Five-and-a-half months later

Don’t ya think the title of this blog is redolent of a post-apocalyptic horror film? Personally, I think an alien bursting from my tummy might have been less gruesome than what actually transpired.

Towards the end of May, I tantalised y’all with the tale about My Cyst Called Cyril (less sexy than A Fish Called Wanda). Cyril hitched a ride on the galaxy that is my liver some time ago and, gluttonous by nature, grew and grew and grew (Alice in Wonderland springs to mind) until the only way he could get comfortable was to make my other internal organs uncomfortable to the point that they became a collective pain. At which point, off I toddled to a private consultant (Carry on Doctor).

Yes Cyril was huge, massive even, agreed Doc but, as my symptoms were mild, best not to do anything until they became more debilitating. He estimated that would be in a year or two. Happy with that, I went home. Two weeks later on a Sunday morning – always on a Sunday – I woke up in some pain that paracetamol wouldn’t shift. I had a brief telephone conversation with an out-of-hours GP, who advised a trip to A&E. On a Sunday. Hubby drove me over and, to be fair, I was seen by the triage nurse pretty darn quickly. She took an armful of blood and told me to wait over there until called. Feeling ‘ok’ I was happy for Hubby to go home and wait further instructions while I waited for an actual consultation.

I waited and waited and waited. The pain got worse and worse and worse. As the afternoon dragged on, I was unable to distract myself by reading the Daily Mail or sending inflammatory WhatsApp messages (the two activities are linked) or reading my book. In my defence, it was Henry David Thoreau’s Walden; or, life in the woods, an unexpectedly difficult read. I had always assumed it would be a nice little ramble in and about nature; there was indeed a lot about nature but Thoreau’s long, complex metaphorical and metonymical sentences and paragraphs were not conducive to a relaxed read or distraction from pain.

The persistent ache in half my torso was now joined by an occasional stabbing. I went up to Reception and asked how much longer I’d be because the pain was getting worse. The good news was, I was fifth in the queue; the bad news was, because my bloods and vitals had come back without issue, more urgent cases would continue to leapfrog me. What more urgent cases? I saw an overweight rugby player with an arm fracture, a teenager with concussion, and an elderly lady who’d face-planted a pavement. How do these trump a recalcitrant cyst? Back I shuffled to my chair, trying not to wince or make funny noises when the spasms spasmed. The chap diagonally opposite kept glancing over, convinced I was about to slither to the floor (à la Tremors).

Over two hours later my name was called. It coincided with a spasm and I shot out of the chair as if my butt was on fire. The spasms were so bad that I couldn’t talk. I just pointed to Cyril, grimaced and handed over the latest letter from my consultant, the one that said I shouldn’t have any problems for a year or two. 

“I think”, said the astute A&E doctor, relieved that she didn’t have to start from scratch to identify my condition, “you should phone your consultant tomorrow and ask to see him again.” Did she know how lucky she was that I was unable to speak? “Would you like some codeine?” she asked. I nodded furiously and she gave me a pill and a prescription for another week’s worth.

Fast forward to Tuesday morning and I’m on the phone to the GP begging for a stronger dose. Thankfully she obliged. For the next three days, I juggled paracetamol, codeine, ibuprofen, ice and heat. I’m not supposed to take NSAIDs as they do a number on my stomach, but I was beyond caring. Then, as if by magic, I realised that I hadn't taken any codeine since breakfast, and I was pain-free. And so it continued for several days. Sitting in front of my consultant, I felt like a fraud.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Doc said with a wry smile. “Cyril had other ideas,” I said sheepishly.

Doc went through the options as to which medical procedures, including the do-nothing option, were advisable, and which not, for reasons of risk, recovery periods and how likely Cyril was to flare up again. It was obvious Doc favoured a de-roofing, also known as a fenestration. I wondered if he’d got me mixed up with his kitchen extension.

“There is a complicating factor,” I ventured. He raised an eyebrow. “I need to be done and fully recovered before I go on holiday, and any negotiations with the travel insurance company and tour company have to be concluded as soon as possible."

