My first impressions were, ‘It’s so cold in here’. That’s nothing to do with the temperature but with the pale blue walls, white matt ceiling and dark blue paper curtains drawn around the four or five bays. Surely a lick of sunflower yellow would brighten the place up and not feel like we were being preserved in some sort of human fridge. 

Having been escorted by a nurse from a neighbouring ward, one where I was originally assigned to, familiar with because I’d taken the time to do a recci last Sunday when I was summoned at short notice to ‘give bloods’; I was a little disconcerted by the change of location. Why did they not want me on the assigned ward? Your mind plays many tricks in these circumstances. Was I too ill? Not ill enough? Too young? Too old? Not paid enough NI contributions. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s a case of Imposter Syndrome creeping into proceedings. Perhaps it’s my frustration at always seeming to rock up at the wrong place at the wrong time. Never standing in the right queue for the hospital lifts or even turning up at the wrong hospital. It would be so nice to turn up somewhere, at least once, and a familiar face say, “Hi Nadio, great to see you. We were expecting you”. Alas, as I am now no longer referred to as Nadio ( I hate Pierre!) and I’m never in the right place, that’s not happening anytime soon!

But things got better. A steady stream of people in white coats came to take my temperature, more bloods, forms to sign and same questions to answer seemingly on reapeat. Then the real action begins.

A trolley arrives with dozens of little packets and the very kind staff nurse Mikhala approaches. She has a tray overflowing with stuff not unlike those little packages you get with the flat pack you buy from IKEA. Expertly she unpacks everything and places it in an orderly manner across her tray.

She generously offers me the choice of which procedure I’d prefer first. Not having had the previous experience of either, I let her decide. I trusted her.

With the care of a saint and the dexterity of an angel, she swiftly found a welcoming vein in my forearm into which she inserted yet another needle but this time with a nasty bit of wire attached. Fuck did that hurt! 

Alas, as painful as it was, it was relatively temporary (isn’t everything in life ‘relative’ these days?) compared to the next procedure.

Again, she gave me options, “Left nostril or right?” as she casually and yet professionally sized up my nostrils. Deciding to go right (good choice!), she then cut some pipe to length, allowing a little extra for wriggle room (more about this later). 

Without so much as, “Is Mikhala Russian for Michelle” … this Transalvanian answer to Mother Theresa (is that an oxymoron?), started inserting this bastard pipe up said nostril. Hitting a little bone on the way up, she scarcely blinked as she calmly but without a hint of choice, uttered those immortal words, with that hitherto unconfirmed eastern twang, “Swallow Pierre”. 

Somehow removing myself from any notion that she was addressing me personally, and with no other option, I swallowed.

“Again!”

Gulp

“Quick!”

Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.

And before my eyes could completely fill up with unrestrained tears, her job was done. The pipe had successfully and without any anaesthetic, arrived at its intended destination, the pit of my stomach. 

Leaving me to dry my eyes and feeling like I’d got the most itchiest of unscratchable itches ever invented, she congratulated me on my gulping and promptly moved on to her next victim.

As if I had now been fully entered  into the club, the other three guys in the ward each introduced themselves. I was now one of them. 

But not quite.

You see, I am one of the lucky ones. My treatment is relatively (that word again), minor. I have a beginning (Tuesday), a middle and an end. They don’t, and yet they are strong. When Nick (spinal cancer) turns 2 inches to his left, without any assistance, he’s had a good morning. When the Croatian (bone cancer) stops vomiting long enough to be taken down for a dose of chemotherapy, he’s one step closer to recovery. 

When the beautiful Indian guy (colon cancer) in the corner learns he has another day to live, he’s happy. 

And so, with my itchiness and slight discomforts, I am expertly steered out of the ward and raced through the hospital towards the operating room. Speeding past an endless parade of onlookers and down corridors now familiar to me, I’m now one of ‘them’. I’m that person I too stared at and wondered where they were going. What is wrong with them. What will happen to them.

