Tag Archives: hospitals

Political killings in Kenya and in the UK

On Friday (in London) I recorded the weekly Grouchy Club Podcast with comedy critic Kate Copstick on a bad line from a noisy cafe in Nairobi.

Copstick is in Kenya until this coming Friday, working with her Mama Biashara charity, which helps deprived individuals and groups to start up their own small legitimate businesses to support themselves; and also deals with medical problems.

Here are some more highly-edited extracts from her diary entries which appear in full on the Mama Biashara Facebook page.


Mama Biashara logo

TUESDAY 14th JUNE

Equal opportunity rejection yesterday… A Presbyterian organisation turned down my pleas for help and we were told that the Moslem children of Kibera would rather be worm-ridden and scabby-headed than have us help as I am ‘unclean’. Not even an infidel. Unclean. To be fair, that is actually quite true at the moment

Doris calls to cancel our afternoon de-worming in Kibera. She says she has been warned off because there is a LOT of tension following some members of the government publicly calling for the shooting of the Leader of the Opposition. Doris has been told to leave if she wants to be safe. So she leaves. Shortly thereafter I get sent a photo of a woman’s body burning on the streets of Kibera.

David and I sit in a massive jam on Moi Avenue caused by the fact that a matatu sacco has its stage there and, on a small two lane road, one lane is permanently blocked solid with parked buses. Ten of the buggers I counted. Why is it allowed? I wonder aloud. I am told: It is not allowed. It is against the law and by laws and City Council rules. But these buses are owned by MPs and so no one will touch them.

In the city centre, everyone is talking about the Kuria – the guy who started all the hate speech and calls for Raila to be killed – and his cronies. Nairobi is not happy.

WEDNESDAY 15th JUNE

A woman burned to death in the streets of Kibera.

A woman burned to death in the streets of Kibera, Kenya.

The government have put six of the hate speech MPs in the cells. The opposition want theirs released immediately as it was the government MPs who started it all. I fully expect one of them to threaten to scweam and scweam until he ith thick. But, instead, they threaten more disruption.

On Facebook yesterday, I posted a fucking picture of a woman ON FIRE in Kibera. They went crazy in Kibera a set a couple of random people on fire because they were the wrong tribe. NOT ONE COMMENT ON FACEBOOK !!! WTF are people about?

I mean, I know that the Orlando massacre was horrific and appalling and now all right-thinking people are standing in silence in Old Compton Street because – of course – that will change everything and not just because it will make THEM feel better. But for fuck’s sake. Sorry. Rant over.

Has America come round to the disappointing realisation that Orlando might just have been old-fashioned homophobia and not new and exciting and politically useful terrorism?

THURSDAY 16th JUNE

A new Mama Biashara juice bar

A new Mama Biashara juice bar recently opened in Nairobi.

As the picture I posted on Facebook of an actual woman on actual fire during riots in Kibera got not one reaction, I thought I would revert to something nicer in the hope that people will notice. This is part of a Mama Biashara Juice Bar. And this tiny space is home to sixty business people : chapati and coffee sellers, sugar cane juice makers, fresh fruit salad and juice sellers, samosa makers and boiled egg peeps. Mostly funded yesterday and raring to go.

I go to the market at Junction to collect stock. Worryingly, Evans – who is making two chess sets for us – has not returned from Kisii. And his phone is not going through.

Online, I read about the MP who has been shot and stabbed in the UK. Bloody hell!

For once, the craziness in the UK exceeds the craziness in Kenya.

Here, all hell has broken loose because some MPs were calling for the assassination of the leader of the opposition. In the UK, they have actually killed an MP. These are bad times. I feel like watching a Shirley Temple film or going to see Spencer JonesHerbert, just to reassure myself that there is sweetness around somewhere.

And my wonderful Uncle Bob has had a stroke. And a child has been eaten by an alligator (or something) at Disney World. And a magpie is stealing blue tit chicks in my stepsister’s garden in Scotland.

