The first week saw a paler me gradually emerge from the Homer shade of lemon. Appetite returned to one who has never had a problem in that direction before and the results of a renewed appetite was shown in the fact that I could almost go a whole afternoon awake. Other functions thankfully returned to normal, too. Tiredness remained, prewarned by a lack of cognitive focus I got quite good at being ready when instructed to go and lie down, which of course I did.
Midweek brought the phone call, then followed the letter and shortly thereafter the appointment at the specialist hospital. The letter was accompanied by an information sheet to the effect that parking was hideous, particularly in the afternoon and access was awful as road improvements rendered the approach roads all but impassable at busy times. Fortunately my sister and her husband live a few miles away on a bus route but we had a lift there and back. Wonderful.
The appointment was delayed about 45 minutes but it wasn't a problem and anyway, we didn't have anything else of import lined up. We met the first surgeon at 1600, by the time we left ninety full on minutes later we had met the main surgeon and the cancer nurse for this establishment who was just as lovely as her opposite number 50 miles up the road.
The first surgeon began by asking lots of questions about what I/we knew. All I really knew was that I had a lump in an awkward place and it had to go. This surgeon drew exactly the same diagram as the earlier one had on that Monday tete a tete. Yup, the tumour was in an awkward position, no one knew whether it was malignant or benign but most were malignant and chemotherapy would be offered after if needed. That would take place back from whence we came. And yes, it had to be removed.
Now he carried on drawing but this time he drew a schematic of how I would be replumbed. It was brilliant, I so got it. I was reminded of a Haynes manual and how you set about solving problems when the bits you have just don't go back together and you have neither spare parts or a big enough hammer. I never did delicate which is why I was so glad that he was the doctor.
The procedure is called a Whipple and the lump is by or on the head of the pancreas which is why it's so awkward. Again, no surprise there as it has been mentioned frequently that I have been known to be a tad awkward at times.
At which point Mr.Seriously Supremely Competent surgeon came in. Some carry weight and some authority. This man oozed excellence. Numbers, he talked numbers. Whoa, said I, hang on. Pictures, I'm good, words I can sometimes do, numbers, no chance. It appears that these were numbers I needed to know.
Probably my greatest achievement was to marry wisely. Numbers are loved by my wife who was obviously excited and writing with the air of one who knew the importance of numbers. Look, said I, you tell her and she can tell me later.
He was great, he understood my discalculic quandary. Eventually he got to a number that I knew was coming. Weight. I have it in abundance. I hoped he wasn't going to tell me to lose a few stone, fatso or you've had it because I wouldn't and would have. He did suggest white meat, fruit and veg but I asked about pasties.
Eventually you may be able to eat a pasty but never a proper one in one go. Well, if it takes a few sittings to have a pasty, so be it. At this point, the first surgeon opined that in this case the extra fortifications would not be so bad a hindrance as skinny people can sometimes struggle to get through the initial post op months without dietician intervention. Good news amid much good news. I ignore all the mortality rate stuff as it's out of my hands, I merely offer myself to needles and everything else just happens.
Prolific thanks to the pair of them who along with two other surgeons will spend 6 -8 hours replumbing the inner workings of my digestive system. In all, they were well practiced in the art of painlessly explaining the future of an awkward patient.
They left and a lady moved silently from the corner and sat between us. Quietly and deliberately she explained the ramifications of future treatment exactly as we'd heard from her opposite number a fortnight ago. More books, more pamphlets but she added the fact that she wasn't going to refer me to a dietician as I had ample calories to spare.
Shocked, I was shocked. How was she to know I wasn't a Guardian reader or a BBC acolyte looking to be a victim of vicious fattism. I could have been looking to be impugned. I could have been seeking any opportunity to be a maligned minority. I shouldn't have made light of anything but I'm not good at reading runes or people.
You are one in five, she said, for every one presenting with your symptoms there are four who will be told that their condition is inoperable. Your jaundice saved your life.
If I needed anything that Thursday afternoon I needed that. I was poorly, it was serious, they were going to sort it. I was of all men, most fortunate. I needed to realise it. Suitably chastened as deserved, I was consumed with gratitude and humbled at the realisation of the sheer magnitude of resources lined up to get me restored. But my overwhelming feeling was one of unworthiness at the sheer quality of personnel engaged in promoting my well being.
The waiting room was empty.
We went home.
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