The trials and tribulations of this cancer malarkey

Nukehasslefan said:
Best of luck to you Foggy.
What you describe is what happened to my mother-in-law.
She was cramped, in pain and she was scanned. They gave her laxatives and stuff and it caused more issues than it solved because the blockage of crap was centred and each side, top and bottom was a mixture of happenings at one end....bum.... but build up at the other so more clogging.
The camera they put in at first was only a shallow one. Basically not deep into the intestine.
It had them baffled, until they realised what was happening.
Basically the body tried to break down the blockage but only manages to force some watery sludge past it which made them think she wasn't constipated, because she was pooing basic sludge but not a lot, yet they thought it was enough due to the small amounts she was eating.
They basically missed the blockage of crap until she was in some much cramping pain she begged them for a release.
They told her they could do a manual evacuation but it involved basically pushing in the hand and scooping out.
She got it done and it was literally as if the mudslides of the entire hills of the world went into overdrive.

The mother-in-law was a big woman but this gear packed in her, she said, was almost impossible for a human to hold it, in her opinion....but there it was.
The mudslides and the stenching sewers of the third world she described it as. She said she felt embarrassed later on but at the time she was just relieved to get rid.

She had peritoneal C as well. She was 75 and was told if she wasn't so old and had a weak heart she'd be eligible for an OP.

Good luck to you.
Click to expand...
I build stuff. Nuclear Plants, motorways, prisons, hospitals and stuff. A few years back I’d done a large comprehensive school and during the summer break got a call they had a problem with the bogs. I arrived to find all the bogs blocked and nasty bits spewing out. I checked the manhole downstream, it was full, the next - full, and the next and the next. I finally got to one which was dry and about five metres deep. Down I pop with some rods and start to have a prod, there’s a little resistance a couple of metres up line so I twist and turn a bit and hear a gurgle. Twist a bit more and a trickle starts to show then I sense that I’m no longer pushing and twisting I’m actually holding back a force slowly pushing towards me. Shit I think, quite literally, I was scrambling out of there faster than the proverbial rat out of a pipe and a quizzical caretaker at the top asked me what the hurry was. I pointed down and we watched a slow moving slug of papier-mâché hand towels, lady bits etc. About a metres worth crept into view gradually getting faster then - whoosh, the fecker let rip and there was a torrent of the sweetest smelling explosion of fluid. It came with such force it was splitting out the top, five metres up and the manhole was filled up to three or four metres before it all cleared.


Anyway Foggy, lemon and blueberry - really?
You disgust me.

Let me know if you want me to have a go with the rods.

Keep on keeping on.
 


Billy Fish said:
I build stuff. Nuclear Plants, motorways, prisons, hospitals and stuff. A few years back I’d done a large comprehensive school and during the summer break got a call they had a problem with the bogs. I arrived to find all the bogs blocked and nasty bits spewing out. I checked the manhole downstream, it was full, the next - full, and the next and the next. I finally got to one which was dry and about five metres deep. Down I pop with some rods and start to have a prod, there’s a little resistance a couple of metres up line so I twist and turn a bit and hear a gurgle. Twist a bit more and a trickle starts to show then I sense that I’m no longer pushing and twisting I’m actually holding back a force slowly pushing towards me. Shit I think, quite literally, I was scrambling out of there faster than the proverbial rat out of a pipe and a quizzical caretaker at the top asked me what the hurry was. I pointed down and we watched a slow moving slug of papier-mâché hand towels, lady bits etc. About a metres worth crept into view gradually getting faster then - whoosh, the fecker let rip and there was a torrent of the sweetest smelling explosion of fluid. It came with such force it was splitting out the top, five metres up and the manhole was filled up to three or four metres before it all cleared.


Anyway Foggy, lemon and blueberry - really?
You disgust me.

Let me know if you want me to have a go with the rods.

Keep on keeping on.
Click to expand...
Horrible isn't it?
That all humans are in a way when we have to get rid of waste. Just a feed and evacuation of waste, just like an array of sewage pipes and systems.
Aye, they literally had to do similar to what you did but on a human being. Mental isn't it?

A word to foggy. If they gave you that watery sand to drink to clean out your kidneys or whatever, they don't help with your bowels. They caused the clog up in our lasses mother.
 
Foggy I can really sympathise with your current situation as i got severely bunged up after the Heart Op... well in fact I went 9 days... 3 days before and 6 after. I had a cocktail of Laxido and eventually 3 suppositories did the trick... what a relief as i could not strain or push because of the surgery. Anyway hope by now you too have got it sorted.