Holding back the urge to wave, smile or say, “Hey. I’m ok. Seriously, don’t worry about me. Look after YOU,” I soon arrived at my destination. 

A little similar to taking the car in for a service, I was parked in a holding bay, number 4 if I remember correctly.

Directly in front of me was a door that required security cards to enter. It was hectic and no one who went in came back out again. Evidently this was the ‘Control Room’. The epicentre of this monolith in the centre of Hammersmith. The place where good is done and bad is eradicated, or at least treated. 

Patiently the patient waited. My barcodes were checked. My name, birthdate and address (“yes, I do live on a houseboat”) was repeated and more heart rates were recorded. Lovely, smiley people all around. Busy. Rushing around. So, so busy. In lockdown I’d not seen so many people in one place. All masked. All in gowns. All important.

“Hi Nadio. My name is BLUR and I’ll be operating on you today. I just need to run through some checks, make sure you are happy to proceed and then ask you to sign the consent form then we are good to go”. 

I hid my phone under the sheets, making myself unavailable to the outside world and uninterested. We went in.

Past the busy door, around a ridiculously tight bend (my tennis friend Karen used to design hospitals until she died of a brain tumour last year, she wouldn’t have put that tight bend there, RIP). We were in.

Painlessly and without any help, I slid off my trolley bed and onto the operating table. The kind surgeon who reads the small print reappeared as she described what was to happen next. And then, turning from ‘carer’ to ‘surgeon’ in the blink of a weepy eye, she took control. 

“There are lots of us here today. Let’s introduce ourselves. I’m doctor BLUR. I’ll be performing the gastrostomy. Starting with you …” and the team duly obliged. The formalities done, the team took their positions and the procedure began.

My stomach was discretely revealed, shaved and then painted a bright, incandescent orange. Monitors were attached and the bleeping sounds around us became all mine. The huge tv screen was rotated on its multiple cantilevered arms whilst I strangely thought to myself, “How many cantilevers does it take to move a tv?” 

The student surgeon was moved back, out of the way (slightly tripping on some apparatus) whilst the nurse with the caring brown eyes told me in the most loveliest way that she was just about to inflate my stomach through the tube in my nose and that I should try not to burp. Curiously no one told me I should not fart, which I suspect could have scuppered the whole operation. They were safe. I made it my absolute focus to neither fart or burp for at least another 30 minutes. 

Three pumps of the most rudimentary stomach pumping implement (“I’m sure I’ve seen those in Halfords), wasn’t enough. My surgeon asked for two more good, solid pumps. 

Whilst putting the whole hospital at risk of a human explosion, the surgeon politely apologised for my discomfort but reassured me it was for my own good. Evidently a taught stomach makes for a better ‘fix’.

She then, with filled syringe in hand, told me to expect a sharp prick as she proceeded to numb the now huge stomach. I confess, whilst writing this I suspect I have these procedures in the wrong order as I’m damn sure that stomach would have exploded with so much as a nip!

What followed then was both extremely painful, funny and surreal. My heartbeat was falling, which I was told indicated that I was extremely relaxed and enjoying myself. I was then told off for laughing, as this releases air and the nurse with the kind brown eyes was instructed to apply two more small pumps, whilst pushing the tube a little deeper.

Back to my best inflated self, I heard the greasy gurgling sounds of my intestines being moved out of the way. A pathetic whine from me and a little additional anaesthetic was applied with an apology. I wasn’t meant to feel that.

The student surgeon was then invited to step closer as the gastrostomy tube was secured into place. Rogue intestines tucked back where they belong and I sensed a special sort of ‘high five’ moment as I was adorned with a 6 inch plastic tube dangling out of my stomach. A few sticking plasters applied, a little wipe of blood and the whole thing was finished. 

Bloated but with a feeding tube attached, I was expertly slid off the operating table, reunited with my phone and transported back to my new friends.

Thank you NHS, you’re doing a great job! 

Tomorrow I start with the chemo and radiotherapy. Eeek. 

Monday 24th May 2021