Scaredy cat, cowardy custard or self-preservation

There’s three things I’m still reluctant to blog about. And that worries me.

Here I am, a fairly articulate person, used to blogging about anything that comes to mind and yet I have procrastinated about talking about these things for….well years frankly - in one case most of my life.

The starting point should be easy. Name them.  But I’m even having difficulty doing that. So before I do (if I can overcome this self-imposed mental block) I should maybe explore my difficulty.

Am I reined in because…

• It’s self-indulgent. It’s simply putting my hang-ups out there to elicit sympathy. That would imply that I see myself as…
• A victim. And victims deserve sympathy (probably with copious cups of tea). But of course being a victim removes the element of self-determination and control. Victims don’t choose to be.
• I’m scared what people will think of me. If I stick my head over the parapet, will I get shot?  What will my employers think if they read this? EVen if no-one says anything directly to me, will it colour how they treat me and think about my abilities?
• I simply consider it a sign of weakness to have these hang-ups and I’m ashamed of myself. Big boys famously don’t cry.
• Am I simply seeking catharsis or do I genuinely want to enrich or inspire my readers? Do I actually have a message of hope? I’m sure in one case I do, but what about the others?

So what are these taboo subjects?

Depression.

I know all the figures, the impact that it has on so many people’s lives. It’s symptoms are different in every sufferer and I suspect so is the route to eradicating it. I know that my emotions, in fact the whole “essence” of who I am is simply a mix of chemicals and electrical impulses, but I also know it’s not like dyspepsia or an arrhythmic heart beat which can be treated either by fixing the chemical imbalance or stabilising the electrical currents. Or maybe I should say “won’t” be treated as the cures affect who we are, not what we are. So talking about the depression that I have is probably simply creating a narrative of my inability to celebrate the good things in my life enough to overwhelm the feelings of failure and loss.

The effects of the radical nerve-sparing prostatectomy.

I’m not alone in this. But I’ve struggled to find any balm in the texts that are available. I didn’t ask the questions I should have because I am single and the last thing on my mind when I was being treated was my perception of my “manliness”. But now…. The physical effects are simply symptoms of the surgery and surely I should be able to share my experiences to inform the thousands and thousands of other men who have been through this or who will go through it. It’s as common as rain fall in a Scottish summer. So which of my bullet points is stopping me from exposing my feelings of lost “manliness”? And how does this experience and my inability to talk about it in the wild feed into depression

The treatment I received at Mayfield College.

There. I can’t even name it in the heading. Abuse. At the hands of certain Xaverian “brothers”. There’s plenty of people who come forward and “have the courage” to disclose. Why do I choose not to? And allow this too to add piquancy to my depression?

So I have to choose whether to make an enduring record of these three things. Either locked away in my head or made available to anyone who reads this.

So far it’s been “sit on it. Repress it. The consequences could be enormous” That’s probably not good for me. But is it the lesser of two evils?

Feeling up to it?

If you read my last blog, you’ll be dying o know where the salt was stashed…

It was on the tea tray. Well of course it was. That’s a life-hack you’ll need if you’re in that Ward.

It became very clear that they wanted rid of me asap. I suppose this was the human face of bed-blocking. What seemed to be causing the bed-blocking was my intestines.  Having some blockage of their own. This was question number One from the massive team of consultants doctors students et al who were all on a “need to know” basis. The very stern consultant was unimpressed at my lack of bowel movement and not only prescribed all sorts of remedies.

“You MUST have bowel movement before you can go home!” He thundered at me. “Have you had suppositories?” “Yes” I replied. “But to be honest, for all the good they did I might as well have shoved them up my arse!”

A couple of the students tittered. But from God, nothing. He just walked away.

Now, the priority given to everyone knowing when I pooed seemed to overtake everything else. Suffice it to say all administerings had no effect. For the whole day I was literally bored shitless. And I did wonder if this was really more important than finding out, for example, what I was going home to. Which was no-one. That didn’t appear to be on anyone’s radar.

Next morning at 7:30 the entourage appeared again. Nothing else mattered than was the opening a success. “No progress yet” said I: “Even God’s thunderous words didn’t scare the shit out of me!” God almost smiled. And then pronounced “You can now go home!”.  Perhaps he didn’t appreciate my humour. Still no-one asked what I was going home to. That’s what the fear of bed-blocking produces.

So a car was arranged and turned up at 9. Which meant I couldn’t get any medicine to take home with me. They needed 8 hours notice…… The thought of no Tramadol was not something I looked forward to on the two-hour journey back. Thank goodness for my ex wife Val who saved the day by getting me some from the surgery.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m very pleased the cancer was removed. But I can’t say the urge for efficiency has made the whole “hospital experience” any more pleasant.

And next time I’ll tell you about some of the things I should have asked but didn’t, the catheter removal, and the next cystoscopy. And what life after a nerve-sparing radical prostatectomy has been like for me…so far.

Prostate cancer–surgery and recovery

I really don’t know if the medical staff enjoy banter in the pre-op room. I was needing a lot. I don’t mind admitting I was nervous.

I never saw so many people all standing around waiting for me to go to sleep.  This wasn’t helped as the anaesthetist was reduced to kneeling at my left side trying to get the stent in.  I asked if he was going to propose to me. Silence……   He had four goes on my left hand but eventually gave up and proceeded to devote his attention to my right-hand. Sleep came quickly….

I awoke in recovery, desperate for a wee wee. Slurring the words I got the nurse’s attention and she said “Well have one then”

I’d not realised I had the catheter in. It was like learning how to wee all over again. I wasn’t in any pain, and was transported to the ward.

I don’t remember too much about that day. I became more aware of the catheter and bag, and I was given copious quantities of water to drink, paracetamol and antibiotics. My water intake was miniscule in comparison to the other wardees. They were mostly old and were having their bladders flushed out because of bleeding or other reasons. They not only had pipes coming out of their bladders, but ones going in to. Water was fed in and out continuously, day and night, huge quantities and the staff had to change these about every hour, day and night. Sleep wasn’t going to come easy.

But first on their priority list was ordering next days meals. I had to take pot luck on day one. Sandwiches. But what would I have for next day??? No. I didn’t know either. I was concentrating on drinking bucket loads of water, and they wanted me up and moving around too. No lying around in bed.

I can’t say it was a great night, The paracetamol wasn’t really doing it; the douche-bags were getting changed by staff using torches and trying but failing to be “quiet”. I didn’t know how the other 5 folk were sleeping through all this. I found out in the morning.

They were old hands at this, and they knew they would get the good drugs if they asked for it. The ones that have to be signed out by two doctors. I found this out by chance, and once I knew, I put in my request.

I was out of bed at five and walking the corridors.  The staff were impressed but cautioned me about being too active. My special pill came after breakfast. I had obviously order toast, and that’s what I got. Toast. On its own. Thanks goodness I was still required to drink gallons water.

I don’t know what the drug was, but it was fantastic. I was in a very happy place.  I didn’t care about their next objective, getting me to defecate. That became a very important thing. I don’t know if my two visitors were impressed at my state, and I did make up a lot of weird life-hacks and somehow got them scheduled for a Christmas debut. (If you saw my Facebook page you’d know. That caused no end of fuss).  I also manage to take a selfie and upload it. The evidence is there, but not in my memory. I had ordered a baked potato for tea. And that’s what I got.  Baked potato. On its own. No butter, filling or seasoning. It wasn’t till the next day I figured where the salt was stashed…….