Good to hear the Cancer is on the backfoot and you have surgeon on your side.

Hope you and the bairn get many more Days and nights up in the Lakes stargazing reading and walking the dog.
 
Flared Hicks said:
I was going to offer to send some Aloe Vera Andrex up, but the puppy will likely nick off with it and it sounds like we’re straying perilously close to Kärcher territory anyways for the clean up operation.

Oh and what soup? I just made a cracking seeded loaf that would mop it up a treat.
Click to expand...

Yorkshire Provender Roast chicken and vegetables. Proper bits of chicken mind. Canny
 
foggy said:
I usually write stuff when I’m in the chemo ward. Pumped full of drugs to offset the other drugs that attack the cells in me that have gone a bit haywire.

I write about life, the end of it and the bits that have gone before. But mostly how I feel in the moment, given the end of it is looming large on the horizon without the certainty of just how near or far that horizon is.

This is a bit different. I’m sat in the A&E at Durham Hospital. The University one or still Dryburn for those of a certain age. Like me. 50 by the way. Everything is 50 at the moment. The moon landings. Woodstock. Monty Python. Charles Manson murders. Loads of stuff. Our lass was born the year after when fuck all else of note happened. Sorry I’m waffling, bored waiting for someone to shout my name.

It’s not an Emergency. It’s not even an Accident. It is because of a call to 111 earlier when a paramedic advised I get myself over here.
I’ll rewind a bit now I’ve set the scene. I last reported my goings on over a month ago, sat in a comfy chair being pumped with chemo, the last of six before a CT scan to see how inside me was doing.

I had that CT scan on 16 August and saw the oncologist on 2 September to talk about it. I was going to write something on here but was taken with the story of Coxhoe Dave, his terminal cancer diagnosis and his acceptance of a life lived well that would be over soon. He is not having chemo and given his diagnosis I can understand and agree. Chemo is shit. Really shit. The more you have the shitter it is. It fucks you over everywhere.

Chemo so far is keeping things in control. Growth and spread. The two things I fear the most. It’s my magic potion against growth and spread so I have to put up with it f***ing me over everywhere else. If I was told it would make little difference I would do exactly as Coxhoe Dave is. All the best sir.

Anyway thanks to Facebook in its not nonsense form and a group of people in my situation, I managed to find a surgeon who might offer me surgery after those at Durham had said no more. I didn’t wait for anyone at Durham to send my scan to him. I wrote to him to say my scan had been done plus the where and when. His team replied immediately. Their peritoneal team would have a look. The following Friday the man himself emailed me. He said ‘We have seen your scans and we may be able to help. Our team will contact you to make an outpatient appointment as a matter of urgency.’ Yay. Small fist pump.
I knew that meant I didn’t have spread and hopefully not too much growth. It got even better. I saw the oncologist the following Monday and she said my tumour had shrunk. Well fuck me sideways. The silver medal position. One behind the tumour has gone gold medal position. The NED. The no evidence of disease. I was ecstatic with silver.

One of the team at Imperial rang soon after and my appointment is for next week. I’m off to that London. I was there all the time with work until this embuggerance put the mockers on that. It’s been nearly three years. No doubt it’s still sirens and construction noise where nobody looks at anybody let alone speaks unless they’re begging.
All good then. Well no. At the beginning of September I developed a new pain in my world of pain. This time it’s my stomach. The stomach is nearer to the nipple than the belly button. Well yours anyway. I don’t have a belly button. They took it during my last surgery. The GP sent me to the Clinical Decisions Unit last Friday. They did the ultrasounds to check kidney and gall bladder plus an X-ray. The X-ray showed I was constipated. The nurse showed me. I could see my shit. It was almost up to my f***ing chin. So I was told to take lots of laxatives. I have a cupboard full. My cupboards are like Boots Pharmacy.

This weekend has been another break up the Lakes with the bairn and the dog. Fantastic. Here’s the postcard. Lodge, hot tub, sunshine, Keswick, ice cream, dog walks, alcoholic drinks, Strictly, Glenridding, Ullswater, dog walk/swim. But mostly just me and the bairn relaxing and enjoying the peaceful moment. We don’t have to talk. We’re readers. So we relax and read with the odd conversation piece here and there. And lots of laxatives for me.

All good then, except the laxatives didn’t shift whatever is lurking in there. They did something. A dozen short sprays of the bowl over a few hours meant things aren’t totally blocked but half a pizza last night had me biting the pillow as my stomach cramped and gurgled.

