Biopsy day

If you wish to be spared the details:
I told myself  “this will be over in 45 minutes.” 45 minutes later, I was given a cup of tea and a biscuit. The end.

If you want the full story:

 I was going to spread my legs, a device would be inserted into my bum, and other devices would venture into my prostate and take a series of samples. There were videos available online that showed the procedure in more detail, but I preferred to maintain a holistic view and pretend it wasn’t really happening.

I was led into a small room and told to change into the obligatory hospital gown. I could leave on my sporty socks which was a relief, but not my underpants, which wasn’t. The door opened and I moved into a larger room where three lady nurses welcomed me. Literally. They were about to spend the next half hour or so fiddling around with my anal passage, but they greeted me as if we were about to head out on a champagne picnic together. I wished we were.

A nurse told me to lie down on the bench of suffering (my definition). My legs were then inserted into stirrups and a cloth was used to partially cover my genitals.

Anyway, there I was, legs akimbo, arse on show to the world, genitals hiding under a small towel; and three happy nurses staring at the diorama . No place for modesty.

There was a bit of bum  wiping (I had showered before leaving home, but best be sure) and then the announcement that there would be an anaesthetic. Sharp prick, not too bad, followed by the insertion of the ultrasound probe. I caught a glimpse of this after the procedure and had I known the size of it beforehand I might have requested additional sedation, but  it just made me feel full and uncomfortable, a bit like you feel when you are in the mood for a massive poo.

Are we done yet? No, we are not. The nurse doing all the work (the other two are discussing a recent TV drama) gives me yet another injection, this time in the prostate; another sharp sting. 

Then there is a clicking sound.

“This is the noise you will hear when I take a sample”.

Then she hits me in the balls with a hammer.

“This is the feeling you will get when I take a sample”.

Of course she didn’t say that, but I imagined that she might have.

“I will try to take 24 samples, if you can bear it”

If I can bear it??? What is she hinting at?

Too late to escape now. I feel something moving inside me, but not in a pleasant way, and then “CLICK”. Bit of a nip and a surprise, but tolerable. The sample  is passed to the second nurse who takes the tiny chunk of my prostate and stores it somewhere. This is apparently her only role, and the third nurse is spare, perhaps to take over in an emergency should one of the other two pass out as a result of staring at my nether regions for too long.

But then, as we move to subsequent clicks, the purpose of having three chatty, charming nurses  in the  room becomes clear. They are there to distract and entertain me. They ask me many questions about my life; I ask them many questions about theirs. The answers don’t matter to any of us; it’s all to help me get through the procedure without me giving up, escaping the stirrups and running screaming down the corridor.

“And that’s 26 samples”, says the lead nurse and entertainer after what feels like no time at all. We suspend our discussion on whether Breaking Bad is the greatest TV series of all time (of course it is) and I leave the room; thanking them profusely for helping me through it.

 I dress and I am met by another nurse who sits me in a room with the obligatory tea and biscuits; and a rather nervous looking gent whose turn it is next.

“How was it?” he asked.

“OK, except when she hits you in the balls with a hammer.”