The
Prostate and me.
It all began with a tripartite statement by three
leading politicians of the day, Blair, Kennedy and Howard urging men
to get their prostate checked. Leading medical experts declared
prostate cancer was a a major killer of men of a certain age group, I
was in that group.
An appointment with my GP led to a scan at my local
infirmary, Bolton Royal. To my surprise my next door neighbour was
also present though he was experiencing already prostate problems, an
enlarged one I learned.
For myself I was simply going as advised by our
political peers, nothing like being sure you are in good health.
It was this visit that enlightened me to the fact that I
did not empty my bladder on relieving myself, a scan showing clearly
this after the 'flow test'.
The urology doctor expressed his opinion that my flow
rate was adequate but I would at some later date need treatment but
did not comment on my enlarged bladder.
Shortly after this appointment the infirmary was closed,
razed to the ground and everyone, (staff) moved to the newly named
Royal Bolton Hospital, previously known as Townleys hospital.
Incidentally, Townleys was the place of my birth, 1937.
My next door neighbour was treated successfully at this
time with a tube fitted inside the prostate allowing urine to flow
freely, pressure from the swelling had been restricting his flow
rate.
Some twelve years later after further prostate cancer
awareness was again publicised via tv I again obtained a urology
appointment via my GP. To my surprise there was no record of my
previous visit, the consultant also expressed surprise, 'are you sure
it was me you saw'. Well after being subjected to the white latex
glove finger examination the first time I was not likely to forget
who conducted the operation.
Again my flow rate was deemed acceptable, the twelve
year gap between the consultations was in doubt, not by me though,
records could have been lost due to the transfer to the new hospital.
Now in my early seventies I again was being seen by the
urology department at my local hospital due to my concern now about
my urinary flow rate being inconsistent and not due to follow up
procedures.
Another white latex glove inspection found an enlarged
prostate that required investigation via biopsies and an appointment
was arranged.
The day of the operation arrived and I duly presented
myself to the urology department. First job was the paperwork
induction where the first humorous side of my prostate tale begins.
Name, address, birthday etc, then 'do you know what you are in for'
questioned the efficient nurse, 'a rough time apparently' was my
laconic reply. Another young lady collapsed over her desk at my
response and my inquisitor also had to gather herself to continue. I
was to be treated to a local anaesthetic and some discomfort during
the taking of twelve biopsies followed by painkillers etc.
1
Did I say, 'a rough time apparently' the description was
not near enough, days and weeks of agony followed, only in hindsight
do I realise I must have had an infection. The operation was not in
itself painful, the description of 'some discomfort' was accurate,
the local anaesthetic working it's magic. I was told not to ride my
bike for a few weeks, for a few weeks I was unable. I must point out
here that I am a committed cyclist dedicated to all aspects,
pleasure, a bit of competition time trials, but mostly for pleasure
and keep fit.
Fully recovered I resumed my normal life, well normal
for me that is.
Twelve
months later I began to suspect something
going amiss, not sure how I came to that conclusion but after a visit
to my GP it transpired I had not had a post op consultation following
the biopsies, ie no results.
A brief interview to address why no post op revealed
there should have been one around four weeks after the said op. My
remark that I could have been dead due to no follow up was met by a
deadpan 'well you're not are you'.
This remark really hit a hot spot, I'm not really prone
to losing it but this time I really did. After counting to ten to
control myself, which I managed, I left the hospital with much on my
mind. A remark from a close friend about the hospital signs, abuse of
staff will not be tolerated, brought a bit of humour back to me.
Perhaps abuse of patients sign would also be appropriate.
Enquiries led to the fact that as thirteen months had
passed since the biopsy affair I was no longer considered a urology
patient, at this the anger at the system rose again, this time I was
determined to put this right. Outcome after an almighty row was I was
back in the system and looking forward to another dose of biopsies,
no doubt that would keep me quiet.
This time I was treated to first class assessment, a
scan in the big scanner and before I received the result I was in for
the second set of biopsies.
