Hold Your Horses

I have got hold of the wrong end of the stick about Wednesday’s appointment with the hospital people. They will not be subjecting me to the huge Mamba that day as it is my preliminary assessment. Which is good in one way – I don;t have to worry about overly undignified things happening to me next week. But in another way it is really bad – more time will pass between now and when they actually do the colonoscopy, which means more time to worry that I have all manner of dreadful things wrong with me. Which worry I shall no doubt write about in detail endlessly here before the eventual appointment is made.

Getting The Wind Up

Nothing especially new to report, health wise. Next Wednesday is ‘camera up the jacksie’ day so I’m obviously looking forward to that. Not. I am looking forward to knowing whether there is anything specifically causing my present intestinal problems but am already worrying about the process itself. I shall have to adopt an attitude I was forced to acquire during maths lessons when I was a child. My teacher, Roy Smith, wore monkey boots and his preferred method of corporal punishment was not the cane or the yard stick; it was to boot you sideways on the backside with his boots. This sounds more psychopathic than it actually was. Compared to a geography teacher who would drag miscreants and make them touch their nose to the blackboard then smack them on the back of the head with the biggest atlas in the room, Roy was rather lenient. He never kicked hard. It was the indignity of the process he wanted to impress upon us. And it is pretty undignified to have to bend over in front of the whole class while the teacher pretends to take a huge swipe at you with his monkey boots. ‘Bend and face Mecca, boy.’ he would invariably say. There would follow a brief discussion on which direction that would be (it proved to be whichever direction he wanted it to be on the day), you’d bend, he’d nudge you with his boot, you’d probably fall over, the class would laugh, back to your seat, punishment over.

So there is an element of knowing I shall have to ‘bend and face Mecca’ come Wednesday. If only they could work out what they need to know by asking Roy Smith to boot me on the backside rather than by shoving a camera where the sun has never shone.

Of course I am still terribly afraid they might find dreadful things but the symptoms continue to seem very much to be IBS rather than Crohn’s flare-up. Not only is there no blood indicator, there is an absence of several other symptoms which would signify Crohn’s. After Ami’s last comments I know it can’t be ruled out but nothing feels the same as the time I needed surgery and was initially diagnosed with Crohn’s. I am keeping my fingers as crossed as ever that they find nothing specific (no cancer, no inflammation etc) which will then leave us with the virtual certainty that I am suffering IBS and will need to perhaps drastically restructure my diet. And then I can just write boring blogs about my dietary changes instead of my anxious health fears.

All Gas and Gaiters

Following a few days in which the pain I’ve been feeling in my stomach had receded a little bit, it came back yesterday with a vengence. I had not realised quite how the easing of pain had enabled me to feel emotionally a bit more up and optimistic until I started hurting again and plunged down once more, back into a mental world of fearing the worst and wondering how to stop myself hyperventilating because I’m over anxious. And, ironically, the anxiety does no favours for the stomach so ha, ha, that’s a funny cosmic joke eh?

So I did what we all do these days when we’re undergoing health issues and trying not to give in to the fear: I checked out my symptoms on the internet. And what I found was interesting. It is possible that I might be suffering from Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Of course there’s no point me convincing myself that it is definitely IBS until I’ve had the next examination (that dear old camera inserted into my intestines via the last orifice I’d ordinarily want anyone to insert anything). But if the camera fails to show up anything obviously causing the spasms and cramps then IBS would be the most likely next diagnosis. So I find myself in the curious position of crossing my fingers and hoping it’s IBS I have. Hmm, something you wouldn’t really want to wish upon your worst enemy (and I AM my own worst enemy, yet wouldn’t even wish it on myself). But if it is a choice between them finding something which confirms the worst excesses of my over-active imagination or them finding nothing and thinking that I’ve probably got IBS, then I’ll take IBS every time. Who wouldn’t?