Back in my Nairobi home, I discover we have no water and I lug a jerrycan round to my cell so I can wash some clothes. Oh yes. That is how we roll here at Mama Biashara. My hopes of having hot water explode with my kettle on a dodgy plug, so a cold wash has to do. Then I organise the pile of de-wormers, malaria medication, painkillers and calcium, cod liver oil and garlic, multivitamins and cough syrup to be sent to Jayne in Awendo and Julius in Western.

Thence to bed. I play Solitaire obsessively every night, because it is about creating order out of chaos it is incredibly therapeutic for my fraught mind. I have wildly scatological dreams. A first for me… and not in a good way.

FRIDAY 17th JUNE

The administration block of Kenyatta Hospital

Administration block of Kenyatta National Hospital, Nairobi.

There are a couple of things I have forgotten to mention and one new horror to regale you with.

It turns out that Joan’s account of there being no more free ARVs for HIV+ people in Kenya is true. Médecins Sans Frontières is withdrawing from most places – Homa Bay has gone and Kibera is on the way out. Their clinics are being taken over by the Kenyan Health Authorities which means paying for everything and being treated by doctors who are – in general – doctors in name only.

Felista was also called to a meeting by the NACC (National AIDS Control Council) along with all concerned parties in the Dagoretti area to be told that the ARVs have almost run out completely and there are no more testing kits. It is one way, I suppose, of keeping your HIV infection stats looking chipper – just don’t test people.

In other news, a news crew (Kenyan) got into a small room in Kenyatta Hospital (the biggest in Eastern Africa… A beacon of light and hope blah blah blah) where 36 people were crammed in various stages of injury. These are people who had been injured in an accident and brought to Kenyatta Emergency Department. When it transpired after a couple of days that they could not pay their bill, they were dumped off the ward into this small room. Just a room – absolutely nothing that could be construed as an amenity – and relatives have to bring them food and clothing. No beds, just the stone floor. Some still bandaged up. A couple still bloodied. One bloke has been there for a year.

SATURDAY 18th JUNE

Copstick with Mama Biashara co-worker Felista

Kate Copstick (right) with Mama Biashara co-worker Felista

I am still angry with the world.

There is a new girl whom Felista wants me to see. Also the dormitory floors are oozing water. And the gate is falling apart.

The new girl – Shiko – was rescued from her uncle. She was sent to live with him after her parents died. She was beaten and locked in a back room. She is mentally impaired because of the appalling traumas she has been through – including being trapped in that locked room when fire broke out and being very very badly burned. It is impossible to tell how badly. Her scars are horrible and she has almost lost a hand. She exhibits quite a lot of obsessive behaviour – as a lot of the badly-abused kids at Felista’s do when they arrive – and eats paper. But she responds to stroking and when we put some music on she dances with me.

Another girl, Muthoni, came to Felista utterly broken after ten years of sexual abuse at the hands of her uncle from the age of five. The uncle has not been imprisoned. He said that, because he ‘married’ her when she was thirteen (and had already been abusing her for eight years) it was all OK. The police agreed.

Muthoni is now a bouncing, healthy, happy teenager. She is very cuddly – sort of like a large seven year old – and she can now see men without screaming. Recently, she has told Felista she wants a husband.

So there is great hope for the new girl Shiko. And Muthoni is looking after her.


MAMA BIASHARA EXISTS SOLELY BECAUSE OF DONATIONS. COPSTICK RECEIVES NOTHING AND SHE COVERS NONE OF HER EXPENSES IN ANY WAY. THE MAMA BIASHARA WEBSITE HAS DETAILS OF THEIR WORK.

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Dr Human, the exotic dancer & the nuns

Anna Smith hospital 2013 - CUT!

A couple of days ago, I got an e-mail from this blog’s occasional Canadian correspondent Anna Smith. She lives in Vancouver. The e-mail read:

Oooohhhh… being injected with radioactive metal makes me feel all warm and tingly inside… but so very sleepy. I don’t recommend it… I think acid is probably better for you but I did get a little buzz.

I asked her what on earth she was going on about.

