The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly
This will be a brief update
as the last 6 weeks or so have been pretty quiet and uneventful. I finished my
last blog update after I’d had a Fine Needle Biopsy on the lympth nodes in my
neck. The NHS lived up to my expectations by phoning my at around 6.30pm on a
Friday night to tell me that the biopsy had come back with the results showing the
nodes were reactive rather than cancerous. “The Good”. Great news to receive
ahead of a weekend watching the Rams beat Canterbury and the U7s beat the U8s
in a water fight at the End of Season Presentations.
The remainder of May was
pretty standard, lots of dog walks, including Nev’s first visit to Nino’s for
lunch, first with Anna, then with Carol and finally with Max. (Anna was the
most expensive companion!)
In a rare (???) moment of madness I
seem to have volunteered to become the new team manager of the Rams Sirens. Why
I think I can manage 30+ ladies who play rugby I’ve got no idea, I have enough
problems managing to work out where I’m supposed to be each day. But I guess it’ll
be a blast until they realise I’m a psychopathic megalomaniac………………………
Regular readers may remember
that I was due to undergo some plastic surgery to remove a Basal Cell Carcinoma
(Skin Cancer) from my upper cheek, I knew it wasn’t an urgent procedure and
wasn’t overly surprised to be still waiting at the beginning of June. However,
on Monday of this week I received a call asking if I was able to attend the Day
Surgery Clinic in Thatcham to have the operation the next day. All I was told
over the phone was that my appointment would be at 12.30. Here’s where “The
Bad” starts. I arrived about 12.15, eventually sussed out the most
confusing parking machine in history and checked in at reception. It was here
that I began to think I’d possibly misunderstood the phone call of the previous
day. I was told to take a seat and wait to be called up to the Day Bed Unit. At
around 12.30 a nurse came down and asked who was waiting for the Plastics
Clinic? Four of us duly replied. Two chaps in their 90’s and another bloke
about the same age as me, minus a “Lary”. We trooped upstairs to the ward where
the two 90 years olds were shown into bays whilst the other bloke and I were
shown into an open waiting area and told to get changed into theatre gowns. I’m
sure most of you are familiar with the garment. It ties at the back and allows
your backside a fair degree of freedom to the elements. We were given an
additional gown to wear as a dressing gown to protect our modesty. I was glad I’d
worn clean underwear, indeed that I’d worn any underwear at all. I was under
the distinct impression that I was being treated with a local anaesthetic and
wouldn’t need to strip down for the op.
We had been told that the Surgeon would
come round and see us and then we’d be told the order of the list. At about 1pm
my gown clad companion was called into the main ward area to see the Surgeon,
after about 10 minutes she came to see me to run through the procedure, I was
still sitting in the open waiting area. She was surprised that I was driving
myself to and from the hospital as I should have been told not to drive, she
was also surprised that I hadn’t been advised that I was part of a list, rather
than a specific appointment. The next real contact I had with a member of staff
was at around 3pm when I asked one of the nurses when I’d be told where I was
on the list for surgery. She thought that I hadn’t already been told, but
eventually came back to say I was last. I knew that the two old guys would be
seen first, and that was quite right, they’d earnt the right to go ahead in first.
I was still sitting in the open waiting area with medical and admin staff
wandering past and relatives coming onto the ward to pick up patients who’d
already been treated.
It was around this point that
for some reason or another I began to get a bit upset. Here I was, not the best
communicator in the world, being stuck in an open area for the whole world and
his mother to see, whilst everyone else was ensconced on the ward. Now it wasn’t
just the four of us, as the ward was shared with two other procedures, I’d seen
at least three people leave the ward to go home, so there must have been free
bays, yet I was still stuck by myself.
At about 5pm, four hours
after I’d changed into my fetching attire I was eventually advised by one of
the nurses that I was due into theatre. I’m afraid at this point I vented. Why,
if I was last on the list, was I asked to change into gowns over four hours
previously? Why had I been left to sit in an open waiting area when there must
have been free bays on the ward? Why had no one had the courtesy to advise me
of the delays? I was seriously unhappy, pissed off and distressed about the whole
humiliating experience. The nurse I vented to had no answers, she retreated to
the nurse’s station and said in a voice loud enough for me to hear “He’s not
very happy”. No Shit Sherlock!
A short while later I was
shown into the operating theatre. The surgeon apologised profusely for the delay
and said she’d be speaking to the staff at RBH about the lack of info I was
given over the phone regarding the appointment. Four injections were
administered to numb the area around the tumour, a certain amount on
improvisation was needed to protect my stoma for any leaking fluids (Blood I
presume) and we worked out a thumbs up / thumbs down system for any questions
the surgeon needed to ask. Then the digging out process commenced. It wasn’t
painful at all. I could sometimes feel a bit of pulling and pushing, but no
pain. In fact I almost dozed off. After
about an hour I was led back to the same waiting area and told I could get
dressed again.
The next day I wrote an email
to the feedback team at RBH complaining about the way I’d been treated. A phone
call was received that morning asking for my date of birth as they couldn’t
find me on their system. I was struggling with my voice a bit and the caller
hung up on me. I’m not going to take the matter any further as it’s just not worth
any upset to me. I’ve no idea if any of the staff from the RBH still read this
blog, if they do then perhaps they could pass on the “Could do better” message.
I would add that in the four years I’ve been going through the cancer wringer I’ve
only had two bad experiences out of perhaps thirty or so procedures, but both
could so easily have been avoided.
“The Ugly”
Amongst all the crap that has
been 2019 so far it had become obvious that the Current Mrs C. hadn’t had a
holiday to speak of yet. So, at the end of this month we’re flying off to Corfu
for 10 days, staying with our friends Ioanna Krasaki and her lovely family in the tiny resort of Arillas.
I don’t think we really plan
to do much more than walk to the beach, sit by the pool, eat, drink and relax.
Many, many times I think back at the crap I’ve put Carol and the kids through
over the last four years and the support I’ve received back with never a murmuring
of complaint. Max has finished his first year at Uni and will be off to Crete
with Laura soon. Anna is settled and happy in God’s own County. Time for Carol
to get some well deserved TLC, so long as she’ll drag me up Cardiac Hill.
As always, thanks for
reading.
To be continued……………….
#Shoulder2Shoulder
