Post 423. SOUTHAMPTON GENERAL HOSPITAL.

 PART OF A HUGE, FRIENDLY, MAZE.

.WHERE, REASSURINGLY ACCOMPANIED BY OUR SON, NEIL, I arrived last Wednesday to face my second CT scan since the discovery that I have a malignant growth on the bowel; this scan to pinpoint exactly where forthcoming radio therapy treatment should be directed.

So this is unapologetically personal, but may help the reader as yet unbothered by a serious health problem face what I am told could eventually beset every other one of us.
The first thing you have to come to terms with is that, friendly and Christian namey though it now is, your modern hospital is still the most invasive institution outside of suspicious Customs and Excise that you will ever encounter in your sheltered little life.

That thoroughgoing medico's maxim: "You've gotta strip 'em to see 'em" still pertains.
Clothed patients are partially disguised patients.
Which means you must be prepared to stand before young hospital professionals (and when you are my age all of them are young) in a state of undress that would get you arrested if you were to stand in front of them, similarly undressed, in the street.
Next you will have to deposit yourself, or be assisted, onto a paper covered couch for examination and/or treatment. If it is a CT scan you will be required to undertake this manoeuvre with your bladder filled to a required level - NB It does not help if you have to relieve yourself during the possibly lengthy wait before you meet your CT team.
But to start from the beginning:

Neil and I caught the 1030am Red Funnel ferry from the IoW.
Neil drove Pauline's new state-of-the-art Citroën C3 and, despite the 'help' of satnav, we arrived at Southampton General in good time for my 1230 initial appointment.

I was sensibly armed with a bottle of alleged Highland Spring water which I senselessly left in the car throughout an entire day in which every sensible voice advised me I should be quaffing copious amounts of water. Yeah, I know..
In the hospital we were issued with medically approved masks and directed from one reception desk to another until, many corridors. stairs, and a lift later, we arrived at our destination. 

The staff member who invited Neil to come in with me for my first appointment had a confident, humorous and painstaking approach: he clearly explained what was what and what was to come before asking whether we had any questions. At no stage was I made to feel rushed. It was a master class in the art of new patient reassurance. 
We were then passed on to the Channel Islands Liaison Team representative, a cheerful and charming lady who, quickly and without fuss, booked accommodation for my brief stay in Southampton when the radiotherapy treatment I shall undergo begins on the 6th of next month.
There was then only the CT scan left on my appointment list. Ah...yes...the CT scan...
After a further wait in reception  that would, I'm afraid. have tested my elderly bladder beyond breaking point had it been even partially full, I was handed a cup of liquid by a member of the CT team, asked to down it in no more than ten minutes, and told that a short while afterwards I would be called in for the scan.
Initially all went as planned: two young ladies of the team finally got me the right way round on the examination couch and the gentleman with the instruments, who had tried without success to elicit from my befuddled brain whether I did or did not have a full bladder, then checked for himself: I did not have a full enough bladder. It would have to be another drink and another wait.
Another drink and another full bladder question later I was back on the examination couch and, irksome though it obviously was, still not blessed with a full enough bladder.
The team debated and decided to adopt an alternative procedure.

For me the moment of acute embarrassment was nigh.

Anyone who may have seen the President of America's meeting with the Duchess of Cornwall recently, will have been made startlingly aware of an elderly man's propensity for flatulence.
I started out that day with a biscuit and a glass of water and the hope that I would get through it without discomforting myself. my companion, or anyone I met.

On a 'needs to know' (and if you don't need to know don't read this bit), a particularly unpleasant effect of bowel cancer can also be the tendency to break wind indiscriminately and wetly.
Well, I held out as long as I could on that examination couch: but I had been there a long time.
It made no pretence at subterfuge. It was a loud fart.
I remained supine, still, and silent.
And then, bless her, one of the team's young ladies said: "At least it was a dry one"

I have no idea whether I apologised or what I babbled when I was assisted down from that couch.
Neil had made a quick tour of the hospital and was back in the waiting room when I returned. I think I simply said; "All done."
With luck and a following breeze we just caught the 4.30pm ferry home.
I did not talk about the scan.

But I like to think that, as she was eyeing the rear of a departing President Joe Biden, Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall may have murmured the words; "Well at least they were dry ones."
Oh, just in case you are facing a first time hospital experience, a final word of advice.
Forget your dignity, my friend, forget your dignity.

Final final word. I am twelve years older than Joe Biden, which could explain why, in the first published draft of this post, I somehow transformed the Duchess of Cornwall into H.M. Queen Elizabeth 2 (an elderly lady who has done me no harm).
I will apologise at the next garden party to which I am invited.