I didn't quite get to full strength coffee, partly because my coffee intake was below par, as indeed was I. It is surprising that I never felt bad, no pain, feeling nauseous but never sick, wobbly but never falling, brain scrambled but never unable to realise that it was so. A remarkable aspect is the fact that when my brain was (is) getting deranged I can start sentences but then I see words in my head, words that I want to use but it's like I can't grasp them and force them into the right order. Like Eric Morecombe, all the right words but in the wrong order.
Tuesday after a good sleep was lovely. No blood pressure being taken every few hours but bloods taken locally. Fresh air. It was good. But not for long. By early afternoon I wasn't feeling great but when friends come and tea is poured the spirit is raised significantly. When that particular friend trained as a nurse it's a bonus.
My wife was sat opposite me and like Dirty Harry, I knew what she was thinking. I, too, was wondering if Tuesday night would not be better spent in hospital.
The phone rang and I was requested, as has to happen I suppose, although lots of practice sees me deftly, politely but firmly asking the caller to speak to my wife. The answer was yes and yes I could come in tomorrow for the biopsy stent doings and yes I would be nil by mouth from about now.
That's all it takes to sustain you for another 18 hours when you're feeling lousy.
Wednesday just before midday, a bit early, sees us sat in a nurse's office as she pores over a rather deep sheaf of paper. There are a lot of bits of paper through which she rifles with some satisfaction it seems. Eventually she asks is "this" is your signature? Could be, I said remembering the doctor on Monday morning. You have had so many cc's of this and of that. Again, I remember the ward sister on Monday morning not allowing the nurse to remove the cannula before she has administered whatever the syringes contained. You are ready to go, I was told, that has saved us a great deal of time.
Back in the waiting room I noticed the ward sister pass by just too late to speak. As she returned she paused as I asked who I had to thank for this? Her? Not only me she said listing others, the young doctor, the main man and the cancer nurse. Is there no goodness that the NHS doesn't do? I offered a totally inadequate thank you. What else can you do?
Next I'm in a robe in what appears a ladies wing of this area. The nurse in charge is muttering about so many extra people this afternoon as one senses a little impatience in a couple of patients. She then leans over, puts her hand on my shoulder and whispers sweet nothings to the effect, don't smile or look smug as the waiting time numbers increase but you are next.
In no time I had things done in a ladies room about which nothing will be said but I was judged fit enough. Then onto a trolley left side down and into a twilight room. The nurse we met earlier was preparing stuff and a nurse whose name took two full rows of a large name badge told me to call her Sue and she would hold my hand and I would do what she, but only she instructed.
Sharp scratch said a voice, in went a needle and the next thing I knew was that a man in front was twiddling wheels in such a way as to invite admiration as his attention was on a screen above me. A voice asked me to squeeze her hand if I could hear. Gently. Swallow four times and then squeeze again, please. Swallowing when a plastic broomhandle fills your throat is an interesting experience but not entirely pleasant. A few more instructions and squeezes and the twiddling man told me it was all done, smiled and the next thing I know was that I was back where I started. Sue told me to stay put so I did.
I think all that happened as I wrote but I wasn't totally with it. I do remember being wheeled past a waiting area where my wife was waiting so I asked if I could take that one. Not sure it went down well but she wasn't allowed in the recovery room.
I wasn't there long and to my right was a whiteboard with names on it. There were mutterings about there being 60 beds short and the man opposite had been there so long he was having sandwiches. I was thirsty. A man came in and wrote "Oak" by my name. Another man came over and asked me if I knew anyone in that ward. I only left it on Monday, I said. Well, they must like you because they want you back, he told me. Within minutes I was not only back I the same ward but in the same bed. Familiar fellow patients waved and familiar staff came to say hello. I could have wept, I was so grateful for all they had done. They were utterly magnificent.
Thursday, the doctor explained that he had referred me to the major centre 50 miles down the road, emailed them all my notes and scans and had a video conference with them that morning. They would discuss me at a weekly meeting the next day. But you'll be home later today and the stent will make its presence felt by outcome he said. The ward sister has arranged blood tests at your surgery.
That was pretty much it. Insufficient thanks expressed to the staff there, goodbyes and best wishes passed to fellow patients and home again. Still a bit wobbly, still a bit scrambled, still as yellow as Homer but every day it got better and eventually after about a week the plateau arrived. Still not proper in every aspect but able to eat a pasty and more like a pasty in colour as well as shape.
Properly caffeinated as well but even that took a day or two.
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