Saturday, March 19, 2011
Doctor, Doctor give me the news...
I can think of better ways to while away a Friday than sitting there anxiously watching the clock tick by until it’s time to visit the Consultant to get your test results.
To be honest it’s been a bit of an anxious week all round. I had to drop a 24 hour urine test back to The Sloane by Monday, which meant I had to start collecting the sample on Sunday. No problem you, think, day of rest and all that, nice and easy. Except, of course, we had a long standing lunch arrangement with friends in deepest Kent. This entailed taking the containment vessel, already sloshing with a sample that would give a pint of London Pride a run for its money, along with a suitable funnel to aid collection, and package it all up in a rucksack for clandestine use later.
However, as you can no doubt imagine as soon as I leave the table for a pee and pick up my carefully placed rucksack one of the kids asks “Rob, why are you taking that to the toilet with you?” There’s very little option here but to come clean. “I’m taking it because there’s a container in here that I have to collect all my wee in.” Instant pariah status is assured with the hostess, and the chances of ever being invited back immediately reduce to zero. Still, every cloud….
Next up is a five hour glucose test at Chelsfield Park. This has already involved a “Nil by Mouth” since 8 o’clock on Monday night, and having pitched up at the hospital for a start at 8, the prospect of not even a drink of water for the next five hours is hardly enticing. A side effect of so long without water is that the doctor sent in to fit my cannula can’t find a vein. After to several minutes of painful prodding he eventually decides to shave a bald patch on to my arm and insert it just above my wrist. This means that for the entire length of the test the slightest movement of the hand is accompanied by a shooting pain up my arm. Please feel free to insert your own masturbation joke here.
After four vials have blood have been drawn I’m finally offered some liquid refreshment to soothe my parched lips. Unfortunately the drink proves to be a high glucose syrup leaving me feeling even thirstier than before if that’s possible.
I’m finally allowed a glass of water, and then follows a routine of two vials of blood being drawn every half hour, the first of which simply get thrown away, much to my chagrin. 18 of these later and we’re done. But rather than let us go home we have to eat first, and then sit round for another hour before we are released. By the time I get home, I’m exhausted.
Further interaction with the medical profession happens as early again as Thursday, when I attend Boots the Optician to see if I’m going to become a speccy four eyes, and need to beat myself up behind the bike sheds for the rest of my days. I get the most peculiar man checking my eyes out. As he puts various lens in and out of the glasses I’m wearing he asks me if it’s better or worse. No matter what I answer he replies “you’re the boss, it shows I’m listening.” This happens easily two dozen times and by the end of it I simply say yes to a pair of lenses that so blur my eyesight I can’t even see his office wall, just to get out of there.
And so Friday comes and I wander off to the Sloane to get my results. It seems I’m getting a huge spike in Insulin levels linked to my blood glucose levels dropping through the floor. Nice. Fortunately, this looks like it can be controlled by diet and various discussions follow as to what I can and cannot eat (and when) and how this effects my metabolism. “Look, Doc, all I’m really interested in is whether I can still drink wine or not.” Well roll out the red carpet and string up the bunting folks, the answer is a resounding yes! But no more beer, bugger.
However as you may guess, this isn’t the end of things, oh no. It appears my symptoms may be caused by two other problems. More tests will be required. For this, I’m required to do four, yes FOUR more 24 hour urine tests and, yes you’ve guessed it, give even more blood for testing. Really, I couldn’t make this up. I ask the Doc what he looking for with these tests. Surprisingly, he says he’ll only tell me if I promise not to look them up on the internet when I get home, as I’ll worry myself! Fingers crossed behind my back I say of course I won’t. He tells me what they are; one has a long complicated name and the other a long complicated name with the word carcinogenic in it somewhere. Basically it seems one kills you and the other one kills you really painfully. “But don’t worry” he tells me, “there’s only 1 case in a million of this every year, so don’t be anxious.” As the week began, so it ends.
To be honest it’s been a bit of an anxious week all round. I had to drop a 24 hour urine test back to The Sloane by Monday, which meant I had to start collecting the sample on Sunday. No problem you, think, day of rest and all that, nice and easy. Except, of course, we had a long standing lunch arrangement with friends in deepest Kent. This entailed taking the containment vessel, already sloshing with a sample that would give a pint of London Pride a run for its money, along with a suitable funnel to aid collection, and package it all up in a rucksack for clandestine use later.
However, as you can no doubt imagine as soon as I leave the table for a pee and pick up my carefully placed rucksack one of the kids asks “Rob, why are you taking that to the toilet with you?” There’s very little option here but to come clean. “I’m taking it because there’s a container in here that I have to collect all my wee in.” Instant pariah status is assured with the hostess, and the chances of ever being invited back immediately reduce to zero. Still, every cloud….
Next up is a five hour glucose test at Chelsfield Park. This has already involved a “Nil by Mouth” since 8 o’clock on Monday night, and having pitched up at the hospital for a start at 8, the prospect of not even a drink of water for the next five hours is hardly enticing. A side effect of so long without water is that the doctor sent in to fit my cannula can’t find a vein. After to several minutes of painful prodding he eventually decides to shave a bald patch on to my arm and insert it just above my wrist. This means that for the entire length of the test the slightest movement of the hand is accompanied by a shooting pain up my arm. Please feel free to insert your own masturbation joke here.
After four vials have blood have been drawn I’m finally offered some liquid refreshment to soothe my parched lips. Unfortunately the drink proves to be a high glucose syrup leaving me feeling even thirstier than before if that’s possible.
I’m finally allowed a glass of water, and then follows a routine of two vials of blood being drawn every half hour, the first of which simply get thrown away, much to my chagrin. 18 of these later and we’re done. But rather than let us go home we have to eat first, and then sit round for another hour before we are released. By the time I get home, I’m exhausted.
Further interaction with the medical profession happens as early again as Thursday, when I attend Boots the Optician to see if I’m going to become a speccy four eyes, and need to beat myself up behind the bike sheds for the rest of my days. I get the most peculiar man checking my eyes out. As he puts various lens in and out of the glasses I’m wearing he asks me if it’s better or worse. No matter what I answer he replies “you’re the boss, it shows I’m listening.” This happens easily two dozen times and by the end of it I simply say yes to a pair of lenses that so blur my eyesight I can’t even see his office wall, just to get out of there.
And so Friday comes and I wander off to the Sloane to get my results. It seems I’m getting a huge spike in Insulin levels linked to my blood glucose levels dropping through the floor. Nice. Fortunately, this looks like it can be controlled by diet and various discussions follow as to what I can and cannot eat (and when) and how this effects my metabolism. “Look, Doc, all I’m really interested in is whether I can still drink wine or not.” Well roll out the red carpet and string up the bunting folks, the answer is a resounding yes! But no more beer, bugger.
However as you may guess, this isn’t the end of things, oh no. It appears my symptoms may be caused by two other problems. More tests will be required. For this, I’m required to do four, yes FOUR more 24 hour urine tests and, yes you’ve guessed it, give even more blood for testing. Really, I couldn’t make this up. I ask the Doc what he looking for with these tests. Surprisingly, he says he’ll only tell me if I promise not to look them up on the internet when I get home, as I’ll worry myself! Fingers crossed behind my back I say of course I won’t. He tells me what they are; one has a long complicated name and the other a long complicated name with the word carcinogenic in it somewhere. Basically it seems one kills you and the other one kills you really painfully. “But don’t worry” he tells me, “there’s only 1 case in a million of this every year, so don’t be anxious.” As the week began, so it ends.
# posted by Bucko! @ 8:11 AM 