Yesterday, she answered:

I was in the hospital for tests and scanning, as a follow up to my heart surgery, as it is still a mystery why my aorta ripped. The are looking for genetic markers.

I had to fill out lengthy questionnaires at the Aortopathies Clinic. They asked strange, inappropriate questions like whether I had children and how old they were when they died.

A photograph by but not of Anna Smith

Photo by – not of – Anna

On the next form, they asked if I am planning on starting a family so, on the line where I was supposed to write the answer, I wrote: “You must be joking.”

The doctor was laughing by the time he saw me.

When I saw they were going to scan my head I thought: Wait a minute! Isn’t that taking things too far? I know it’s a university hospital, but it’s my heart not my brain that has the problem. I didn’t want to get injected with metal flakes for nothing. They’re not supposed to do that unless it’s necessary.

But my doctor – Dr Derek Human – told me sometimes there can be concurrent artery weakness in the heart and the brain, so they wanted to make sure nothing was going on in my brain. Those might not have been his exact words.

I had so many tests over the last two days that they had to give me a schedule and a map for it all.

Dr Human’s conclusion is that I am perfectly fine and there will be no problem if I want to indulge in activities such as unloading lorries or performing striptease for dykes.

Anna used to be an exotic dancer. Sometimes, on special occasions, she still is. With her message, she attached a link to a YouTube video:

She continued:

This is relevant. I used to have sparkly jeans and the stages in Soho, London, were the size of those cubes they are dancing on.

Anna Smith cutting

Memories of ‘Nurse Annie’

I found this article an hour ago from the Ottawa Citizen in 1980. It is a review of the movie The Tin Drum.

In passing, it promotes me as ‘Nurse Annie’ with ‘The Hottest Operation in Town’. At the time, I was topping the bill at The Zanzibar Circus Tavern in Toronto. I had forgotten till today that I was mentioned in a review of The Tin Drum, along with the films Midnight Desires and The Waitress

The latter two movies were filmed in ‘Eroticolor’,  a process I had also forgotten till just now. I guess David McGillivray must know all about it.

I probably saw it, without realizing what it was, in Belgium.

The Zanzibar in Toronto

The Zanzibar Circus Tavern in Toronto

At the hospital this week, I ran into my hairdresser. Unfortunately he didn’t have his scissors with him. 

I had a couple of hours to wait till my next invasive procedure, so I walked around and waited while he had his blood drawn and he explained to me where all the secret pharmacies and drinking water dispensers were.   

The hospital is owned by some extraordinarily wealthy nuns. I believe they came here to Canada from France hundreds of years ago and the first time they tried to get here they ended up in Chile by accident.

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Mel Moon – a Sick Girl dicing solo with death away from the Edinburgh Fringe

Mel at home yesterday, with husband Chris

Mel at home yesterday with husband Kris

Comic Mel Moon is being admitted to hospital this afternoon and she is having her throat cut in the operating theatre at 9.30am tomorrow morning.

The Edinburgh Fringe is going to be even more chaotic than usual this year, with some shows not appearing at all and a lot of acts performing at different times and in different venues to what is billed in the official Fringe Programme – all because of the Cowgatehead debacle. (See past blogs if you have to.) But some shows, dates, times and performances have changed for other reasons.

Back in a blog in February this year, Mel talked to me about her show Mel Moon Dicing with Dr Death which was to be co-presented with Philip Nitschke of Exit and would discuss her (since changed) decision to commit suicide with advice from Exit.

Now Philip Nitschke is billed as doing the Dicing with Dr Death show solo.

Why the change?

“These things happen,” Mel told me, when I went to her home in Sussex yesterday afternoon. “As is often the case when you work with someone you don’t know, things don’t always work out the way you would hope… I dunno… We were so different. So very different. Even down to some of the things we believe in. Now there are two shows. I wish him the very best of luck. He has put a lot of money into it. We got the Caves for him as a venue and he’s staying there.

