There were two events yesterday, two and a half really, which proved to me, if I needed anymore proof, that I now have absolutely no decorum whatsoever. The subject in question, was of course, my faeces or my lack there of.
Everybody requires a little bit of context and this is mine. I am currently on six tablets of docusate sodium a day plus two senna pills before I go to bed, and still, despite this hefty dose of laxatives, going to the toilet continues to be the bane of my daily existence. In case you were wondering, myeloma is the bane of my world. At least once daily, I also have a portion of linseed, which I believe gives the medicine a healthy, natural helping hand. Linseed also means I occasionally have to visit a Holland and Barrett, thus allowing me to feel superior to the unhealthy masses, that is, until I look in a mirror.
I have long been of the opinion and voiced it several times, that constipation is one of the biggest, unspoken downsides of my medical predicament. I had an appointment with a Senior Medically Trained Person recently, who I had not met before, but Mamma Jones once saw on the television and I instantly took a liking to him when he asked me about the difficulty of my bowel movements.
In that appointment, he told me that one side effect of the radiotherapy would be a slightly jippy tummy. It was a statement that solidified my positive opinion of him. I have now had three sessions of radiotherapy and that particular side effect is yet to appear. I am forgiving him of that, if in a few weeks time, I am able to sit on the toilet without a fear of snapping my spine in three when the struggle ups it’s game.
That is the unsavoury background to my daily (if I am clutching the glass half full), trials and tribulations. I will indeed talk about them to anybody who is willing to listen. The only difference is, depending on the company, I might deepen the code of the subject in which I speak.
Yesterday then, I had a particularly traumatic morning. I had to be up and dressed by 10am, ahead of the Patient Transport Service collecting me for my two hospital appointments of the day, the first of which, was at midday. The PTS can pick me up anytime between 10:00hrs and my appointment time two hours later. As such, stage fright usually kicks in and I cannot pass what needs to be passed because I need a clear 30 minutes to do it. Unfortunately for me, the biological need kicked in around 11:15hrs, shortly after I discovered my transport was not in fact, picking me up at the agreed time. In a panic, I booked a taxi and then visited the room between my kitchen and my bedroom. It was an act that was indeed a mistake for there was not enough time for me to do what needed to be done.
This brings me to my first example. Mid act, I had to give in. As I uncomfortably made my way through my flat to the waiting taxi outside, I said something to Housemate that does not need to be repeated here, such was the level of my crudeness. All that needs to be said is that it Is a term usually reserved for the delivery room in a hospital.
It was a very uncomfortable taxi ride, during which, it became apparent to me that I was going to have to be late for my counselling appointment at midday. Not wanting to be rude, I thought it necessary upon my arrival at the Cancer Centre to inform the relevant people that I may be a little late to my appointment.
Most people would probably have asked the the lady on reception to inform my counsellor that I would be late and send my apologies. Not me. In my second example, the conversation went something like this:
“Hi, I have an appointment with Sxxxx at midday, but I am going to be late…. I have a problem. Not a bad problem you understand, but the one people get with their medication that they don’t really talk about… You know… Um, I just really have to go to the toilet and I’m really uncomfortable and it might take a while. Can you let her know? I’ll go down to her office when I am done.”
It was a conversation that was greeted by a knowing smile, and off I went. Fifteen minutes later, with a large smile on my face, I returned to the reception desk to see smiles all round. I then proceeded to discuss matters in more depth for five minutes more.
Later in the day, I received a text message from a dear friend of mine, who is also experiencing similar woes, and what followed was a lengthy, open discussion about my troubles of the day and the effectiveness of linseed. It was that conversation that confirmed what I have long known… Cancer causes constipation and I absolutely love shouting it from the rooftops.