The procedure went well and before he knew it Kevin Page was in recovery.
This week I’m going to prattle on about something important, uncomfortable and humorous.
Important because more than 3000 of us - and climbing - are diagnosed with it each year; uncomfortable because it was, for me at least, and humorous because, well, sometimes you just need a giggle over your cornflakes.
That said, I’ve decided rather than offend anyone with my brand of humour I’m going to try and work some literary magic and write this whole thing without specifically identifying the procedure I’ve had to go through.
I certainly don’t want anybody feeling squeamish because the name gives me the shivers to be honest.
If I’m successful you will know exactly what I’m talking about by the time you reach the bottom. Boom, boom.
So, here goes.
This week, somewhat unexpectedly, I’ve had to go to hospital.
Long story short, I’d had some issues where the sun doesn’t shine and did one of those new phone consult things with my doctor a few weeks ago.
As I rattled off my symptoms I could practically hear her frown forming.
The words “blood” and “weight loss” are apparently enough to set off alarms in the brains of medical professionals and before you knew it I was referred to a specialist.
Now, as I understand it with these things you then go along to the specialist for another chat and they ask you the same sort of questions but maybe dig a little deeper.
Anyway.
While I was preparing for that appointment to be made, my specialist had gotten my referral notes, read through them and her own alarm had gone off.
As a result, she’d got me to go straight to an operating theatre where there was a TV screen connected to a long hose-like thing with a camera stuck on the end.
In fact, when I got to theatre it was only the second time I’d met my surgeon slash camera operator.
She’d come and introduced herself 10 minutes earlier so I was confident she’d remember my face.
Mind you, it wasn’t really my face she was interested in on this particular day.
But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.
Long before all that, there’s preparatory medications to take, which have some, shall we say, “interesting” effects on the body once consumed.
There’s actually a warning on the packet which suggests you don’t stray too far from appropriate bathroom facilities.
Luckily, where I’m staying at the moment there’s quite a nifty, warm TV lounge with all the pay-per-view channels. More importantly it’s right next to the loo. Perfect.
My pre-op routine called for me to drink this disgusting gloopy wallpaper paste-type stuff at 7pm, 8pm and again at 4am the following morning so the surgeon could fire up her camera for a 9.30am premiere.
On top of all that, I wasn’t allowed to eat anything for a full 25 and a half hours beforehand.
So. I’ve guzzled down the first litre of the pre-op drink and it’s slopped its way down my gullet into my empty belly.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve just finished saying to Mrs P, something like: “No. It hasn’t worked yet,” when there’s a rumble in the distance. It sounds – and feels – like a train’s coming.
At this point I’ll just ask you to think about a sunny, spring meadow with newborn lambs frolicking around without a care in the world.
Okay. Now fast forward 20 minutes.
I’m sprawled, exhausted, on a bean bag in the TV lounge wondering what on earth just happened and how trains can travel so fast.
Forty minutes later and the second litre is guzzled. Twenty minutes after that the bloody train starts coming round the mountain again. Groan.
Think spring meadow. Frolicking lambs etc etc again please.
Eventually I’m back in the TV lounge where I doze, watching God knows what – though I did wake up dreaming of pizza at some stage – before the third litre.
This time only Thomas the Tank Engine turns up and before you know it I’m in an operating theatre all set to face the music, or rather the camera.
It’s a little uncomfortable, it has to be said, but they give you some druggy stuff to make it less so and after watching the reflection of my surgeon on the wall get her arms into some impossible anatomical positions we’re all done.
I’m whisked off to the recovery bay where I’m fed, watered and told I’m all clear.
I have to say relief is a strange emotion. Especially when you’ve got a few clues about these things, read the statistics and been thinking the worst, especially after they’ve got you in so quick. But I’m pleased they did.
So now I’m all sorted. Back with a full belly and a little bit of a plan to keep things healthy in the Southern Hemisphere from now on.
And equally pleased I managed to write this whole piece without specifically mentioning the name of the procedure I had.
Hopefully you will have got it too.
Like I did.
In the end.