“I am doing my show at the Counting House, 8th-30th August at lunchtime – 12.15pm – thanks to the amazing Alex Petty, who ran to my rescue and offered me a fair old chunk of venues.”

“So you,” I said, “are doing your own solo autobiographical show on much the same subject. Which is called…?”

Sick Girl – same title as the sitcom Kate Copstick and I are working on for a TV production company.”

“And now,” I said, “you are going into hospital for an operation…”

“Yes. I’ve been through a bit and I’ve never really been scared before – not scared-scared… but… I spent a good chunk of time wanting to die. And now I don’t want to die. So it would be Sod’s Law if this was the thing that did me in.”

“The operation is going to take nine hours?” I asked.

“That’s the maximum,” Mel explained. “They told me the minimum will be 5 or 6 hours but to expect 9 because of the complications I bring to it.”

“Why the operation?” I asked.

“It’s a combination of factors. I had a car accident in 2008 which caused a bit of disc damage in the neck. Three or four of them dislodged, but it was fine. It was no big deal. I was young, I had a few injections for pain and eventually it stopped hurting.

“Then I got this disease – PGF (polyglandular failure) – and started living off steroids… What do steroids do? – They weaken the bone. In high doses, like I’ve been taking for the last three years, they certainly do. So I’ve been taking a couple of other drugs to protect the bones, but it’s not done enough because there was a weakness there already.

“So all those little discs have started to break up and now they’ve taken ones either side with it, so I’ve now got a neck that is slamming on all the different root nerves. So I don’t feel my hands. They’re just numb. I have no real grip and, if I hold my hand in any position for too long, it starts to twitch. And now I don’t feel anything in my lower arms, so I have burns on my arm where I have leant on the iron without realising.

Burns and a cut on Me Moonl’s arm

Cut & burns: Mel’s un-feeling arm and elbow

“There’s no point them doing a bone graft because I still have to take the steroids and, in a few years time, the same problem would happen again. So they’re going to take away the damage in the neck and rebuild the neck using some titanium rods and some of these… I saw one… it was like a blue disc. I don’t think the discs are titanium, but I’m not sure.”

“The rods are replacing a bit of your spine?” I asked.

“I guess so,” said Mel. “The truth is I have not pushed for too much information.”

“I don’t think I would want to know anything,” I said.

“In January,” explained Mel, “I went for what I thought was a routine appointment to discuss having the next injection, because I’d been getting a bit of pain. They’d been giving me injections in the neck. Even though I didn’t feel my fingertips, the nerve pain deep in my arm was bloody awful.

“It was an orthopaedic surgeon and he said: I’m really sorry, but the option of giving you injections has gone. We need to operate and we need to do it quick. If you have it done, we can’t guarantee that the problem will go away, but we can guarantee it won’t get any worse. If you don’t have it done, we guarantee you will lose your hands within a year.

“So I signed the form, got out of there, cried my eyes out and made arrangements to have it done. It’s my throat they’re cutting. That’s the bit that gets to me.”

“They don’t,” I asked, “go in via the back of the neck where the discs are?”

“No. They say it’s safer to go round the front. That way, they’re less likely to hit the spinal chord. They cut on a crease in the neck and I’ve got loads of them from my fat.”

“Worth it, though,” I said.

“There are two incentives for the operation,” Mel told me. “One, obviously, is I don’t want to lose my hands. The other is I would really like to reduce the amount of morphine I take.”

“How much morphine do you take?” I asked.

“A shitload. I divide it between two doses. I’m on slow-release morphine. So, in the morning, I take between 70 and 90 milligrams. And I take some at night. So between 180 and 190 milligrams a day.”

“And you still get some pain?”

“Yes I do. I have different type of morphine for breakthrough pain but, if I took that as well, I wouldn’t be able to talk, so I use codeine, which I find as beneficial.”

“How long will you take to recover from the operation?”

“Well, they want you out of there as bloody quick as possible. The SALT team (Speech And Language Team) come to see you the next day and, as soon as you can speak, swallow and have your drains out, you can go.”

