant blows to the abdomen and keep pissing clear
until the 29th December and all should be fine.
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