IT CAN CREEP UP ON YOU!
During the past twelve months, I unpredictably joined the ranks of thousands of affected people, as I succumbed to the dreaded colon cancer. I had always had regular check-ups on this score, but my last checkup, just two years beforehand caught the doctor in an unfocused moment. He conceded afterwards that he failed to discover the very little devil he was supposed to have unearthed, so the tumour had thrived into significant dimensions in the meantime. He was very pragmatic in his subsequent tête-à-tête with me and apologised for having overlooked it previously. What do you say to your doctor at that moment? He thus released me forthwith out onto the street, to digest the four-minute verdict alone. His parting flush of redundant advice to stay positive, landed on deafened ears.
Weirdly enough I took it very calmly, informed my son and then awaited the slow wheels of bureaucracy to commence. The first ‘oncologist’ to whom I was assigned at the local hospital took my temperature and blood pressure and told me to ‘come back next week’. His undisguised attempts at ‘learning by doing’, persuaded me to opt for his boss, who seemed more competent. Since I no longer enjoyed the bloom of youth, I was somewhat astounded that she prescribed the highest dose of chemo and radiation possible. In fact, she was so excited about it that it felt like she was presenting me with a high-ranking award. Instincts warned me that this was not a good idea, but Swiss consultants are not generally open to quizzical patients. Predictably it all went very much wrong and after becoming acutely ill, there followed a lengthy stay in hospital while a variety of doctors kept me infused with many a potion to at least keep body and soul ticking. They assured me that the healing process could not be triggered with medication, only time and nature could work the magic that chemo and radiation had inflicted on me. (Upon reflection, I now know why I referred to the radiation centre on my daily visits, as the frying pan.) It damaged organs and tissue within hopping distance from the tumour with remorseless accuracy. My collapse was inevitable.
This first hospital in which I was parked, does not enjoy the most proficient status, and during my stay, I was privy to almost daily validation of this truthful assessment. It would have been ideal as a Red Cross Centre in some remote corner of the world, catering for sport injuries, or even an appendix job, but not cancer treatment and surgery. There were many young nurses clowning around in the corridors, but not one was capable of inserting a needle into a vein without causing enormous discomfort and often, injury. The rinse and repeat efforts gifted me with multiple bruises and two thrombosis in my arms. Undeterred, they continued their learning-by-doing tactic until I finally discharged myself after several weeks, and my long-suffering son shipped me out of hospital in a wheelchair. My sympathetic GP immediately transferred me to a more renowned and reputable clinic, where Professors take themselves, their patients and their tried and tested methods seriousl
It is probably fair to say that even this clinic is not devoid of blunders, but at least there are friendly, helpful nurses to lighten the load. Four months after the initial diagnosis, the operation was carried out and I woke up to a brand-new world, where it became clear that life would no longer revert to the carefree walk in the park I had so far enjoyed. In fact, chemo/radiation treatment had been so aggressive, that the tumour had completely disappeared. But its sorry effects on the rest of my body cannot be repaired.
Six months later, one particular blunder, sparked by an overly fervent nurse, caused a further four operations and another three-week sojourn at the clinic. By the end of this time and facing further interventions and therapy, my entire body and all orifices seemed to have been on permanent display on the world stage. Each process needed forms to sign, that all images and documentation related to my case could be circulated for research and education, with my permission. For someone who skirted around all references to toilet procedures of any nature, this required a drastic change of culture into a brand-new world. But you know what?I am still alive, despite the biblical “three score years and ten” setting, I am living in a time where God-given brains, education, training and willing doctors has made it possible to survive past killers. As I finally left hospital, well stitched up, I had a grateful sense in my soul, that I had at least lived the best part of my life, untouched by this dreadful illness and all its associated side effects. I never dreamt that this would/could happen to me – it just crept up on me.
And the second thought was – I’m still alive!
Photo: Pexels / Brett Sayles