My appointment was brought forward on the day, I
suspected the doctor was in a hurry having spotted his rucksack in
the corner. Proof of his hurry lay in the fact that the local
injection had not kicked in at the first attempt of snatching a bit
of my prostate. Expecting the same mere 'discomfort' of the first
visit it was like a bolt of lightning hitting the prostate, the
sudden shock leading to a mighty howl of pain from me. A quick
apology from the doctor and an extension of time before the next
attempt to allow the local to begin it's magic. Thankfully when the
operation resumed all was well, though my nervousness had increased a
thousand fold.
Operation over, I reflected on the pre op comment by the
doctor on my inquiry of the scan result, 'it would seem everything is
ok'.
Despite the initial shock and awe of the op I left the
hospital and unlocked my bike, yes I had travelled by bike, and
cycled home painlessly. I had worked out that the anaesthetic would
still be working for some time after the op.
Something magic must have occurred, post op nothing like
my first visit experience happened, indeed it was like a miracle, no
pain, no bleeding, almost as if I had never had biopsies removed, I
was back on my bike as if I had never been to the hospital.
For a while, life was blissful.
2
Be very wary of feeling blissful, such feelings can be
misleading, in my case very much so.
Within a week I was summoned back to the hospital, ah I
thought, my complaints about my forgotten post op had been listened
to.
I was greeted by a nurse initially, 'are you on your
own?' was the opening, as I live alone it seemed a pointless
question, later I knew why.
I was ushered into the consultant's room where the
consultant was pouring over my records. I sat awaiting the outcome in
silence, quietly confident of a positive result, after all had I not
recovered well after the biopsy episode.
The consultant looked up and spoke, 'your biopsies
reveal you have cancer of the prostate'. My mind went into overdrive,
panic if you like but I sat there stunned into silence. 'are you on
your own?' now I truly understood the question and why.
The interview continued with an explanation of what
programme of treatment may be followed, I would be the main factor in
this as the choice of treatment would be mine and mine alone.
Before any of the options for treatment were discussed
it was pointed out to me that at my age, seventy one, it was only the
fact that I was biologically younger due to my fitness from cycling
that I was being given choice of treatment. Well at least that was a
bonus, though at the time I wasn't thinking that way.
Apart from the declaration of 'Cancer', for a while
everything was in a fog, clear thinking was out of the question, I
needed room for thought.
Consultations with doctors as to my preference of
treatment followed soon after, one did not go well when I was told,
'you have 45% growth on one side of your prostate, it is slow
growing'. This remark fed my anger at the way things had gone, my
missed post op, the delay in a return to treatment. My remark to the
consultant that since my first biopsies had been found to be benign a
mere thirteen months or so, I found that rate of growth 'galloping'.
He was taken aback, perhaps surprised at being questioned by a mere
patient. He quickly pointed out that the first biopsies may have
completely missed the tumour, somehow I strongly doubted that
suggestion. I have always been of the opinion that the first
operation was so painful, so bloody, so long lasting due to what
could only have been an infection that it was a contributory factor.
Options, where to next? Well I could opt for surgical
removal of the prostate, a course of radiotherapy, freeze then remove
the tumour, a new technique then, a nuclear implant or simply watch
and wait.
The truly amazing thing here is that all the doctors
seem to dismiss prostate cancer as serious, all simply stating if the
cancer don't get you something else will, why then the publicity
about the second biggest killer of men and the need for early
diagnosis.
Moving on.
I decided after being given the menu, that I would opt
for the radiotherapy treatment, in my case 37 consecutive treatments
with the exception of Saturdays and Sundays, seven and a half weeks
virtually. Nothing has seemed to stretch into the future so far since
I was condemned to two years National Service at her Majesty's
pleasure. The treatment would be at the famous Christie institute, a
round trip of forty miles daily.
Not to worry, I qualified for the daily ambulance
service, most of which is carried out brilliantly by a volunteer
service.
3
Ambulance service, now there's something that would seem
to be simple and straight forward, me being me soon brought problems
here.
The day of my first treatment of radiotherapy dawned and
soon feelings I had been suppressing with relaxation thoughts, pit of
the stomach butterflies, intense worry about treatment success, all
came to the fore in a torrent.
