Love for Now (2 page)

Is there a moment when you know?

From my ultrasound to my biopsy took just 11 days. It was when the scan-doctor said I would need a CT scan in two weeks and they made an appointment the same evening for me to have one 48 hours later that I really got worried. The CT was a Thursday. They said ‘You’ll know the results in two weeks,’ but my GP phoned the next morning, asking to see me. This was even worse.

Tatty took that day off, so we could see him together. He said ‘If this abnormality hadn’t been pressing on your urethra and therefore giving you pain, we may never have known about it. It’s a blessing, really.’ He confirmed that it was indeed solid – not a polyp or a cyst – and on my lympShe smiled again. But, for nowh nodes. I asked him directly if there was a possibility that it was lymphoma and for the first time he looked away slightly before saying that yes, he couldn’t rule that possibility out.

I’m at home now, propped up on the bed. Officially I won’t know for sure for another 10/12 days. But right there, in the GP’s face, and in the way he reached for an envelope to send my notes in with me to hospital, there was a tensing and a reluctance and a pursing of the lips. The merest hint of a nod.

And that was when I knew.

At the same time, I know nothing of course. All to play for. Not even half-time. Plenty left in the tank. ‘It might be completely benign, probably is, you know,’ as a friend said on the weekend. (This is well-meaning, but bollocks, intended to reassure them more than me.)

The first discussion with the senior staff registrar at the Emergency Medical Unit said it all too, but in a different way. Her name is Esther. She is smiley, hair up at the back, glasses,
the trace of a Northern-Irish or Northern-Irish-Scots accent. She has pink chubby fingers and puts her hands out to touch me a lot on my forearm and my shoulder. She began by asking me what I knew.

She stopped me, two words in, when I said ‘tumour’. ‘Well, we don’t know that, just yet. I think we have to say “abnormality” for now. We must do, until we know more.’ ‘Right, well, this abnormality, then, is on my,’ I paused, looking at her for reassurance. She nodded, knowing I was going to say ‘lymph nodes’. ‘And it’s pressing on my kidneys. Hence the pain.’

She beamed. ‘That’s right, yes. It’s actually the tube coming out of your kidneys, your urethra, but, yes, that’s why you’re in pain.’

Tatty said, ‘And it is solid, isn’t it?’

We had been told to ask this by a medical friend. Liquid usually means safe; solid means bad.

The smile fell from her face.

‘Yes, as far as we can tell it is, yes.’

She smiled again. ‘But, for now, we’ll run a few tests, then go from there.’ She touched my arm.

‘Is that alright?’

‘Of course, absolutely.’

‘In a minute I’ll have to examine you. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but has your GP mentioned your testicles at all?’

Tatty and I glanced at each other. It’s long been a private joke between us that whenever I go to the doctor’s, it’s always my balls they end up looking at. I’ve had this feeling since I was six.

‘Well, he did, yes, actually.’

Tatty’s hand was gripping mine strongly. I knew if I looked across at her I’d get what she calls church-giggles.

‘He had a little look as well. He said they were fine.’

‘Good. Delighted to hear it.’

Later, after inviting Tatty to step outside the curtain, she did examine them.

She looked up from them grinning confidently.

‘Your GP was right. They’re fine.’

‘Phew,’ was all I could think of to say. ‘But do you mind me asking, I mean, why, now, I mean, if this thing in my tummy is there,’ I pointed at my stomach, ‘what’s it got to do with my b…, I mean, my testicles?’

‘Well, Mr Wilson, we’re trying to go down a diagnostic path here, and the first thing to rule out is the possibility that your lymph nodes have swollen to fight off something elsewhere in your body. And the most likely thing, in a man your age, is that it could be testicular cancer.’

She saw me frown and stopped.

‘So although it’s in here, it could be down there?’

I was doing a lot of pointing again.

‘Yes, but don’t worry. In a man your age and in good health like you, testicular cancer really is treatable you know. It’s the one to have.’

‘Rock on,’ I said.

It made her laugh, and Tatty, too.

‘And how will you know if it is or not?’

‘We’ll do that tomorrow I think. I’m going to book you for an ultrasound scan first thing in the morning.’

‘On my testicles?’

‘On your testicles.’

