Cancer? You’ve GOT to be kidneying me!

Still in hospital, and now I’ve been moved to a urinary specialism ward. I’m the youngest person here by at least 35 years, and the only one who’s teeth don’t regularly fall out and skid across the lino. I also seem to be the only one who isn’t either:

  • Incontinent
  • Mad
  • Incontinent and mad

Until now I hadn’t called my mum to tell her about any of this hospital stuff. No point in worrying her; she worried enough that time I went out in the wind and got a runny eye. She’d be a panicking, vibrating mess if she knew I was in hospital.

And yesterday a specialist came to see me, poked and prodded me for a while, and announced that it was 99% certain to be a kidney stone which had nicked a vein, causing a little bleeding. Painful, inconvenient, but completely treatable. I should be out in 2-3 days. So why bother my mum about it?

They did a little scan to find the stone…

… and couldn’t.

“Not to worry”, said Mr Specialist, “that’s quite normal. It might be too small to be found using this scanner. Let’s send you for an X-ray”.

So I stayed in another night. All very embarrassing. I don’t own pyjamas, so they gave me a hospital gown which is custom designed for male rape. It ties up at the back, but with a gap of around 8 inches through which my inviting little rectum peeps out. And I can’t twist my lumpen, rugby body around to reach the little tie-cords behind me, so I have to ask a nurse to do it. It’s humiliating.

So after another night in hospital, with about 10 minutes of sleep because of the howling lunatic 5 beds away, this morning they sent me down the hall to get an X-ray. Waddling barefoot around the hospital with a drip-stand clearly delivering a tube up my cock, and my arsehole winking at the world. Oh joy.

X-ray done, I went back to bed and tried to have a sleep, but they just won’t leave you alone in hospital. I must have been asked my name about 100 times. I’ve already started to get fed up with it, and am trying to find ways to entertain myself by confusing the staff:

Scene: Interior, day, a hospital ward. Mole Rat lies in bed, and is approached by a gaggle of doctors doing the rounds.

Mole Rat: I suppose you’re wondering why I invited you all here this morning

Gaggle: [bemused silence]

Mole Rat: Oh, never mind. Carry on, Nurse.

End of scene.

And here’s the big news

Half an hour ago I was trying to sleep when a nurse told me the doctor wanted to see me. She asked me to go to his office near the nurse’s station. Hmm: news which must be delivered in private. Bad news. And as soon as I thought “bad news” I thought “cancer”. And then I realised I had an answer to a question that had squatted at the back of my mind for more than a year.

Last year my dad died, having had all manner of things go wrong with him in the previous decade. He’d got diabetes, then he’d gone 90% blind. He had a severe stroke, which left him in a coma for 2 weeks, but from which he’d made a very good recovery, but was pretty weak. He’d had renal failure and had to go on dialysis 3 days per week for 4 years. And then finally, he’d had a couple of heart attacks over the course of a weekend, and karked it.

Lightweight.

I’d often wondered what would kill me. Not in a morbid way, just kind of curious. We all die. Would it be Parkinson’s disease, which my mum has, and her mum before her? Diabetes? Stroke? Heart attack? Raped to death by the Brazilian women’s beach volleyball team? Or, in this invitingly arseless gown, by the Brazilian men’s beach volleyball team?

Now I had an answer. Cancer. And then I was fine, and I knew how to deal with it all.

All this went through my brain before I’d got off the bed to walk to the doctor’s office. So when I got there and he told me they’d found a very large mass on my right kidney, my response was “Yep”. And then I asked to see it.

Typically, I couldn’t because he couldn’t operate his crappy Windows Vista laptop, so he had to describe it to me. “Big”, he said. “Very big”.

I suppose they pay him to be a doctor, not for his descriptive powers.

So the proximate cause of my death will be cancer. Unless, of course, that Brazilian women’s beach volleyball team gets here quick. Here’s hoping!

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