I forgot to mention that the poor woman couldn't sing a fucking note. Drove me nuts. Christ, if she could have held a tune Iwould have found something to sing with her. Naw - she was annoying because she was pish. Cancer is no excuse. I've got a right to say that .

Monopoly

The word treatment has the noun treat in it. Tractatio and convivium in Latin respectively. Not much in common there, so you would think that after learning the Mass in Latin and all those years of Virgil at St Pat's I might have clocked this. That should have been a wee alarm going off right there.

Chemo. It's sort of like the Bagpuss treatment. You get led in and told "Sit wherever you would like." by nice pally people Big comfy chairs with pillows line this room, so you look around and say. "That one"

Big sore needles, big bag - 6 hours plus stoppage time, Not bad

Then you sit about, read the paper and the novel you've brought with you. Trying to ignore that everyone else has or should have a good twenty five years on you, but at least everything else is good, this is comfy. Ride it

Then the fucking singing began.

Elderly African woman in the next chair is undergoing a similar procedure to me. Didn't seem distressed. Nodded and I think I got a "God Bless you " from her when I sat down. Not sure.

She started off by humming. Awright.. Annoying but I can still read, Onwards and up wards to full Jesus gonna take me home belting African Gospel. Okay - she's elderly, probably afraid, is in a strange place, I know, hospitals are strange places, solitary places. So I thought Mart, leave her to  her comfort.
20 minutes later I was up at the nurses desk saying Michelle, can you not shut her up. I've got fucking cancer too - she doesn't have a monopoly

Can't sleep.

Tomorrow: Monopoly 2: No More Oliver Postgate, (Dir Rob Zombie)

Hospital Spooks

When was the last time you were in hospital ?  When was the last time you spent 48 hours in bed alone in a strange place with little contact with the outside world apart from a tv with only crap tv channels. The only visits you get are those accompanied by a huge machine to check your blood pressure and temperature. Now I'm not complaining about lack of visitors, hospitals are weird places. They sap you. Becks came to visit after the procedure and it felt awkward - I felt awkward with the person I'm closest to on the planet. Michal came to pick me up on Friday and we had to hang about for a couple of hours for a doctor to see me before I was discharged. Mike and I have been meeting for a drink, sometimes more, sometimes less, but at least once a week  for over 25 years and have never run out of things to talk about and we seized up. "Fuck it Mike - read the paper, I won't be offended." Something about hospitals..

The afternoon I was admitted was the wettest and fiercest weather I've seen in years. None of it bode well. Straight out of Hammer horror. I checked in, had my valve implanted (they stick this two way valve in your lower arm in order to take blood out or put stuff in - saves your veins from mulitple injections - pretty clever, but fucking uncomfortable) then did a bunk. I wandered around Borough High Street in the pouring rain until  came across a bar I used to use years ago called the Ship.

Factor the morphine into this. Pissing rain, old haunt, weird valve sticking out of my wrist and only diehard drinkers due to the weather, and the knowledge or rather the fear of the lack of knowledge of what was to come. It was the loneliest night of my life. Knowing that I had to return to this frankly spooky ward and that that this was, or could be my last drink, my last night as fit and reasonably healthy man.

There was only one other bloke in the ward - and he, thankfully, was pretty keen on privacy and not in the mood to be pals, which suited me. The strangest thing about it all was the sense of isolation.You've got your phone, you've got your tv, (which only served to remind why I don't watch it at home) but essentially you are alone. Lots of time to reflect, lots of time to worry.

The actual procedure was the usual production line. Queue up, scan your stomach, queue up, sedated, wake up uncomfortable and woozy. The thing sticking out of my stomach is painful and I'm constantly aware of it. I went into the West End yesterday as a baptism of fire - figured if I could hack it up there everything else would be a breeze. Fear of bumps and knocks that it will somehow be disloged and I will be left with undigested chocolate and cider spewing all over me. Fear of the pain of it being accidentaly ripped from my navel. Discomfort, self consciousness and shame. This thing is horrible. Right now the whole thing has me thinking about necking the morphine in one shot and saying goodbye.

I won't, of course. I have to see what fresh horror this thing throws at me. At least I have some new colours to add to my spectrum of pain

Nightwear

I figured that if I'm going to spend a few days in hospital that I should really buy a pair of pyjamas. Walking about the hospital in a pair of boxers and skanky old t - shirt won't wash. Being
 the cheapskate that I am, I tried Primark first. Brilliant, I wish I had the balls to wear them. Union Jack jammies, Packman jammies, even, and I shit you not, London Olympics Jim jams. If I had the chutzpah I would have run with it, but no, I settled for Marks& Spencers sensible jim jams -which, incidentally, I'm test driving now. I haven't worn pyjamas since I was about 12 and my girlfriend won't even kiss me - says it's creepy. Can't say I blame her - I feel like I'm 12.