‘Great. Good. I mean, thank you.’

‘In the meantime, I’ll do my Dracula bit,’ she tapped the tray of waiting syringes, ‘then you’ll be free to go.’

The ultrasound man wore chinos and a pale green Lee Cooper shirt. Salt and pepper hair, nice smile. They have such a wrapt, alert look of concentration when they look at the screen. It’s close to a look of wonder, part-frown, mouth slightly open. He found nothing in my balls. On the way back to the ward Tatty said their insides had looked like lychees.

Like every doctor so far he had got me to tell the story back to him. When I got to the part about it being difficult to biopsy through my back, hence ‘looking for more, er, accessible material,’ he interrupted, with a rather gruff, ‘Not for us, it isn’t.’

When Esther came over to explain he’d found nothing we inevitably probed her with more questions. She did likewise.

‘Mr Wilson, you remember when I asked you about your alcohol consumption I asked if you ever felt nauseous with it?’

‘Yes? I mean, yes I do. I mean, I do remember and don’t feel nauseous. Why?’

‘It’s one of the symptoms, that’s all.’

‘One of the symptoms of what?’

‘One of the symptoms of lymphoma.’

‘Which means you now think that’s what it is?’

‘We don’t think it is, but we need to test you to rule it out.’

‘A biopsy through the back?’

‘Yes.’

She began again: ‘And night sweats, do you get those at all?’

‘Another symptom? No, I don’t.’

‘We just have to go down the path I’m afraid. Of asking you everything. In case it is. Which we hope it isn’t.’

And then I couldn’t help myself.

‘Why does the lymph system do this? I mean, make growths, abnormalities, whatever we want to call them, when it’s the system that’s supposed to protect you?’

For the first time she looked upset, the guard dropping a little. She waved her hands in front of her hair, gave a tense smile and briefly caught a glance at the ceiling.

She tried to breathe a chuckle.

‘We. We don’t know, Mr Wilson, to be honest. It’s one of the big questions. What we do know is that for some reason your body has made one and that we need to sort it out for you.’

‘I’m sorry. Thank you.’

‘No, it’s fine, you must ask if you need to.’

‘Usually it works like this.’ She perched on the end of the bed. ‘The body has different sites of lymph nodes, where I examined you yesterday, if you remember. When you’ve an infection or some disease the body needs to fight off, these are what makes the body resist it. And sometimes,’ she patted my arm, ‘the cells which do that go on growing once the infection is over. And that seems to be what’s happened in your case.’ She scanned my face and tried on a smile. ‘We don’t know why it happens.’

‘So when you biopsy me, that’s what you’ll be looking for?’

‘Yes, it is.’

The biopsy was not a quick procedure. The radiologist kept emphasising how I’d need to keep absolutely still while they were taking the plugs of material from me because he was using ‘the biggest needle I’ve got.’

‘Will I feel anything?’

‘No. We’ll jab you first with a local.’

‘Good. Which way will you go in?’

‘Through your back I should think. There are too many organs in the front to get in the way. Your small intestine. One of your main arteries. That sort of thing.’

‘Oh.’

‘And even going through your back we’ve only a fine margin of error. So keep as still as you can and we’ll be fine.’ He reached out to pat my shoulder.

I lay on the ironing board on my stomach, and waited.

They were just about to press the green light when they stopped. ‘Mr Wilson, you can sit up if you like,’ the nurse said. ‘Doctor’s gone out for a chat about which is the best way.’

I sat on the ironing board in my gown, my uncovered back now feeling cold. I looked down at my feet and was surprised to see I’d kept my socks on, a pair of woolly ones my grandmother once knitted me.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

‘We don’t really know. They’re talking, it looks like, about whether it’s through your tummy or not.’

‘Oh, I thought they’d decided.’

‘Well, they had. Now they’re talking about it.’

The doctor came back in.

‘Nothing to worry about Mr Wilson. It is the back, as we’ve said all along. My colleagues needed to, er, talk it through with me.’

He was standing in front of me, clearly keen to get on with it.

‘So if you’ll resume your position, if you could, that will be great.’

