Pants

Tra la la la! I was with my GP earlier, and I’ve laughed so much I felt it was time to share this, and recent experiences, with you, loyal readers.

It wasn’t me who made the appointment – nowt wrong with me day to day and that’s the truth; but they’d received all my recent paperwork from various hospital visits and called to suggest I went in for a general catch up. I think that’s really impressive.

Contrary to what you might expect, once you have hopped on to the conveyor belt of cancer treatment (Good game! For those who can remember that reference; ah – just you, Keith…sorry), the GP and the local surgery sort of come out of the whole process for a time – if not, the entire duration.

If something weird happens, or if you need a top up of associated meds, then of course, in you go; but for the most part, you’re locked in to the treating hospital’s system, meaning that all on-going appointments with consultants and specialist nurses are made in situ. That makes sense – removes a step of the GP’s time, and the sludge-trudging admin that comes with it.

Consequently, despite having two separate cancers within the last two and half years (showing off again, I know! What am I like??! You wait til the hatrick, lol!), I have probably only seen my GP maybe, three or four times throughout? That’s a great tick in the ‘good patient’ box at the surgery – ‘she’s never ill, she never bothers us!’ – but, show that to various Oncology departments in these parts (“Mrs C? Uggh! Can’t get rid of the old bag”) and they’d laugh their pants off!

Pants..pants…Ah! I knew there was a point to this.

So – every time that I have a medical appointment (if it’s planned, vs legs akimbo on some operating table as much as that is superly fun), I like to present myself in as best a condition I can muster. This is mostly to prove how little any recent medical adventures have affected me, and how utterly marvellously I am recovering – aka, a completely counter-intuitive, stupid and bonkers idea. That’s me!

With both my C-Trip Advisor research tours, I’ve stuck to this approach. Get up at the usual time, shower, do hair, get dressed properly, put the slap on; good to go. It puts me in a positive mood for the day, and then I know that I’ll be virtually untouchable – entirely due to the thickness of the make up I have applied. Good luck to anything or anyone that wants to get through that lot.

In short, I want the medic to say, ‘Gosh, you look well!’ – rather than, ‘You do know you can wash those jogging bottoms??’…or, ‘Does your accommodation have a bath or a shower?’

Or, most crushingly: ‘Is that cod I can smell?’

Outside is one thing; underneath is quite another.

People, I am talking hospital pants. Those pants which are so large, so white, so clean; the sort your mother would approve of. Not your standard greying, fraying kegs; oh no. The kind which, when washed, you need to call three friends over to join you, one at each corner, likely on a village green or festival site, to gather, fold, and put away. In someone’s nearby barn, if poss. Well – at a minimum, to be fair.

I’d got all this nailed down pre-op, of course. Timings conspired such that we got back from Crete on a Friday, and I was in for the lung hoiking on the Monday. Not much time to prepare – but I had. Well – more than that.

Once we knew the date of the op, I set about preparations. First of all: de-fuzz. After breast cancer chemo, I saved hundreds on lady-waxing. Contrary to popular belief, and you can find out all about this if you scroll down within this blog on WordPress, you lose ALL of your hair with most breast cancer chemo cocktails. I mean ALL. Two years after, the whole bloody lot is back. With a vengeance, as the months go on.

I visit lovely T at the salon, who has been with me on both TripAdvisor tours. Spatula aloft, wax bubbling, she starts.

T: ‘The usual down there?’

Me: ‘Um, can we just let it look a bit more….unruly?’

T: ‘A number of my ladies have said that before an operation. Fine, I know the look you want.’

Me: ‘Thanks T. I don’t want them thinking I am some kind of…’

T: ‘You’re having lung surgery, aren’t you???’

Well, you never know, do you? Best to be careful is what I say.

A night when your big, white, apple catchers are certainly NOT les pants-aux-choix is date night. Me and the boy carer have these at least twice a month. Soppy old us (bleuuchhhh!).

He’s super-keen when I suggest one just over two weeks after the op. Call me cynical, but he’s a Procurement manager for a massive corporation, I’m on Codeine, for a medium operation – and that converts to morphine once you swallow it; I’m also on prescription Malbec (ummmmm….I’m sure that’s what the doc said?).

‘This could be a cost-effective evening’, I bet he is thinking

‘I hope I can stay awake beyond 8pm’, is what I am thinking.

It never materialised. I had my best pants on – it was date night after all – but, following a bit of to-ing and fro-ing with trusted medical friends, and their great guidance, we spent date night in Resus at our local general hospital. It WAS JUST LIKE 24HRS IN A&E! They had a red phone, ‘Trauma call, adult female, 9 minutes’ – and everything! I loved it until they put me out, of course. There was no wine list, but the drugs were first class.

Trouble was, I’d had numerous investigations, scans, almost surgery at one point, ALL WITH THE WRONG PANTS!

Back to the GP. Things not quite behaving as they should, with her tests, so more referrals to come.

Downstairs, meanwhile, still super-blocked (my traffic is not flowing freely, shall we say – and nobody mention cocoa solids please, you’re just showing off, and I will punch you). She, the GP, as ever, has a magic solution.

My drugs have prorogued the recovery of my, erm, bowels; I looked the term up.

‘Prorogue: Discontinue without dissolving’

Yep, pretty much sums it up!

Never mind Typhoon Hagibis – there’s wind in those pants tonight

The amazing Dr N sent me home with tons of sachets, lotions and potions. I will spend my entire day tomorrow working out what, when, how often. Before I’ve gone to Lids for a 24-pack of quilted, obvs!

Run out of steam old chums – Tena big jobby scoopy pants,  and bed, beckon.

Pip pip xxx

Tiny postcript: We, by which I mean my tiny family of four, have had amazing and encouraging news lately  – one tiny hump to go; but, as I don’t have my lucky pants on, it’s not for sharing just now.