Christ - this just keeps getting weirder

More carcinoma gags to follow

Jake the peg

I had anticipated a week free of hospital visits and was planning a few days in Krakow getting drunk with Michal, however my nutritionists (3 of them) had other ideas., so Tuesday sees me going into Guys for two nights while the fit my peg which will enable me to feed myself intravenously over the mouth plague weeks when I will be unable to eat. So they will open me up and fit this thing which will feel intrusive and I will be convinced that everyone knows it's there

Downside: Nil by mouth for fuck knows how long, weird thing sticking out of my navel and the frankly, creepy notion of feeding myself through a tube (It's all a bit reminiscent of The Human Centipede which if you haven't seen - you should. Just to remind yourself how fucking freakier than you some people are)

Upside: Intravenous Polish vodka and morphine

More cancer based japes to follow

Morphine MRI & Kraftwerk

Okay, maudlin stuff over. I've dried my tears. Now for the funnier stuff.

Bear in mind, that I am under the influence of morphine when all of this happens. I went to one consultation and there was a woman in the waiting area playing Coldplay on the Harp. There is often someone in one of the Atriums playing classical piano and today I came across an African band playing percussives and singing five part harmonies - amazing. It's almost like a small city, Guys. I already know my way about and it's sort of a home from home - a bit like your place of work is I suppose. I already feel comfortable. Good thing ? Bad thing ?

Last Friday I went for my MRI scan, which is a big revolving magnet that somehow through magic takes pictures of the inside of your head. That's about as far as I got in the literature provided before getting bored and solved the crossword instead. I'm already bored with explainations, I just want it fixed.

Anyway, you may recall that Richard, my consultant, changed my morphine prescription. What he failed to mention was that he also doubled the dosage. I went pootling along to the station, only realising how smashed I was when I got on the train and I felt so well disposed towards everyone that I figured something was up.

So they put me in this machine and warn "It's noisy" gave me headphones tuned to Radio 4 and off I went for 40 minutes. Weird noises, vague voices in the background and morphine coursing through my veins, in the dark with a big metal star trek machine whizzing about my head. Fuck your Alton Towers - this is the best buzz I've had in years.

Tears

I had a UD scan, which I assumed was the usual zappo stuff, but today really broke me. I've been upbeat abouth all of this, but something really small opened the floodgates. They were taking samples from growths in my neck, which is fairly unpleasant - needles in your neck anyone ? But, since this whole thing has started, I've reassured myself by dressing really well for every appointment. Suits and ties - kind of a self assurance. While the doctor was taking samples, she inadvertandly hit a vein - fountains of blood. I was wearing a white linen suit, white shirt and kipper tie - really smart and I ended up with blood all over my white shirt. That was it - that broke me. Miserable and tearful.

Wee things get you.

Consultant Otorhinolaryngogist - Go on - pronounce it

Yesterday, Rebecca accompanied me to a consultation with Mr Richard Oakely, the Consultant Otorhinolaryngogist who diagnosed me. Richard is a skilled physician and surgeon and his direct and friendly but matter of fact explanations have been reassuring. Nice bloke. Richard perscribed me some slow release morphine yesterday - thought it was a better idea - more on this later.


Becksy's main concern was with how ill I would get  how much care I would I need and how so on - practical stuff. But Mr Oakley said, and I quote " Martin will get lethagic he will be in a lot of discomfort and will be generally miserable"....

SO I'm trying to persuade Becs to go on holiday to Italy with one of her mates in the last few weeks of treatment. If I'm going to turn into a bigger bastard than I already am, I don't want my baby in the firing line. So if you've heard that Rebecca has gone away in the last two weeks of my treatment  -don't all rush to judge. It's with my blessing

I realised late last night that not only had I forgotten my sister Susie's birthday, but that I had also forgotten that yesterday was the anniversary of my mum passing away.

I'm so wrapped up in myself that I'm ignoring the needs of others and that there's a world beyond my stupid illness.

Selfish, selfish man

Tattoo

Well, today's delights involved having a mask made for my radiotherapy. Basically, they have to make a mould of your face in order to ensure that they zap the same spot every time they hit you with radio waves. I was invited into a room by two extremely thin and decidedly odd Antipodean women who proceeded to shift and shuffle me about this guerney, and then placing a mask over my face which moulded itself into a facsimile of my features. They got wrong it first time, but that was okay, because it was a remarkably peaceful process and I wasn't anticipating pain. In the end it looks look a fencing mask. So far, so good. Then it all got a bit    S & M. I went for a CT scan and was pinned to the guerney. I've got this gimp mask on which they then screw down onto the bench, making it hard to breath, pin your shoulders down with some sort of metal restraint and proceed to tattoo your chest.