This time they inserted some bedding, a towel or something, just above my knees and ankles. It made a huge difference. I felt my body go limp. Under my cheek they slotted a large sponge, with a paper towel covering it, I guessed to catch my saliva. Another nurse came round to the other side of the polo, where my head would soon be sticking out.

‘Nice and still now, Mr Wilson, if you would, nice and still from now on,’ I heard from above. I began to slide into the machine. ‘First injection coming now, Mr Wilson. This will give us the image from which we’ll work.’

I prayed I wouldn’t shit myself.

‘That’s lovely, Mr Wilson, you’re doing great.’

The machine slid me back to where I had come from.

‘Now, I’m just going to start prepping your back. Bit cold where I’m rubbing you’ – it was cold – ‘and in a minute a couple of sharp scratches.’

I had made the decision to turn away from the main action as soon as I lay down. My hands were joined above my head, just above the paper-covered sponge. I felt someone else’s fingers interlock with mine. It was the nurse. She began to ask me what I did. I grunted. ‘I train teachers. Primary School ones. You know, at Luke’s.’

‘Oh, Luke’s,’ she said. ‘My daughter wants to do Early Years at Rolle. Well, Plymouth.’

‘Good for her.’

‘How long you done that then?’

‘Three and a half years.’

‘Like it?’

‘Love it. I miss it, actually.’

‘I’m not surprised, love.’ She squeezed my fingers.

I heard a tap gushing, the sound of hands greasing themselves with soap.

‘OK Mr Wilson, some scratches now. It’s the local, in order that we can proceed.’

‘Fine.’

‘I’m just getting my felt tip out a minute, X marks the spot kind of thing, then we’ll get going.’

‘Fine.’ He drew on my back.

‘Here come the scratches, Mr Wilson.’

‘Fire away.’

‘D’you feel that?’

‘Yes. A bit. It’s OK.’

‘You’re doing very well. Here comes the other.’

This was much worse. I felt my whole body wince with the pain. The hands from above kneaded mine.

‘I say, Mr Wilson. You’re doing very well. It should take effect soon. Can you feel that?’

He prodded my back.

‘No not really. Just the pressure of your thumb.’

‘OK. That’s great. You really are doing extremely well. Nice and still now while we go in. Did you feel anything there?’

‘Nothing at all.’

The fingers kneaded.

‘And now?’

‘No.’

‘Great. Just keep it like this and we’ll be done in no time. We’re going to send you in again with another shot into your cannula. Then we’ll take out the material.’

Once again the warm jet into my hand. The polo whirred. The hands had disappeared. ‘Take a deep breath. And. Breathe away.’

I reversed back out of the polo.

‘We’ve taken our photo Mr Wilson. In a second you’ll hear some loud clicks. That’s me taking the material. It won’t hurt.’

‘Good.’

The click was very loud. ‘OK. Nice and still, you’re doing extremely well, here comes click two.’

The hands were back, stroking my fingers up and down.

‘And, just to be sure, we’ll take one more, here it comes now.’

Click!

And that was it.

‘Brilliant, Mr Wilson, you did absolutely wonderfully well. Really well done. Nice and still for one minute more while we tidy you up.’

I felt them wiping me with what felt like a small sponge.

‘Nearly done there Mr Wilson,’ said the nurse.

‘Is the needle out?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes, ages ago. Now we’re just making you comfortable. In a minute you can sit up.’

The doors to the CT room burst open. A bed was wheeled in and parked next to the ironing board. A foot started pumping somewhere below the bed and magically it came to rest level with me.

‘So, Mr Wilson, really well done, we’re going to ask you to lift yourself up off the bed and walk your legs across to the bed next to you.’

I felt my legs obey, but my body was not so compliant. Two pairs of arms reached under mine and gently levered me up. I pushed down on the ironing board and slid myself over onto the bed. I looked back at where I’d been lying and was just in time to see a large smear of blood being mopped up.

‘Just a little bleeding,’ the doctor smiled. ‘Really nothing to worry about.’

And then I felt myself being wheeled back through the doors, across the radiology corridor, and into a small bay off it, next to two empty beds.

Tatty was there waiting for me. She bent down and kissed my forehead. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

My doctor came over and smiled at me from his great height. ‘Well, we hope we got enough material. Sometimes it’s just dead cells. We certainly hope not.’