I got back a few hours ago and rang 111. They sent me to A&E. I told the story for the umpteenth time and got prodded a lot. Bloods taken. Pointed them to old faithful vein to stop the f***ing about I used to have at the beginning. The doc in A&E - they are always the junior ones, some haven’t started shaving- disappeared off to talk to the surgeon. Another X-ray. Two photos this time.

Then eventually the top brass enters the room. The consultant surgeon no less. I’ve read how long it takes for people to achieve this rank. This fella knows his gizzards.

And yet he doesn’t know what is wrong with mine. We talk food, scarring, adhesions, ulcers before he sends me on my way with a promise that I’ll be referred to the endoscopy people. The camera down the throat. Oh well that’s a new one. I’ve had the nasal tube before. And spewed everywhere. Now it will be a two week wait. If I’d said there was blood in any of vomit, piss or shit I’d be admitted and camera’d as soon as. But that would be fibs. So I’m packed off with advice on what to eat.

I stopped at the coop on the way home to pick up some soup and ice cream.

And now I’m sat at home. My stomach is cramping like fuck. Only two weeks until they probably won’t know again.

Fuck it, the tumour has shrunk and someone who spent years at surgeon school may soon tell me that he wants to have yet another crack at it. He might even fix this latest fuck on. That will more than do for now. Fuck you cramps.

All the best.
Click to expand...

Does this mean potentially you could be cleared of this twat?
 
foggy said:
I usually write stuff when I’m in the chemo ward. Pumped full of drugs to offset the other drugs that attack the cells in me that have gone a bit haywire.

I write about life, the end of it and the bits that have gone before. But mostly how I feel in the moment, given the end of it is looming large on the horizon without the certainty of just how near or far that horizon is.

This is a bit different. I’m sat in the A&E at Durham Hospital. The University one or still Dryburn for those of a certain age. Like me. 50 by the way. Everything is 50 at the moment. The moon landings. Woodstock. Monty Python. Charles Manson murders. Loads of stuff. Our lass was born the year after when fuck all else of note happened. Sorry I’m waffling, bored waiting for someone to shout my name.

It’s not an Emergency. It’s not even an Accident. It is because of a call to 111 earlier when a paramedic advised I get myself over here.
I’ll rewind a bit now I’ve set the scene. I last reported my goings on over a month ago, sat in a comfy chair being pumped with chemo, the last of six before a CT scan to see how inside me was doing.

I had that CT scan on 16 August and saw the oncologist on 2 September to talk about it. I was going to write something on here but was taken with the story of Coxhoe Dave, his terminal cancer diagnosis and his acceptance of a life lived well that would be over soon. He is not having chemo and given his diagnosis I can understand and agree. Chemo is shit. Really shit. The more you have the shitter it is. It fucks you over everywhere.

Chemo so far is keeping things in control. Growth and spread. The two things I fear the most. It’s my magic potion against growth and spread so I have to put up with it f***ing me over everywhere else. If I was told it would make little difference I would do exactly as Coxhoe Dave is. All the best sir.

Anyway thanks to Facebook in its not nonsense form and a group of people in my situation, I managed to find a surgeon who might offer me surgery after those at Durham had said no more. I didn’t wait for anyone at Durham to send my scan to him. I wrote to him to say my scan had been done plus the where and when. His team replied immediately. Their peritoneal team would have a look. The following Friday the man himself emailed me. He said ‘We have seen your scans and we may be able to help. Our team will contact you to make an outpatient appointment as a matter of urgency.’ Yay. Small fist pump.
I knew that meant I didn’t have spread and hopefully not too much growth. It got even better. I saw the oncologist the following Monday and she said my tumour had shrunk. Well fuck me sideways. The silver medal position. One behind the tumour has gone gold medal position. The NED. The no evidence of disease. I was ecstatic with silver.

One of the team at Imperial rang soon after and my appointment is for next week. I’m off to that London. I was there all the time with work until this embuggerance put the mockers on that. It’s been nearly three years. No doubt it’s still sirens and construction noise where nobody looks at anybody let alone speaks unless they’re begging.
All good then. Well no. At the beginning of September I developed a new pain in my world of pain. This time it’s my stomach. The stomach is nearer to the nipple than the belly button. Well yours anyway. I don’t have a belly button. They took it during my last surgery. The GP sent me to the Clinical Decisions Unit last Friday. They did the ultrasounds to check kidney and gall bladder plus an X-ray. The X-ray showed I was constipated. The nurse showed me. I could see my shit. It was almost up to my f***ing chin. So I was told to take lots of laxatives. I have a cupboard full. My cupboards are like Boots Pharmacy.

