Pre-Kenczar

So then, why?

This where I am at this point.

I received some strange news about 6 weeks ago. Following a routine Colonoscopy, the doctor had chipped off some bowel samples and sent them to be examined. I got a phone call at work, never ideal. They were pre-cancerous, I heard. Ok. They were dangerous. Ok. If I had left it 1-2 years, I would probably have developed bowel cancer. Ok.

My doctor is Russian. He’s great, but everything sounds like a threat. That’s my prejudice, a lifetime of Cold-War villains in films has seen to that. I’ve never heard ‘cancer’ in a Russian accent before, but it resonants with a hard C – ‘Kenczar’. I felt the blood drain from my skin.

What now?

Well, a shit load of tests, obviously. Another Colonoscopy, a liver biopsy inside a fucking CAT scan. Loads of blood samples sent to labs around the US. It all pointed back to the same conclusion – if I didn’t do something, I was going to get cancer. Fuck that.

The doctor invited me back in to his clinic. “Dis is vaaary searious”. Ok. ‘We mast ooperate”. Ok. “I know a guy, a surgeon”. Ok.

Some guy at Yale Hospital, the Cancer centre there. Turns out he’s very decorated and quite handsome. He spoke and I was thinking “I will definitely do those things you are saying”. If he had said “I want to cut your face off and stitch a pigs arse on there” I would have nodded thoughtfully.

What he did say was this, paraphrased for brevity: We should operate. Soon. You will probably develop cancer. I am going to remove your entire colon.

That sounds like an excellent threat. it would have sounded brilliant in the hands of my Russian doctor. One of those threats spoke by those guys in spy films who unfold a load of stainless steel torture tools wrapped in a cloth, then look at one and go “This one is my favourite…I am going to remove your entire
colon…”

img62898777.jpgI am informed that I am going to have a “J-  pouch” created. Sounds hideous, but thats just semiotics really. There are no good pouches in any aspect of life. I have provided an illustration, right. At least people won’t able to see mine, although I am going to insist it is made from red satin.

I am told to marinate on all this. I am given an “Ileoanal Reservoir Guide”, which sounded like a shit self-published hiking journal you’d find in a library sale.

I’m sold at this point.

This point is where I am now.

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