This brush with cancer was now my third encounter, the
first being the traumatic news my son, at the tender age of
seventeen, was diagnosed with Hodgkins disease, a lymphatic cancer.
Fortunately he had been treated at the Christie successfully.
The second encounter with cancer was with my partner,
Amy, a very difficult thirteen months that started with high hopes
that slowly and painfully diminished, breast cancer can be such a
cruel affliction. The loss of Amy is a sore experience that I still
suffer from eleven years later.
So here I was, day one of the prescribed thirty seven
treatments in front of me, being picked up by the ambulance service.
I was not alone on the bus like pick up, four or five other patients
from the district were soon on board. A chatty driver was soon
engaging everyone, some who were all too eager to respond did so
whilst I uttered the occasional yes and no. I was in my own world, in
my own thoughts. Being positive is a paramount requirement for
patients and I was determined, having seen both sides of the coin, to
be as positive as possible in my 'close encounter of the third kind',
pardon the pun.
After my first treatment by the highly professional
staff, mainly nurses, in the designated radiotherapy machine room, I
reflected on the wonderful machines and their ability to pinpoint
precise areas from all angles.
First treatment over, a painless experience, I was then
in the waiting room for transport back home. I now found out that the
ambulance service only returns to Bolton when the last fellow patient
to be treated is discharged. As I was an early treatment patient this
meant that arriving back home could be late afternoon, late could
also be very late. I listened to my fellow travellers experiences,
some of which were very negative.
I must point out here that being a fit cyclist, a
regular committed club cyclist, the idea of hanging around for long
periods of inactivity did not go down well.
Living where I live, less than half a mile from my local
rail station, I was soon contemplating alternative travel
arrangements, this after getting a telling off after my first return
home. I was unaware that we had to log in at the reception desk after
treatment to see who would be requiring transport home again. I had
not booked in, apparently causing concern as to my whereabouts, this
led to a phone call being received in the evening explaining the
procedure and the difficulties I had unwittingly caused. Later I
would again unwittingly, it has to be said, be the cause of costing
the NHS thousands of pounds.
During my periods of waiting for return transport I
wandered around the Christie frequenting the charity shop, the cafe
that served patients through donations, the volunteers who make
themselves available are truly wonderful. Just outside the main
entrance are bus stops, by looking at the times destinations etc the
thought entered my head, why hang around after treatment, a two stop
journey by bus and train and I can be home in no time.
Combining my bus pass with the possibility of the two
stop return home after treatment became impossible to resist and gave
it a try but to avoid the problem I encountered after day one, ie not
informing transport where I was, I duly reported to the desk. That's
fine, ok, we'll book you out.
Wow, a frequent bus service down to Oxford road rail
station was completed in minutes, a walk of a couple of hundred yards
and I was in the station. A frequent rail service back to Bolton also
meant I could be home in less than an hour after treatment. I was
liberated not regimented.
All went well for a week or so then I had my first run
in with a jobsworth.
The cheerful chap on the transport booking desk was
missing, his place taken by a young lady who turned out to be the
transport manageress. Peering at the computer screen on my advice
that transport would not be required, she then dumbfounded me with,
'do you realise you are costing the NHS hundreds of pounds by not
returning using the ambulance service'. It was the officious tenor of
her voice that took me aback more than anything else. The next
statement took away the surprise, 'if you continue to make your own
way home we will withdraw the ambulance service altogether'. The
surprise was replaced by a rising anger whilst counting slowly to ten
helped to resist the temptation of a confrontational reply.
My feelings were very mixed as I considered the event,
anger and frustration that I, at seventy two years old, was being
addressed like a naughty school kid by someone who was little more
than a naughty school kid did not go down well. To speak to a cancer
patient who has a little more to worry about than how he gets home in
such a manner was to my mind nothing short of disgraceful. As an
employee of a charitable institute to be so uncharitable was anathema
to me.
Being pig headed and stupid I continued to make my own
way home after treatment, after all wasn't it a good thing that a bit
of self reliance in a challenging situation was a positive outcome.
At my next weekly appointment with the consultant I
expressed my concerns about losing the ambulance service, after all,
my treatment time was geared to the ambulance arrival time. 'Don't
worry, let me know if anything happens' was the confident reply.