“Where and when are you going?” he asked. 

“Cruising the Antarctic in November,” I said, an image of Steven Seagal popping into my head.

Doc dropped his pen on his pad of paper, rubbed his forehead, and sighed, “In that case, we’ll go for the less invasive ‘aspiration’.”

I was dying to ask if he meant ‘aspiration’ or ‘greed’, but as they lead to the same outcome (wealth creation) I decided the question was redundant, as are wealth-tax advocates. Wish I could rid my Twitter feed of these idiots like Sigourney dispatched her alien. Doc advised that I’d need another MRI before the aspiration, and more blood tests. This would be my fourth armful since May, even though I only had two arms.

Not long after the consultation, my phone rang while I was standing on the railway platform waiting for the train into London for an evening with my right-so-far mates. It was the Churchill Hospital calling about a biopsy on the 9th. I had been expecting a call from the Manor Hospital about my MRI on the 10th. Hmm. After back-and-forth phone calls and emails over the next day or so, I established that a) I didn’t need an MRI after all, nor a blood test, and the NHS classifies an aspiration as a biopsy for their administrative purposes. Completely understandable. Don’t worry about freaking out patients. Box-ticking comes first.

The day after all that was sorted, I got a letter confirming the appointment and … wait for it … I did need bloodtests after all, at the Churchill in Oxford – an hour’s drive away – by yesterday. Hmm. I phoned and explained that I’d got rid of my Tardis when Dr Who went woke. That’s ok, said the nurse, I can get them locally, which was arranged for the next morning.

Fast-forward to the 9th, and Hubby deposited me at the Churchill for 8am, nil-by-mouth since 10pm the evening before, so I was very very grumpy, even more so when I was told that the results of my blood tests weren’t on the system and I had to give another few vials. That’s now five armfuls in five-and-a-half-months. Another armful and I’d be an honorary Queen Bee.

There were also the usual questions about next of kin, other pre-existing conditions, allergies, and what other medication was I taking. To the latter, I answered “none”.

“None?” queried the nurse. (Carry on, dear)

“None,” I repeated. Keiner. Aucun. Nessuno. Nullus.

“No HRT?

“Nope.”

“Statins?”

“Never.”

“Insulin? Warfarin? Felodipine?”

“Noooooooo”, but I was beginning to hanker after citalopram.

While waiting to be wheeled in, I tried Thoreau again and got on much better with him this time. I decided not to overthink things and just savoured his poetry, his language as innovative as Van Gogh’s reimagining of colour.

I was wheeled in, the local anaesthetic was no big deal, and the aspiration began. The radiologist (the procedure was guided by ultrasound) asked me how long I’d had the cyst.

“Cyril,” I corrected. “I first met Cyril nine years ago when he was 11cm long.” Perhaps it’s not a good idea to perplex a guy wielding a giant needle, even though I enjoyed the distraction of thinking about Antonio Banderas. A few seconds later, the radiologist asked his colleague for another bag and held up the first, full-to-bursting, for me to see exactly what sort of a predicament I’d been in.

 “Naughty Cyril,” I exclaimed. Perhaps it’s not a good idea to make a guy laugh who’s wielding a giant needle.

Four litres later, yes four, the equivalent of over half-a-stone, I was wheeled back to the ward. I was asked how I was. I said I was hungry and could I please have an egg sandwich. They said later. Some time later while she was checking my vitals, the nurse asked if I wanted pain killers. I declined but asked for a sandwich. She said later. Three-and-a-half-hours later, I wolfed down the most delish egg-mayo sarni ever. They then kicked me out, I mean discharged me, and Hubby arrived, making a show of carrying my bag to the car. 

Driving towards the Headington Roundabout in the rush-hour, the local anaesthetic wearing off, I listened to the news headlines and how Starmer was giving away the Crown Jewels to India, having already given them away to Mauritius, the EU and Palestine. I couldn’t help thinking of Apocalypse Now – I detest the smell of treason in the afternoon.