Okay, it was only a dot that they use to get their bearings, but creepy as all fuck at the time and this mark will last forever. Not the tat that I would have chosen, but hey ho.

Today's upside is that  I now have my cancer mask that I get to keep, and my suspicions about Antipodean women have been confirmed, especially those that work for the NHS.

Today's downside is that the Senior Radiographer, Rebecca, tells me that the mouth hell that was due will occur far sooner than they've been letting on. More like week and half  - two weeks. On top of that, the fallout from the happy dental stuff yesterday is already in the post and I'm running short of morphine. Got a meeting with Richard Oakley, the charming consultant so hopefully he can prescribe some more.

Good stuff - ran into Oran this evening, always a pleasure.

Civilised chat tomorrow followed by MRI scan Friday and visit to Nutritionist which is a euphemism for peg stuck into my navel for inrtavenous feeding. Yum yum.

Stay tuned for more cancer quips.

Dental joys

Well, yesterday I went to see the resident dentist. She declared that I will have to lose five of my back teeth. Next day. So today, I'm really frightened for the first time. Becsy couldn't get time off, so my old chum Claire agreed to pick me up afterwards.In the end, they sedated me and I knew nothing about it until I was walking arm in arm with Claire back to her car. Kept drifting away and asking her if I could play her mandolin or did she want to finish that drink.

Morphine is running out too. Must sort that out. Thing that they don't tell you about morphine is how it fucks up your short term memory. Normally when I leave the house I check my pockets - tobacco, phone, keys, lighter, wallet. At the moment I'm spending half an hour on the doorstep trying to remember what it is that I've forgotten. It's like a ninety day trial period for dementia. Thing is, if it's a ninety day trial - you're going to forget to cancel it. You'll have forgotten why you didn't want it in the first place anyway.

That and the milk shake power drinks. Remember when you were about 11 and thought it would be really cool if you could have milk shakes for breakfast dinner and tea. Well it fucking isn't. I'd like to get a hold of my 11 year old self, slap him and say " Be careful what you wish for you wee shite, it's me - your 50 year old self that will have to deal with it" Selfish wee fucker.

Tomorrow I get fitted for my mask. They fit a mask so that every time they zap you with radiation it hits the same spot. So tune in for more jolly cancer japes tomorrow

3/08/10

Aha - now the shit hits the fan. My consultant (sorry I can't remember your name, but you were a charming Korean doctor) kind of laid it on the line for me. There are more growths than originally anticipated and they are planning to use " radical" (for which read aggressive) treatment. I will undergo daily radio -therapy for six weeks, coupled with chemo throughout the treatment.

What this means is that after three weeks, my mouth, throat and tongue will fill with sores, ulcers and boils, making it imposible to swallow or probably even speak. In order to prevent starvation, before we start, they will implant a valve into my navel in order to feed me intravenously. So no more of Rebecca's delicious soups or veggie snacks. No more puddings and no more drink.

Now it's seeming less and less like a walk in the park. It's starting to seem scary and the old walk off Hungerford Bridge is looking more attractive.

Next stop the Dental Department, let's see what pleasures they have in store

Biopsy

This was the big test of my balls. Would I remain blase about it or crumble into wanting my mummy, or worse - legging it. Turned out the worst part was all of the hanging around. I got there at 7.30 and didn't get into surgery until 1.45. Read the Guardian from cover to cover then started on the freebie mags. Great - fucking Hello and OK - all inconsequrntial stories about poeple I'd never heard of and wouldn't have cared about if I had. Both the Surgeons introduced themselves and explained what they would be doing, as did the anaethesietist. Fucking hanging about though. You would think that I would get more and more nervous - happily I just got pissed off.

Bit of blip when the (Asian) guy with the drugs thought he could smell booze on my breath. Normally that would go without saying, but a 6.30 start precluded it.

Came round with no memory of it and after a while in recovery went home. So far so much a piece of piss. I'm thinking - this is going to be easy.

Things to date

After my initial consultation I got a lovel y letter from my Consultant, Richard Oakley. RIchard was charming and direct. He explained that I had a carcinoma and that the treatment would be rough. He copied me into the letter that he swent to my GP and I quote

" Thank you for referring this delightful Glaswegian gentleman who works for the local authority...On examination, he is a thin, but well looking gentleman. HIs intaoral examination reveals him to have a large right sided ulcer in his tonsillar fossa consistent with a T2 squamous cell carcinoma"

This goes on into further baffling detail of my illness, but he's already won me over with the delightful Glaswegian thing. Oh, and he promised me morphine. Nice guy

Monday 27th July 10

CT scan - pff. ALready feeling like an old hand. BIt of a jab while they colour your blood then pushed in and out of a Star Trek type machine. Rewarded myself for my bravery with a couple of pints in the Bunch of Grapes in Thomas Street.