“I would keep schtum,” I suggested.

Mel Moon performing on stage

Mel Moon performing on stage

“No, I want to get out of there as quick as possible. The hospital I’m in is in Haywards Heath. But they’re moving to Brighton so, if I don’t recover in eight or nine days, I’ll be moved as well and I don’t want that.”

“Have you a poster or flyer for Edinburgh yet?” I asked.

“No. I thought I was doing the show with Dr Death, but now I’m doing my first solo show with no sponsor, no poster, no flyers. I don’t know how I’m going to pay for anything, including my accommodation, but the Independent newspaper asked me to write an article for them.”

“About the disease?” I asked.

“About everything that’s happened,” said Mel. “I was so excited. It should be published next week.”

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As flu abates, Canada appears

No Arts & Entertainment here

No sign of Arts & Entertainment or even quick medical help

I continue to recover from flu. I think the layer of fat helps me.

I got sent condolences from this blog’s occasional Canadian correspondent Anna Smith, who had initially been confused by a recent blog in which I had mentioned I had to take my eternally-un-named friend to A&E at a London hospital.

“They do Arts & Entertainment at a hospital?” she had wondered.

In the UK, A&E means Accident & Emergency.

“In Canada,” Anna told me, “it is known simply as Emergency. Maybe that is because all our emergencies are assumed to be accidental. Maybe there are more intentional emergencies in the UK.”

She was also quite reasonably very shocked that, in UK hospitals, the target (very often under-achieved) is that 95% of patients who arrive at A&E should be seen “within four hours”.

Anna Smith is no stranger to the hospitals of Vancouver

Anna Smith is no stranger to the hospitals of Vancouver

Anna tells me: “I’m pretty fortunate as far as not having to wait long here. Last time I went to St.Paul’s (the local Vancouver hospital) they didn’t mess around. I was sent off for scanning almost immediately.

“A man was rolling around on the floor and yelling and hallucinating, pleading for water. He was brought a carton of apple juice but was too preoccupied to drink it.

“Another man in handcuffs, guarded by two policemen, was calm though depressed. The policeman sitting beside him fished through his pockets to locate his cell phone. The man then called his wife to say he’d be a bit late getting home.”

I guess there are worse things than flu.

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A story about the National Health Service in the UK and a bit of pain

Arthur Smith encouraged singing over ‘dead’ man in Royal Mile

Arthur Smith on Royal Mile tour with prone punter (not me)

Well, I have four as-yet un-transcribed blog-chats to post, but someone has persuaded me to blog about myself today, so you can blame him.

I went to the physiotherapist this morning. A second visit. The muscles inside my left shoulder are still occasionally painful from when I tripped over and fell on the night-time cobbles of Edinburgh during the Fringe in August. I mentioned it in a blog last month.

I blame comic Arthur Smith.

It was during his night-time tour of the Royal Mile and it was at about one o’clock in the morning. I tripped over a kerb amid a crowd of people and fell flat forwards without putting my hands out. I guess I fell on my shoulder.

The problem goes back to when I was hit by a large truck while standing on a pavement in Borehamwood in 1991. The corner/edge of the large container behind the cab of the truck went into my left shoulder, pulverising (apparently that’s medical speak for turning-to-powder) my collar bone in two places. I was thrown backwards, twisting, and the back of my head hit the sharp edge of a little brick wall maybe six or eight inches high. The base of my spine twisted slightly, but I did not know that until a few years later.

I was kept in hospital for about a week.

Because of my head injury, I was in theory under the supervision of the ‘head injuries’ department (they kept me in to see if I had any brain damage) but, because of my broken shoulder, I was kept in the broken bones ward.

Each morning, the Consultant in the broken bones ward would do his ‘rounds’ with his students and chat to the patient in each bed – except me. One day, I heard him explain to his students that “Mr Fleming” was under the care of the ‘head injures’ department (not his words) so I was not his patient.

