Big day today. Off to hospital for an MRI which will be used to define the details of my radiotherapy treatment which is planned for later in the month. Should have been straightforward, but it was not to be.
Most parts of my body have been subject to various failures over the years, but my digestive system has remained, thankfully, reliable. Assorted stuff goes in, predictable stuff comes out.Until recently.
Over the past month I have become increasingly constipated, leading to noises emanating from the bathroom that my wife has described as “confrontational”. Possibly caused by my hormone treatment, but something had to be done. Radiotherapy requires an empty stomach, not one that harbours a two week accumulation of lumpy poo.
I read that a daily shot of extra virgin olive oil might help, so I upped the stakes by taking a twice daily double shot. In case this proved insufficient, I also started consuming handfuls of prunes, a traditional remedy in times of blockage.
A couple of days ago I sensed things were on the move. Yesterday we had pretty much moved into free flow mode, and this morning I needed two trips to the porcelain shrine before eight o’clock. Confident I could now present with an empty stomach when required, I headed out.
The last leg of my journey to hospital was a twenty minute walk. Five minutes in, there were definite rumblings from the stomach region. After ten minutes I was eyeing nearby bushes as potential lavatorial candidates. After fifteen minutes I was planning my dash to the nearest loo when, horror, I sensed a sudden and ominous dampness in the nether regions. “Oh golly gosh” I thought, “what a pickle”. Or more succinctly “what the fuck?!”
Although I don’t remember it, the last time I would have experienced this external botty moisture would have been some seventy five years ago when a nappy would have been involved.
Arrived at the hospital in a soggy state of panic and headed to the nearest toilet to inspect the damage. It was substantial; never has the phrase “a fecal Jackson Pollock” been more apt. I cleaned up as best I could and waddled to the waiting area, the aroma of my generously applied eau de cologne now mingling with the unmistakable stink of eau de merde™.
A charming nurse took me into a room and told me to change into a hospital smock, but to retain my underpants and socks; little knowing that the former would be deemed a hazard to public health in most developed countries.
I wrapped the smock around me and headed for my MRI. A male nurse arranged me on the bench, I am sure he sniffed and winced as he did so. Then, horror of horrors, he pulled down my underpants releasing further noxious fumes and revealing the fetid disaster area. He hurriedly pressed the button to insert me and my underpants of doom into the MRI machine.
When I emerged after the scan I felt I had to apologise. He pretended that he hadn’t noticed and told me he had experienced similar in a museum in Newcastle where food poisoning and running upstairs had combined to result in an unexpected and unwanted museum exhibit that escaped onto the staircase.
Both suitably embarrassed, we changed the subject and discussed Hadrian’s wall for a while before parting as friends.
Next step, 20 days of radiotherapy. I shall be taking spare clothing.
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