The wonderful girls and ladies in the treatment rooms
seemed to know what was going on in the background and indicated to
me I may lose the ambulance service, this could have been due to a
naughty letter found on the car park being attributed to me.
After this I was withdrawn from the transport scheme,
and the marvellous young nurses altered my appointments to a time a
little later, usually between 11 am and 12 am. This presented me with
no problems regarding either going from home or returning, in fact it
was an improvement as I was self reliant.
On informing the doctor, who must have been made aware
of my run in with transport, at my next appointment simply waved his
hand and would not be drawn, a very different attitude to my previous
session with him.
Well one thing was for sure, I was no longer wasting NHS
money on transport.
Thirty seven consecutive sessions of radiotherapy seems
an awesome amount of treatment but with a positive outlook it becomes
routine and not without bouts of humour. A comment from a friend,
enquiring if the radiotherapy was tiring, was met with, 'well when
you turn seventy an afternoon nap is not out of the ordinary'.
To help with the inevitable bouts of waiting, at the
hospital and bus and train station I took to reading books, something
I had long since given up, and began to enjoy the immense pleasure of
master story tellers.
A few days into enjoying my new found independence my
reverie was rudely interrupted, homeward bound I found myself without
my bus pass as I entered the rail station. I must have dropped it on
the bus I reasoned since I had gained access on boarding, jeeze, what
do I do now. It was a Thursday afternoon and I needed to get home so
I paid for a ticket to Bolton where I could obtain a form for a bus
pass replacement at a cost of ten pounds. This I did but on getting
home I tried to access help from wherever possible but as it turned
out no help was available, I was faced with a considerable time of
paying fares to and from the hospital. Being on income support added
to my state pension this was obviously out of the question.
Thursday night was spent restlessly pondering the answer
to my immediate problem, my request for a replacement bus pass was
likely to take some time, I had filled the form, enclosed the
appropriate cheque (£10.00) along with an urgent plea for urgency
due to my continuing radiotherapy treatment that could not be broken.
Friday morning arrived with a very early rising, I had
arrived at a decision, I would make the journey on my fixed gear
shopping bike. That may seem a brave move to some but remember I am a
committed cyclist with heavy involvement with my cycling club,
nothing like a positive outlook and overcoming the odds.
Last minute preparation for my trip into the unknown had
me perusing my tattered OS map of the area I was destined for, along
with an equally battered A to Z of Manchester.
Having pinpointed my exact destination, I quickly
realised that the roads leading to the Christie institute were the
very roads that were so familiar to me when cycling with mates from
Walkden and Little Hulton on our Sunday cycling days to the Peak
District.
Street names, districts, as I looked at the map didn't
look like a map, I saw pictures, memories, faces of long forgotten
friends, bikes whizzing along on fixed gear heading for Buxton via
Long Hill, Cat and Fiddle, Wildboarclough, most of these preceded by
the urban lanes of Cheadle and Stockport. The prospective journey had
a feeling liken to going home.
Setting forth on my first day I was very, very grateful
that the period of my treatments coincided with the long summer break
of school kids, a blessing in disguise since the well known problem
of school car ferrying tailbacks were thankfully absent. Many
cyclists hate cars but the fact is most drivers are aware,
unfortunately it only takes the odd one or two to make it seem the
world is full of bad drivers.
I had no problems on day one, bar one, as I set forth on
my trusty Raleigh all steel, the weather was also kind, warm and
sunny. The gentle fall in gradient from Bolton to Eccles together
with a gentle tail wind soon had my legs flowing effortlessly on my
low fixed gear.
The one problem I mentioned came as I crossed the swing
bridge leading into Trafford Park, the once world famous industrial
estate that even the might of the Luftwaffe could not destroy, well
enough of that, we are now in the midst of other battles. Big
surprise approaching the bridge, pipped by a bus driver, non other
than fellow club member Paul Hackin, what a coincidence that was.
