I hope you all had a very merry, Christmas, ideally fat and drunk and not too much pain from the in-laws. I know I did and being as I have no in-laws, I was certainly spared any of that kind of nonsense. Lucky me.

Shortly before Christmas I went to visit Richard the surgeon, but before I get into that, here’s some highlights of the last nine months, since waking up in early May with a bit of a sore shoulder. I will be shamelessly reusing footage from previous episodes, if it helps, you could cue up something like Eye of the Tiger, or similarly inspiring montage music as you imagine me looking buff and heroic, surrounded by hot nurses and complicated machines from some science fiction ‘B’ movie[1].

So, it was May. The usual sort of May, where spring blends gently into summer, bringing tropical rainstorms and the promise of another eight weeks of poor quality jokes about the British weather. A balmy May, a wet May, when she walked into my office, her tall heels clicking against the faded linoleum and a cocktail cigarette smouldering from a long turtleshell holder. A black gloved hand delivered the tip to her mouth, blue smoke passing over glistening ruby lips as she inhaled deeply, studying me from dark seductive eyes.[2]

And then I awoke, the alarm as usual dragging me into the realms of wakefulness and the reality of getting out of bed to go to work. This morning, however, my shoulder was a bit sore. No matter – must have slept funny. Couple of ibuprofen and all will be well.

But of course it wasn’t. A week later I was in my GP’s office complaining about shoulder pain. What followed was a referral for a shoulder X-Ray[3] then an ultrasound[4]. I should point out here, that I have just compressed several weeks into one short sentence. Unless you are an in-patient, or an emergency, the NHS makes you bloody wait for routine scans, or the results of routine scans.

Which by the way, I know we all complain about, but it could be worse. I have friends in the US who struggle to get all the treatment they need from their insurance. I have one friend in the US who simply cannot afford insurance whilst in college, if anything happens to him, he will be proper fucked. For all we, in Great Britain can bleat and whine about the NHS, we get treated, perhaps more slowly than we might like, but we get treated.

It was while I was having the ultrasound that things started down the road from shoulders into chest problems, it was the ultrasound doctor who said they wanted a chest x-ray. I was to expect the results in a couple of weeks, so I knew, beyond any doubt that something was up, when less than a week later I was summoned for a CT scan.

So this was the beginning of August (yes, we’ve skipped June and July trying to get basic scans done) and they are telling me I have cancer. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank a couple of people at my GPs surgery for their support at this difficult time.

Firstly Julie, the practice administrator. I’ve known her a very long time, as she worked for my previous GP, moving to my current GP, as I did, when the previous one retired. I had been summoned to my GP just a couple of days after the CT, so was pretty worried and it was nice that she took the time to let me know.

Secondly, Doctor Zahir Mughal. I would like to thank him for his hilarious stories of patients dying of cancer when he was a houseman in some hospital in his youth. Terribly amusing and wonderful to hear him tell them, just after being diagnosed myself.  I’m sure he thought it was all very fun and supportive. I suppose I was in too much of a daze to care, really.

Actually, I would really like to thank you lot for all the well wishes, when I first posted about it. As Kirstie said, it sucks arse getting that sort of new and you suddenly feel very alone and vulnerable, so knowing people gave a shit was welcome and comforting.

Now then begins the complete rollercoaster of hospital visits, seeing Doctor Lisa, Doctor Alan several times and trying all kinds of crap to get a lymph node. Let’s be clear, this is August and it’s going to take them until November to manage to get a sample.

First of all, Doctor Lisa can’t find one by prodding me about.

The Ultrasound people can’t find a decent one in my neck (or, oddly my painful shoulder).

So we give up on easy to get ones and try aspirating a sample via endoscopic ultrasound. I’d just like to repeat it was a bloody horrid procedure and how the idiots managed to fucking COMPLETELY MISS the target, given they are using ultrasound to see where they are going…

And finally to surgery, which involves starting on trips to Leeds to see Richard the surgeon.

It’s interesting to see the differences between hospitals. No doubt St James in Leeds thinks they are a by far superior hospital to poor old Bradford Royal Infirmary and in many ways they are. BRI has nothing like the shopping centre in the heart of Jimmy’s. BRI does not have a chain of coffee shops scattered liberally around the campus. BRI is certainly much smaller. And yet, BRI has a number of advantages from a patient point of view. At Jimmy’s if there is a television at all, it’s showing a slide show of appropriate advertising. Word to the wise, free-to-air channels are free, so you could show something. I’ve done a lot of waiting in a lot of waiting rooms and I can tell you, that despite my various observations on the particular TV shows which have been on, something is always better than nothing. Waiting rooms are BORING. Furthermore, BRI has free wi-fi throughout, whilst Jimmys struggles even to get enough reception to make a phone call.

See, it’s all very well having smart lounges and trendy coffee shops, but we patients still have to wait in the WAITING ROOMS and at Jimmy’s there is no entertainment of any kind, except for (if you are lucky) some very old well thumbed magazines. I suppose the answer is that coffee shops generate revenue, whilst wi-fi costs money, but surely if BRI can manage it, Jimmy’s can.

On to the surgery then and after two attempts to get the bloodwork right, I found myself laying on a bed just outside the operating theatre, with my head swimming as the anaesthetist hit me up with the first of his drugs, if only he had held off on the rest so I had time to enjoy it, but no. Off I went, waking up some time later and arranging a room upgrade for the night, certainly not by fair means and I think I can safely say, by foul!

Biopsy finally achieved, the lab checks are done and Doctor Alan pronounces the result of sarcoidosis to me.

So finally, I find myself back at Jimmy’s talking with Richard the surgeon. On this occasion I am fully dressed and don’t need to be wheeled in on a trolley. As usual I have no signal for my phone. I’ve been here a while now, as they wanted me to get a chest x-ray before I saw him. Presumably they wanted to be sure they left any scalpels or some shit inside me, I guess they didn’t find any. He has a look at the healing scar and we exchange a few pleasantries before he says that he is happy and all done. So I ask him, what about the bizarre random blood.

You will all, of course, remember that my surgery had to be delayed on account of this. Despite spending the better part of a day being messed about[5], there was a problem with the blood on the day, so further tests had to be done.

Richard the surgeon nodded and made a phone call to the blood people to ask what the problem had been. I kind of felt sorry for him, he’s a chest cutter and as he pointed out he works between neck and knackers. Blood antigens and antibodies really not his thing, but he cast his mind back to medical school and struggled through.

So, they found some kind of autoantibody in my blood which they weren’t sure about and didn’t have the relevant kit to test properly. This is why they then sent off some blood to the special blood testing people. They were able to take the particular antibody and look at it. Having gone through this they determined there was nothing to worry about. Plain old A+ blood would do me just fine.

End result – I do not have bizarre random blood. I have awkward bastard blood. This then, is pretty much in line with the rest of me and I think on balance I approve, even if it did delay my surgery.

And so I wish you all a very happy and prosperous New Year. I have now been referred to see a chest specialist at the beginning of March who will decide how to proceed to deal with the sarcoidosis.

Until then, my shoulder is still sore.

[1] And all overseen and operated by Oscar Goldman.
[2] Or at least, these are the sorts of dreams I would wish to have.
[3] Result: Normal
[4] Result: Also Normal
[5] Seriously, it took longer to do the pre-assessment, than it took do to the actual surgery.