The doctors draw a curtain round the bed. Mr E’s voice is solemn. ‘We removed a tumour from your colon, which has spread into your liver. We took out fifteen lymph nodes, six of which were cancerous.’
It is hard to absorb the news. Harder is the relinquishing of control of my life. Now there is a major operation to recover from, and the prospect of Chemotherapy.
I don’t know how this will affect me. I am scared. Strangely it is not the fear of death. I am terrified of pain and suffering. A month ago I was apparently fit and happy, working full time, swimming in the sea, cycling, living life to the full. In the space of one day my world has been transformed. One Monday in early July I was vomiting, in pain and rushed into hospital with a bowel obstruction. Three further crises, a colonoscopy, MRI and CT scans led to this diagnosis. I have spent the last month hooked up to tubes, fed on sips of water and drips. I have been in and out of the hospital five times. I spent four days in Intensive Care. I have lost more than a stone in weight. I am confused, very sick, and totally powerless. It’s the worst nightmare for a control freak like me. It hurts to do just about everything. I walk slowly like an old person. I watch slushy movies on TV. I worry that my brain is going to mush. After 30 Years in Education I will not be returning to work. I don’t know if I have the strength to get through this. How long do I have? What are my chances? There is fear and uncertainty.
Being trapped in Hospital takes some getting used to. At my lowest point I beg the nurse who is administering the anti sickness medication “Can’t you give me something to put me out of my misery?” I don’t want to survive. “Oh no. We can’t do that. Too much paperwork”. I have to smile.
I came into hospital with my dignity, but swiftly lost it. When you have to get mobile but need to carry your own catheter like a handbag across the ward, and everyone can see your pee it is hard to feel properly human. More like a zoo exhibit. The puncture wounds from all the blood tests and failed venflos have left my arms and hands painful, black and blue. Hard enough not to be able to use stomach muscles, but when both hands and arms are swollen the indignity and powerlessness are just too much.
I am only 56 years old. I look in the mirror at the scar. The twenty-two staples are gone now, but the vertical line from just below my breastbone to my abdomen looks crooked and ugly. I resemble one of Frankenstein's failed experiments. My stomach is still swollen with fluid. What have they done to me? Intellect reassures me that they saved my life, but I feel violated. Sometimes I cry like a baby. I have three grandchildren. Will they ever get to know me and love me? I would want so much to be a good Grandma to them all, but they live thousands of miles away in Canada. Will I ever be well enough to visit them?
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