It was a bit of a culture shock for me, I had heard of
the now famous 'Trafford Centre' and I was now on the rebuilt roads
leading to it, my old tattered OS map was devoid of info on this
place. I was expecting to see familiar signposts indicating
'Stretford' but non were in evidence, when in doubt, follow your
nose.
A left turn at the first island and down roads that
began to have a less familiar look, still no Stretford signs.
Eventually just as I was feeling lost I found myself looking up at a
bronze of the late great Matt Busby, I had arrived at the wrong end
of Stretford, the Stretford End. I immediately knew where I was and
set the wheels whirring along in the now familiar direction.
Once back on the route to the Christie my mind returned
again to days of yore, cycling friends, summer days in shirts and
shorts, one up man ship sprints and the dreaded 'Bonk'.
Today, flannel shirts and cord shorts with double seat
have, in the main, pardon the pun, taken a back seat in favour of
that wonderful material 'Lycra'. This material has given rise to the
emergence of the 'MAMIL' an acronym for 'middle aged men in lycra'.
This wonderful material has replaced the old cycling stuff largely
but wool is fighting back as lightweight merino wool is a superb
moisture wicking fabric.
I am a dedicated man of fashion, despite the almost
antique steel bike, I am donned in lycra shirt and shorts along with
the comfort of my Aldi Merino vest, these wool vests also have great
'pong' free properties.
I arrived at the hospital, locked up my bike taking note
of another fixed wheel bike at the racks, probably a commuter not a
patient I mused. I then went to the booking in transport desk and
exchanged pleasantries with the duty guy whom I had got to know quite
well.
Those wonderful ladies at the treatment stations, having
noted my plight on travel arrangements had arranged slightly later
appointments, though they could not have expected me to arrive in
cycling gear. A cyclist in full lycra is not a familiar sight in the
hospital corridors.
On my way out after another dose of pain free
radiotherapy I came across the volunteer driver whom had delivered me
on my first day of treatment. We eyed each other, me recognising him
at once, he, probably thrown by the lycra dress, shorts and bike,
eventually ventured, 'aren't you from Bolton?'. I smiled and gave an
emphatic yes. Another question came forth, 'are you riding that,
(bike) home?', well since I rode here I may as well ride home.
Inwardly I was chuckling, outwardly smiling rather smugly, I felt
good. The driver expressed how he had never in all his time
delivering patients back and forth seen any one cycling to the
Christie for radiotherapy treatment. I swung a leg over the bike and
began my first return journey home by back.
The lesson learned on my first encounter with the
Trafford centre was firmly etched on my mind, I knew where I had gone
wrong and the lesson learned.
The ride back through Trafford Park now a breeze, I was
back on the roads of my youth, almost as if it was yesterday. Apart
from the new buildings, stores etc, the actual roads remain virtually
the same, even the original cycle lanes still there though traffic
was certainly heavier than those way off Sunday mornings when cars
were virtually non existent.
On reaching the outskirts of Worsley I received a
painful reminder of Worsley Brow, the start of several uphill
sections on my way home. The early morning swoops downhill would now
be put in reverse. Worsley Brow itself has changed though it still
goes up, but, due to the advent of motorways a large island and slip
roads, the hill now has a flat bit half way up allowing a little
recovery. I say a little recovery but some cars gave the need of some
occasional olympic sprints. Fellow cyclists will understand this.
Arriving home I felt both relieved and self satisfied, I
had done it, who needs public transport. Being Friday and my next
treatment being Monday I had a couple of days to prepare mentally for
the following week. Club cycling carried on as usual with the Sunday
run, fellow members respectful of my predicament made little comment.
The weekend also allowed reflection on my first trip to
hospital by bike and perusal of how many more days I would be cycling
there, that would be dependent on the recovery of my bus pass.
The next few days were pretty good, just one day of
light rain, being summer the temperature was up so being wet and cold
didn't happen. I really was lucky that school holidays kept morning
traffic down, also my return home being mid afternoon meant less
commuter cars to deal with.
A real bonus of my enforced bike journeys was an
increase in my fitness level, my trusty heavy fixed wheel shopping
bike proving to be better than any gym apparatus.