This weekend has been another break up the Lakes with the bairn and the dog. Fantastic. Here’s the postcard. Lodge, hot tub, sunshine, Keswick, ice cream, dog walks, alcoholic drinks, Strictly, Glenridding, Ullswater, dog walk/swim. But mostly just me and the bairn relaxing and enjoying the peaceful moment. We don’t have to talk. We’re readers. So we relax and read with the odd conversation piece here and there. And lots of laxatives for me.

All good then, except the laxatives didn’t shift whatever is lurking in there. They did something. A dozen short sprays of the bowl over a few hours meant things aren’t totally blocked but half a pizza last night had me biting the pillow as my stomach cramped and gurgled.

I got back a few hours ago and rang 111. They sent me to A&E. I told the story for the umpteenth time and got prodded a lot. Bloods taken. Pointed them to old faithful vein to stop the f***ing about I used to have at the beginning. The doc in A&E - they are always the junior ones, some haven’t started shaving- disappeared off to talk to the surgeon. Another X-ray. Two photos this time.

Then eventually the top brass enters the room. The consultant surgeon no less. I’ve read how long it takes for people to achieve this rank. This fella knows his gizzards.

And yet he doesn’t know what is wrong with mine. We talk food, scarring, adhesions, ulcers before he sends me on my way with a promise that I’ll be referred to the endoscopy people. The camera down the throat. Oh well that’s a new one. I’ve had the nasal tube before. And spewed everywhere. Now it will be a two week wait. If I’d said there was blood in any of vomit, piss or shit I’d be admitted and camera’d as soon as. But that would be fibs. So I’m packed off with advice on what to eat.

I stopped at the coop on the way home to pick up some soup and ice cream.

And now I’m sat at home. My stomach is cramping like fuck. Only two weeks until they probably won’t know again.

Fuck it, the tumour has shrunk and someone who spent years at surgeon school may soon tell me that he wants to have yet another crack at it. He might even fix this latest fuck on. That will more than do for now. Fuck you cramps.

All the best.
Click to expand...


@foggy all the shit you've had thrown at you and now all you want is to give some back ;)

Another great read and some hopefully good news on the tumours. Keep up the fight give it that kicking - you never know you will be supporting the second richest club in the world!!
 
f***ing hell mate, a chink of light in that tunnel eh?


I'm referring, of course, to the tiny bit of shit you managed to remove in the otherwise state of Foggy being literally full of shit, of course ;)
 
You have a fantastic way of writing, go write a book.

Hopefully even more good news on the way, enjoy reading your posts every update. I can recommend Tunisia if you need to get the shits!
 
foggy said:
I usually write stuff when I’m in the chemo ward. Pumped full of drugs to offset the other drugs that attack the cells in me that have gone a bit haywire.

I write about life, the end of it and the bits that have gone before. But mostly how I feel in the moment, given the end of it is looming large on the horizon without the certainty of just how near or far that horizon is.

This is a bit different. I’m sat in the A&E at Durham Hospital. The University one or still Dryburn for those of a certain age. Like me. 50 by the way. Everything is 50 at the moment. The moon landings. Woodstock. Monty Python. Charles Manson murders. Loads of stuff. Our lass was born the year after when fuck all else of note happened. Sorry I’m waffling, bored waiting for someone to shout my name.

It’s not an Emergency. It’s not even an Accident. It is because of a call to 111 earlier when a paramedic advised I get myself over here.
I’ll rewind a bit now I’ve set the scene. I last reported my goings on over a month ago, sat in a comfy chair being pumped with chemo, the last of six before a CT scan to see how inside me was doing.

I had that CT scan on 16 August and saw the oncologist on 2 September to talk about it. I was going to write something on here but was taken with the story of Coxhoe Dave, his terminal cancer diagnosis and his acceptance of a life lived well that would be over soon. He is not having chemo and given his diagnosis I can understand and agree. Chemo is shit. Really shit. The more you have the shitter it is. It fucks you over everywhere.

Chemo so far is keeping things in control. Growth and spread. The two things I fear the most. It’s my magic potion against growth and spread so I have to put up with it f***ing me over everywhere else. If I was told it would make little difference I would do exactly as Coxhoe Dave is. All the best sir.