If it does turn out to be that I’ve been keeping a food diary over the past few weeks which would be something they’d suggest, I’m sure. So I’d be a way ahead of the game, in that sense. Although at present only really obvious foods are registering as possible triggers for extra stomach disruption. Having suffered with Crohn’s over the years, I have worked some foods out of my life already, maybe some more will have to go. Luckily things like fish and white meat are on all the lists of good foods under such circumstances, so I won’t end up entirely without stuff I like.

Incidentally, having mentioned Crohn’s, it’s probably worth noting that my current symptoms are not particularly likely to be caused by that as I have had blood tests several times over the past few weeks and none of the signs of Crohn’s activity are there in the results. So that’s something to cross off the list of things my imagination is going ape over. It’s such a battle, trying to cope with prolonged physical stuff as well as the depression which deepens the moment pain kicks in, and the fears and anxiety about what my symptoms could be caused by. That same anxiety which sets off the cycle all over again because it increases my awareness of the symptoms which deepens the depression and on and on and on. Fun times in the brain of Mr Planet.

Baby-Steps

Things are moving along at a reasonable pace. Following last week’s problem free ultrasound scan I have now also undergone my telephone assessment for counselling. This had been put forward by almost a month as they found there were one or two spaces in the diary, and was far more comprehensive than I had anticipated. Basically I spent an hour and a half expressing my state of anxiety and how my physical problems have exacerbated the depression which periodically dogs me anyway. He asked all the right questions and was also capable of distinguishing that just because I have a decent vocabulary and can explain my stuff quite coherently, it does not mean that I don’t have any problems.

In the past I have encountered mental health care professionals who think there is little wrong with me on account of my diction and dedication to trying to explain myself thoroughly. As if being intellectual has anything to do with being emotionally stable. Plenty of my colleagues in academia and many of the students could be said to be driven intellectually by a degree of emotional dysfunction. It’s an act of compensatory factor (to quote Ringo Starr from ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ movie). Not that academia is choc-a-bloc with people in need of counselling, but scratch the surface of many a successful scholar and you will find unresolved emotional issues which had led to the development of extraordinary intellence. The moment that I realised some of the professors on my first degree were as bizarre and potentially fractured as I am was the moment I began to feel at home in the academic world.

So, the counsellor I spoke to must feed back our conversation to the rest of the team but it sounds as though he’s going to be recommending some face to face sessions as a consequence of what we discussed. I should hear about that within the next two weeks. Which feels like another baby-step forward. There are still tests to undergo, still hurdles to be overcome, still a long way to travel before I feel truly like myself again, but the journey is progressing and so far the signs are good. Oh, and Andy Murray just reached the final of the Australian Tennis Open too. I feel almost as proud as if I’d coached him myself.

No Womb With No View

Today was the first of my plethora of hospital visits, an ultrasound scan to see if there are any obvious problems in my intestines which have been causing recent spasms and pain. So it was a morning of not being able to eat or drink on waking which is a punishment for someone like me who is usually incapable of speech until a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee have been thrown inside me.

The appointment was at midday so I slept as late as possible to try and lessen the impact of my having to get up, dress and pretend to resemble a functional human being until after the procedure.

Mrs Planet drove us in and was there to hold my hand throughout. I have, of course, been worrying that they’d find something disturbing but gritted my teeth and popped up onto the bed so that the ultrasound-ographer could cover my belly with (luckily warm) goo and apply the scanner. We joked about how I once dreamt of being the world’s first pregnant man so it would be great if she found a baby in there. I then admitted that the only reason I’d dreamt of being the world’s first pregnant man was because I knew it would earn me a fortune from newspapers, TV companies and biographers all willing to pay for my story.

The scanning took probably about twenty minutes to do and was one of the least uncomfortable experiences one can undergo as a hospital outpatient. And it did not seem to show up anything disturbing so all being well I can allay the fears that have been growing in my mind. I still have to go through the more undignified and uncomfortable experience that is an endoscopy but at least I can say this is one test down and nothing to freak out about yet. After we were done I rewarded myself with a cream doughnut: after all, they didn’t find anything in my intestines which would infer ridiculous sugary, doughy treats are banned