Booking in and out at the transport desk was becoming a
joy as the friendly guy stationed there most days asked what kind of
rejuvenation treatment was being dished out. It was nice to be able
to engage in jovial banter, humour is in short supply when faced with
the question, is my treatment going to work, a positive outlook is
essential believe me.
Eventually my replacement bus pass arrived and to my
delight also my cheque along with a note expressing sentiments. Now
from a company that often receives complaints rather than accolades
that was great, in fact I sent an email thanking them, their
charitable act to a pensioner on income guaranteed support was in
stark contrast to the uncharitable actions of an employee of a world
famous charitable institute, The Christie. The company were so
delighted with my letter of thanks they sought my permission to
publish it in their news, something I was more than pleased to allow.
Eventually I resorted rail and bus travel again, more
for convenience than need as things like shopping etc were also
essential components of my life. I did however on really nice days
revert to cycling the 40 mile round trip for pleasure, I even began
to use my lightweight fixed wheel Fuji track bike for added
enjoyment.
Thirty seven consecutive treatments came to an end along
with thirty seven consecutive journeys by bus rail and bike.
In appreciation of the young ladies dedicated treatment
and their professional manner I presented them with a card with a
humorous cartoon and poem, along with a token gift of lots of, as I
put it, conscience free chocolates, giant bags of Maltesers. The gift
was accepted gleefully with the comment it was the first ever present
of it's kind.
I left a card for the young lady at the door, but I'm
afraid I will not make further comment there.
So ended my adventures to and from the Christie, an
experience indeed, how did it leave me, well it was certainly pain
free physically but mentally the questions remained. A question I was
asked, did the treatment leave you tired, apparently some patients do
feel a little weary, my reply was an honest, 'well at seventy one
it's not unusual to have an afternoon nap'. It's not unusual after a
long bike ride either.
No further treatment during the following five years was
needed though I did have separate post treatment appointments with
both Christie and Urology at my local Bolton hospital. As both were a
case of a blood test with interest focused on PSA readings and how I
was feeling, I always felt as if I was being shortchanged. The PSA
readings over the five year period had a downward trajectory,
something I was told was a positive.
It was during the midst of these appointments a worrying
incident had me panicking for a while.
I had my usual bowel movement one morning, (skip this
bit if you like) it was normal without any pain but when I rose and
turned to flush the toilet the bowl was covered all over in thick red
blood, jesus, I could not even begin think what might be wrong. I had
not been ailing, not been in pain, well nothing us aged beings
consider out of the ordinary like backache.
Having just recently changed my doctor I rang my new
surgery, no help there, the urology dept at the hospital, no help
there either. Let me be clear this incident was a definite heavy
haemorrhage, I was in a panic and could not engage with anyone, the
best outcome was an appointment in four days time, crickey I could be
dead by then.
The following morning was a repeat performance only this
time the blood was more of a watery pink, but again covering the
toilet.
I had been specific when ringing for assistance,
descriptive verbal symptoms were relayed via phone. For four days I
was in a state of anxiety and eventually arrived at the new doctors
surgery. I entered the office, the doctor was sat in laid back
fashion and motioned me to sit. 'And what can we do for you', in a
distinctly disinterested manner, I was dumbfounded, this after all
was supposedly an urgent appointment, I expected at least he would
have been aware of that. I reacted heatedly, 'you are supposed to
know why I am here'. He leaned forward slowly and switched on his
computer, he hadn't even bothered to consult my medical record. 'Ah
yes, bleeding from the rectum' again with almost disdain, this was
supposedly a consultation, 'and what can we do for you'. I was
enraged, such arrogance, so dismissive. I stood, said nothing and
left. Some time later I had a phone call from the local practice
trust apologising for the delay in my appointment, I didn't bother
to reply and put down the phone rather than regret anything I might
say. One thing I did do was engage my former medical practice and
asked to be put back on the books of a doctor I could trust..
On
returning to my original practice, I sought an appointment and
discussed my recent problem, I was referred back to the hospital for
an inspection of the colon. It turned out I had suffered slight
damage to my colon, Proctitis, something new to me, was the
diagnosis. More of the unknown to worry about. It was during this
inspection my tongue in cheek black humour came to the fore again.