Anyway thanks to Facebook in its not nonsense form and a group of people in my situation, I managed to find a surgeon who might offer me surgery after those at Durham had said no more. I didn’t wait for anyone at Durham to send my scan to him. I wrote to him to say my scan had been done plus the where and when. His team replied immediately. Their peritoneal team would have a look. The following Friday the man himself emailed me. He said ‘We have seen your scans and we may be able to help. Our team will contact you to make an outpatient appointment as a matter of urgency.’ Yay. Small fist pump.
I knew that meant I didn’t have spread and hopefully not too much growth. It got even better. I saw the oncologist the following Monday and she said my tumour had shrunk. Well fuck me sideways. The silver medal position. One behind the tumour has gone gold medal position. The NED. The no evidence of disease. I was ecstatic with silver.

One of the team at Imperial rang soon after and my appointment is for next week. I’m off to that London. I was there all the time with work until this embuggerance put the mockers on that. It’s been nearly three years. No doubt it’s still sirens and construction noise where nobody looks at anybody let alone speaks unless they’re begging.
All good then. Well no. At the beginning of September I developed a new pain in my world of pain. This time it’s my stomach. The stomach is nearer to the nipple than the belly button. Well yours anyway. I don’t have a belly button. They took it during my last surgery. The GP sent me to the Clinical Decisions Unit last Friday. They did the ultrasounds to check kidney and gall bladder plus an X-ray. The X-ray showed I was constipated. The nurse showed me. I could see my shit. It was almost up to my f***ing chin. So I was told to take lots of laxatives. I have a cupboard full. My cupboards are like Boots Pharmacy.

This weekend has been another break up the Lakes with the bairn and the dog. Fantastic. Here’s the postcard. Lodge, hot tub, sunshine, Keswick, ice cream, dog walks, alcoholic drinks, Strictly, Glenridding, Ullswater, dog walk/swim. But mostly just me and the bairn relaxing and enjoying the peaceful moment. We don’t have to talk. We’re readers. So we relax and read with the odd conversation piece here and there. And lots of laxatives for me.

All good then, except the laxatives didn’t shift whatever is lurking in there. They did something. A dozen short sprays of the bowl over a few hours meant things aren’t totally blocked but half a pizza last night had me biting the pillow as my stomach cramped and gurgled.

I got back a few hours ago and rang 111. They sent me to A&E. I told the story for the umpteenth time and got prodded a lot. Bloods taken. Pointed them to old faithful vein to stop the f***ing about I used to have at the beginning. The doc in A&E - they are always the junior ones, some haven’t started shaving- disappeared off to talk to the surgeon. Another X-ray. Two photos this time.

Then eventually the top brass enters the room. The consultant surgeon no less. I’ve read how long it takes for people to achieve this rank. This fella knows his gizzards.

And yet he doesn’t know what is wrong with mine. We talk food, scarring, adhesions, ulcers before he sends me on my way with a promise that I’ll be referred to the endoscopy people. The camera down the throat. Oh well that’s a new one. I’ve had the nasal tube before. And spewed everywhere. Now it will be a two week wait. If I’d said there was blood in any of vomit, piss or shit I’d be admitted and camera’d as soon as. But that would be fibs. So I’m packed off with advice on what to eat.

I stopped at the coop on the way home to pick up some soup and ice cream.

And now I’m sat at home. My stomach is cramping like fuck. Only two weeks until they probably won’t know again.

Fuck it, the tumour has shrunk and someone who spent years at surgeon school may soon tell me that he wants to have yet another crack at it. He might even fix this latest fuck on. That will more than do for now. Fuck you cramps.

All the best.
Click to expand...

F*ck that! I'm not reading all that shite.






















I did really. Best of luck and hope you get your gold. ❤🥇
 
foggy said:
I usually write stuff when I’m in the chemo ward. Pumped full of drugs to offset the other drugs that attack the cells in me that have gone a bit haywire.

I write about life, the end of it and the bits that have gone before. But mostly how I feel in the moment, given the end of it is looming large on the horizon without the certainty of just how near or far that horizon is.

This is a bit different. I’m sat in the A&E at Durham Hospital. The University one or still Dryburn for those of a certain age. Like me. 50 by the way. Everything is 50 at the moment. The moon landings. Woodstock. Monty Python. Charles Manson murders. Loads of stuff. Our lass was born the year after when fuck all else of note happened. Sorry I’m waffling, bored waiting for someone to shout my name.

It’s not an Emergency. It’s not even an Accident. It is because of a call to 111 earlier when a paramedic advised I get myself over here.
I’ll rewind a bit now I’ve set the scene. I last reported my goings on over a month ago, sat in a comfy chair being pumped with chemo, the last of six before a CT scan to see how inside me was doing.