My shoulder in 1991 - pulverised in two places

X-ray of broken shoulder at the time – pulverised, they said

No-one came to see me from the ‘head injuries’ department because I was in the bones ward. The bones ward had very attentive nurses but I was not seen by any doctors there. Until, after a week, late one afternoon, a very exhausted-looking younger doctor came and saw me. He was from the ‘head’ department, asked me how I was and told the ‘bones’ ward they could discharge me.

Apparently, I later learned, I should have had physiotherapy for a few weeks or months after my release but (possibly because I fell between the responsibilities of two departments and was a ‘head’ not a ‘bone’ injury case), I never did. I never heard from the hospital again.

At home, in bed at night, to stop myself rolling over onto my broken shoulder, I would lie with my left arm out at right-angles to my torso and, eventually, the broken bones re-merged themselves. Someone told me this had been the wrong thing for me to do because, instead of mending naturally, the left shoulder – stuck out at right angles to the body for eight hours of sleep – foreshortened the mend slightly and the two parts of the broken bone merged one-on-top-of-the-other instead of in a straight line. And messed-up the muscles in the shoulder.

But who knows if that is true?

It was just ‘someone’.

I did seem to have the results of concussion for about nine months: I kept thinking I was better and was not. I would come home and stare at the wall, unable to construct thoughts in my brain nor to read. It was as if my brain de-focussed after about two lines of a newspaper column. I still cannot read books (though, oddly, I can write them).

After (I think it was) about a year, my shoulder still gave me pain for about two-thirds of my waking hours. It was as if someone were sticking the point of a knife into me all he time. My GP doctor said it would be like that for the rest of my life and discussed what drugs I could take.

Miracle oil Wan Hua Oil

I don’t know what it is, but it worked in 1991

Instead, I went to a Chinese doctor – knowing that Chinese medicine is very slow because it tries to cure the cause not the symptoms. The Chinese doctor gave me Wan Hua oil to rub on and, within two weeks, the pain was gone.

The effect of the oil could not have been psychological, because it never entered my head there would be a fast result with Chinese medicine.

That was thirteen years ago.

If I put any prolonged weight on my left shoulder, it will still give me a bit of pain, so I avoid that. Most of the time there is absolutely no problem. But, since I fell on the cobbles of Edinburgh in August, there is some pain when I put on or take off a jacket or a pullover: presumably it is just a muscular pain as I put my arm through an unusually odd angle.

The physiotherapist this morning told me that there was nothing really wrong with the shoulder broken in 1991: the bones would have mended. Logically, he is right. But I know there is a problem in my shoulder. And I know there is pain.

I have been given exercises to do.

Doctors know best, eh?

I have much worse pain in the heel and on the sole of my right foot, but the NHS physiotherapist is only allowed to look at one problem at a time, not two.

This blog’s valued reader Sandra Smith has suggested the heel problem may be Plantar Fasciitis. I think, from the symptoms, she is probably right. It may take a year to mend.

I have started rubbing on the Chinese oil again: on my shoulder and on my foot.

It seems to be difficult to get Wan Hua Oil in the UK, so I have asked comedian Chris Dangerfield for a decent Chinese pharmacy, preferably in Soho.

This may be a mistake on my part.

But he knows about such things.

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Dying from cancer in the 21st century

I used to keep an electronic diary.

Thirteen years ago today – on 21st April 2001 – my father was in hospital.

Two days before, he had had a cancer operation.

To set the scene, this first extract from my diary is on…

______________________________________________________

Me (aged 1) with father near home in Campbeltown, Scotland

My father & me (aged 1) near home in Campbeltown, Scotland

Friday 20th April 2001

I stopped in at the hospital to see my father. He had colour in his cheeks, though his hands and lower arms were a bit yellow (possibly because of the tubes and injections he had had in them). He was looking much more awake and bright-eyed than I had thought he would be and his mind was OK, though he had various tubes in his arms, a see-through oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, a grey plastic bulldog clip on one finger (which I think is for blood pressure readings) and he said he felt “exhausted”.

