The 'c' word

"Where did that come from?"

"Who could have seen that coming?"

Those sorts of phrases (and there will be others - like how "Life sometimes bites you on the arse when you least expect it") tend to focus the attention. One minute you can be seated reasonably comfortably riding the bus along life's freeway, staring at the problems of others passing by and wondering how they cope, and then Wham! something comes out of the blue, smacks you in the mouth and throws you off the bus. Suddenly you're in the road trying to dodge the traffic while it motors on without you.

It's then that you begin to realise what you had - and what you now don't have - your reasonably comfortable seat has gone!    

You pick yourself up and start running in the hope that you can get back onto the bus, but things get in the way - doctor's appointments - specialists - intrusive fingers - cystoscopes. 

And then, while you're lying on a hospital couch with your trousers and pants around your knees, shirt rolled up, the query "Tumour?" appears in the air almost as a rhetorical question between professionals.

Your gaze which, until now, has been trying to look past the nurse and consultant to the examination room's white ceiling, flicks from one to another, waiting. Nothing is said.

    You are are invited to  get dressed.

    As you wipe some wet, mildly anaesthetic, jelly substance off your genitals with a green paper towel you wonder if you misheard? Should I ask? Maybe it isn't. Maybe it is. You take a breath, 'Are we talking cancer here?' you ask hoping he is going to laugh and say "No, of course not". 

    He nods. 'Yes - you have a cancerous tumour in your bladder.'

    He begins making notes and suggesting courses of action, but your mind's not taking it in. The 'c' word has taken control. You stare into your hands. What are you going to tell your wife - your children - grandchildren?  

    'It's superficial.'

    His words lift your gaze.

    'A small tumour,' he explains. 

    Is that good? Is small good? He doesn't answer your thoughts. You look to the nurse - she's talking to you. Follow her into her office. You get up, thank the consultant. Why do we do that? Thank the person who has just told you that you have cancer?

    It's not his fault. 

    Is it mine? Did I do something wrong? 

    As you walk into the nurse's office you realise you didn't get all the jelly off your balls - you're walking like you've peed yourself. 

    She runs through your future - ticks sections in a book, a book about cancer - superficial bladder cancer. Tells you what to expect. Dye tests - to check your kidneys, urinary track. Radioactive liquid tests, to scan your bones.

    Shit, what if it's gone into my bones? Is that why my shoulder has been painful for weeks? Has going to the physio been a waste of time? She reads my wide-eyed expression and reassures me that all these tests will be completed quickly. And they are.

    Two weeks later a gentle voice on the telephone advises, 'Your operation is programmed for Aug 20th.'

 So readers, I'll catch you after the surgeon's knife has done its work.