I had that CT scan on 16 August and saw the oncologist on 2 September to talk about it. I was going to write something on here but was taken with the story of Coxhoe Dave, his terminal cancer diagnosis and his acceptance of a life lived well that would be over soon. He is not having chemo and given his diagnosis I can understand and agree. Chemo is shit. Really shit. The more you have the shitter it is. It fucks you over everywhere.

Chemo so far is keeping things in control. Growth and spread. The two things I fear the most. It’s my magic potion against growth and spread so I have to put up with it f***ing me over everywhere else. If I was told it would make little difference I would do exactly as Coxhoe Dave is. All the best sir.

Anyway thanks to Facebook in its not nonsense form and a group of people in my situation, I managed to find a surgeon who might offer me surgery after those at Durham had said no more. I didn’t wait for anyone at Durham to send my scan to him. I wrote to him to say my scan had been done plus the where and when. His team replied immediately. Their peritoneal team would have a look. The following Friday the man himself emailed me. He said ‘We have seen your scans and we may be able to help. Our team will contact you to make an outpatient appointment as a matter of urgency.’ Yay. Small fist pump.
I knew that meant I didn’t have spread and hopefully not too much growth. It got even better. I saw the oncologist the following Monday and she said my tumour had shrunk. Well fuck me sideways. The silver medal position. One behind the tumour has gone gold medal position. The NED. The no evidence of disease. I was ecstatic with silver.

One of the team at Imperial rang soon after and my appointment is for next week. I’m off to that London. I was there all the time with work until this embuggerance put the mockers on that. It’s been nearly three years. No doubt it’s still sirens and construction noise where nobody looks at anybody let alone speaks unless they’re begging.
All good then. Well no. At the beginning of September I developed a new pain in my world of pain. This time it’s my stomach. The stomach is nearer to the nipple than the belly button. Well yours anyway. I don’t have a belly button. They took it during my last surgery. The GP sent me to the Clinical Decisions Unit last Friday. They did the ultrasounds to check kidney and gall bladder plus an X-ray. The X-ray showed I was constipated. The nurse showed me. I could see my shit. It was almost up to my f***ing chin. So I was told to take lots of laxatives. I have a cupboard full. My cupboards are like Boots Pharmacy.

This weekend has been another break up the Lakes with the bairn and the dog. Fantastic. Here’s the postcard. Lodge, hot tub, sunshine, Keswick, ice cream, dog walks, alcoholic drinks, Strictly, Glenridding, Ullswater, dog walk/swim. But mostly just me and the bairn relaxing and enjoying the peaceful moment. We don’t have to talk. We’re readers. So we relax and read with the odd conversation piece here and there. And lots of laxatives for me.

All good then, except the laxatives didn’t shift whatever is lurking in there. They did something. A dozen short sprays of the bowl over a few hours meant things aren’t totally blocked but half a pizza last night had me biting the pillow as my stomach cramped and gurgled.

I got back a few hours ago and rang 111. They sent me to A&E. I told the story for the umpteenth time and got prodded a lot. Bloods taken. Pointed them to old faithful vein to stop the f***ing about I used to have at the beginning. The doc in A&E - they are always the junior ones, some haven’t started shaving- disappeared off to talk to the surgeon. Another X-ray. Two photos this time.

Then eventually the top brass enters the room. The consultant surgeon no less. I’ve read how long it takes for people to achieve this rank. This fella knows his gizzards.

And yet he doesn’t know what is wrong with mine. We talk food, scarring, adhesions, ulcers before he sends me on my way with a promise that I’ll be referred to the endoscopy people. The camera down the throat. Oh well that’s a new one. I’ve had the nasal tube before. And spewed everywhere. Now it will be a two week wait. If I’d said there was blood in any of vomit, piss or shit I’d be admitted and camera’d as soon as. But that would be fibs. So I’m packed off with advice on what to eat.

I stopped at the coop on the way home to pick up some soup and ice cream.

And now I’m sat at home. My stomach is cramping like fuck. Only two weeks until they probably won’t know again.

Fuck it, the tumour has shrunk and someone who spent years at surgeon school may soon tell me that he wants to have yet another crack at it. He might even fix this latest fuck on. That will more than do for now. Fuck you cramps.

All the best.
Click to expand...

Keep going @foggy just keep going!

Oh and tell them whatever they want to hear to get that camera into you ASAP! Don’t worry at all it’s a ‘fib’ be selfish for you and your family.
 

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