When asked if I wanted to watch the inspection on the monitor camera
I declined with the comment, 'no thanks, I have found that people who
have caught sight of their own backside have a miserable face for the
rest of their life'. I was shown a polaroid snap of the area examined
but having no concept of size of area against the actual colon it
meant little to me.
I was
given an extra appointment with the consultant doctor from the
Christie, the one who had overseen my treatment from day one. I had
read up via the web, Proctitis, apparently only 5% of patients are
unfortunate enough to suffer this, I began to wonder if my luck was
running out.
By now I
was, and still am, mistrusting of a system that hands out so little
information to the patient and the 'I am the doctor you are the
patient' attitude that I am not allowed to listen to my own body. A
friend of mine, residing in a different authority, receives the same
report after hospital treatments as his own doctor and keeps them in
a file for reference when attending surgery after the event. I on the
other hand only receive confirmation of appointments to attend.
I am keen
to hear the opinion of the doctor frm the Christie regarding the
proctitis, so much so I took along my mini Pearl corder, I want a
record of the meeting. Up to now no light as been shed on the cause
of the massive haemorrhage.
On
entering the consulting room I am surprised to see a young lady in
attendance, the doctor explains her presence and the interview
begins. As I express my concern about the contracting of proctitis,
having had no indication that radiotherapy may have such side
effects. On this issue myself and the doctor had a disagreement, he
insisting that he always, on discussing treatment to prospective
patients, mentioned the chance of side effects, proctitis being a
slight possibility.
My
introduction of the recorder seemed to slightly alarm the doctor, I
explained that as only he and I were present at my first
consultation, what was said could be open to a difference of opinion.
With that in mind and the fact that there was now a third party
present, the young student, I said that I could now take away exactly
the outcome of the interview.
What was
the outcome? Well again there was the opinion that proctitis was of
minor consequence, the affected area was small and there was a chance
of slight bleeding if a bowel movement was on the hard side, this
could have a scraping effect on the colon wall thereby removing
scabbing of the wound, but with normal bowel activity this should not
present a problem. Well not for the doctor, but I have to wonder how
such a small area of colon can produce a massive haemorrhage I had
suffered. So no answers from this interview then
You may
wonder why I seem to be rabbiting on about minor, minor being
seemingly a doctors opinion, but I take you back to the original
announcement, 'you have cancer' end of. No matter how old, or young
the patient, such a pronouncement is certain to strike fear in one.
That pit of the stomach feeling, the surge of adrenalin without
physical movement, is unforgettable, as is the mind blowing head
reeling panic.
Getting
over the initial shock is slow but eventually I began to realise that
to help myself a positive outlook has to be adopted, at my age,
there's life in the old dog yet mantra becomes so important. What
will be will be.
Cycling
has always been important to me, many times it has proved to be a
stress buster, and so I found myself burying myself again in the use
of my bike. I suspect any form of physical activity is helpful in
these circumstances, this is evident in the number of cancer victims
and cancer survivors who throw themselves into charity events and
good causes.
The bike
is so helpful to me, a wonderful machine that can transport me easily
down leafy sunlit country lanes in stress free solitude or in the
company of friends riding at an easy pace chatting and socialising.
The bike can also help relieve tension with a bit of competitive hard
work by self inflicted pain on the road, on a turbo trainer or flat
out racing. After my radiotherapy I continued to ride the track
league at the Velodrome in Manchester during the winter months,
retiring from track racing at seventy four, adrenalin and maximum
heart rates go hand in hand in the thrill of the chase. Now at
seventy eight, I still enjoy ten mile time trials, each week during
summer I pit myself against my allotted age related standard time, 30
minutes and fifty eight seconds, if I can beat that I am more than
happy.
I have
written this article, nowadays called a 'Blog', to perhaps motivate
fellow prostate sufferers get over the initial shock and awe of their
diagnosis. Positive things come from positive minds though be aware
negativity is the enemy but also the spur.
Humour is
also a good companion, like physical exertion a good laugh is equally
fulfilling, 'don't let the bastards grind you down', amen.
11.
feeling happy.