He told me he had slept off-and-on last night. This morning, he was OK but this afternoon he was feeling (and was) sick and had pain in his lower stomach. He said it was odd because, with an oxygen mask on, he was sick along tubes. There were, he said three or four people (he seemed to say doctors) looking after him in the afternoon, giving him painkillers, anti-vomit injections and, he said, two bags of blood because he had a low blood count.

This morning, the surgeon/consultant had come to check on him. The surgeon/consultant said the tumour he removed had been much, much bigger than he had thought it was going to be and – being so big – it had affected either the liver or the kidney (my father was unsure). My father seemed to say the large tumour had rubbed against whichever internal organ it was, though I was not clear if the liver or kidney had been ‘affected’ by the rubbing or if it was a spread of the cancer itself. The surgeon asked my father to tell me he wanted to see me and my mother, if possible, at 10.00am tomorrow morning (on his normal rounds), so he could tell us what he had told my father.

“He said I would need more medical treatment,” my father told me.

“Surgery?” I asked: “He’d need to operate again?”

“No,” insisted my father. “He made sure he emphasised it was medical treatment… though I don’t know what that means.”

Just before I left, my father took his lower, then his upper teeth out and a nurse put the two sets in a glass of water. He was already without his spectacles and his hearing aid. I left him sans teeth, sans eyes, sans everything.

At my parents’ home, I asked my mother if she had slept last night. She said she kept waking up. “I’d be asleep,” she told me, “And I’d stretch my leg across the bed and it wouldn’t touch his leg because he wasn’t lying there next to me.”

My parents in their twenties in the 1940s

My parents when they were in their twenties in the 1940s

Saturday 21st April

My mother and I went in to see my father in hospital this morning and I managed by accident to bump into the consultant on the stairs, without my mother, so I had a chat with him.

The tumour was, as my father had told me, much bigger than the consultant had expected and had affected the pancreas and part of the liver. He had decided not to remove the extra bit but to leave it in because really, he said, it was safer than just chopping away at things. He told me he is not going to operate on it and says the liver is a relatively large thing and there is a small area affected at the moment.

After my father gets out, he has an appointment to see the consultant on Wednesday 16th May – that will be a good week, as my mother is seeing HER Consultant on Monday 14th. My father’s meeting is to decide what to do about what is left. Whether or not to do chemotherapy. The consultant told me he is inclined not to do chemo as, “frankly, sometimes it has an effect and sometimes it has no effect at all” and, in this case, it would probably not make any difference.

Also, I guess, doing it on any 82 year-old man is not a good idea.

So, basically, my father will not be cured of the existing problem. I asked the consultant specifically about life expectancy and he replied – commendably honestly I thought – “We really have no idea how long things like this will take”. He meant doctors are really just plucking a random figure from the sky if they do a guestimate.

His guestimate for a worse-case scenario was that – if the disease suddenly vastly accelerated which he does not think it will – death would be “in a few months”.

I asked what the longest guess might be: “Five or six years?”

He replied: “Oh, not as long as that. He’s an 82 year old man, after all. Eighteen months or so.”

But, as he says, it is really just plucking figures from the ether.

I said I was amazed that my father had never been in any pain at all with the cancer itself (he now has post-operative pain) and asked if things would deteriorate into extreme pain. The consultant’s reply was (I paraphrase):

“Again, one can’t tell. It might or might not happen but there is no particular reason why it should suddenly change its nature.”

I did not quite know what to tell my mother about this, so told her the consultant is happy with my father’s recovery, but that a part of the liver has been infected – I did not mention the pancreas – and that the meeting on 16th May is to talk about possible treatment including chemotherapy.

At 10.00am, the consultant told her the tumour was much bigger than expected and that he had found “a secondary” in the liver.

Basically, she knows what the consultant told me except for my specific question about life expectancy.

______________________________________________________

My parents in Edinburgh, perhaps in the 1970s. Who knows?

My parents in Edinburgh, perhaps in the 1970s. Sometime.

My father died of cancer on 27th June 2001.

My mother died of a heart attack on 13th January 2007.

So it goes.

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