Swallow, You're on Candid Camera

Thus far, this week has been one of many conflicting emotions.

On Monday, I was asked if I wanted to indulge in that frustrating little pastime which involves missing long stretches of short grass (known as fairways) and hitting a small white ball into puddles, bushes and piles of various animal excreta - otherwise known as golf. Now, I feel I am rather good at this as I seem to succeed with remarkable ease in all these skills. I laugh with scorn at the fools that can go round a course quickly and efficiently - I get my monies worth!

Anyway, my clubs were stored in the cellar at the local pub where I dumped them when I needed the car boot for something or other. I went to retrieve them and found, to my surprise, that some dear person had helped themselves to my woods, the trolley and a few other bits in the pockets of my capacious golf bag. The clubs were a present from my son last year so had more than a little personal value. Coping with that, as well as the feelings of invasion and the fact that the culprit was, by definition, someone I knew was not good.

Also, or maybe because of this, I started to worry about my imminent endoscopy. No idea why because normally I'm pretty good at sublimating concerns but I was in for a predominantly sleepless night.

Tuesday dawned bright and sunny. Having had time to stuff all concerns, frustrations etc. firmly into boxes, I looked forward to a day of simulated flying (by the way, taking off and flight are coming on well but I do wish they'd make runways a softer material. Landings would be so much more comfortable).

Lunchtime came and I got a call from Mrs B. A very good friend of ours had just heard that there was a very strong possibility that his spinal cancer had returned. He's in his early 40s and has had 2 previous episodes at 10 year intervals. Obviously I shot down there and spent the rest of the afternoon a) talking it all through with him, b) taking his mind off it and c) providing a shoulder to cry on, all as the circumstances dictated. having anaesthetised him temporarily with San Miguel, I bundled him into my car and took him home. He's off to the Royal Marsden Friday so hopefully we'll know more after that.

Returning home, upset and angry at why the good guys always seem to get the shit, I later got a call from my bestest buddy telling me his Mum had died.

The day served to put all my petty gripes and annoyances and problems into perspective and, in a strange sort of way, helped me enormously. Perhaps the day before (hopefully) finding out what was wrong with me wasn't the best timing but hey, that's life!

Endoscopy day dawned. No food or milk from 7.15am and no drinks from 11.15am so when I woke at 9.15 with a tongue like an old shoe, I bit the bullet and made black tea. As my tongue slowly absorbed the moisture and shrunk to a size where I could fit it back inside my mouth, I was conscious of the plethora of foods beckoning seductively to me. "Get thee behind me, Warburton's Thick Sliced". "Avaunt thee, Tunnocks Snowballs."

I occupied myself Googling bus timetables as we had decided to fill some time having a bus ride to the hospital. Now, bus rides are few and far between for me. I took my first in many years about 6 months ago when the car was being serviced and it was certainly an experience. I stood puzzled as I waited for a conductor, I gazed speechless at the little cash thingy by the driver, I sat astonished as the bus sped past where I wanted to get off! How was I to know you have to ask for a bus to stop these days? Whatever next?

Anyway, much as Mrs B and I were drawn to a ride along the cliffs in a charabanc, we both expressed concerns at sharing our transport as well as cynicism at the vagaries of the bus timetable so eventually opted for a cab.

Of course, we picked a mad taxi driver! He spent the whole 25 minute journey discoursing about a variety of subjects ranging from his days as a Health & Safety rep, British athletics and a school mistress who was sacked for consorting with pupils. I occasionally tried to join in but apart from about 484 one word interjections which were quickly absorbed by his continuing diatribe, failed miserably. As we left the taxi to join the hordes of people gathering for a cigarette outside the hospital, he was still chattering - presumably into his radio, but who knows?

The actual endoscopy procedure was dead easy. We got there and the waiting room was empty so I was called straight away. The nurse went through all the usual stuff and offered me the option of a throat anaesthetic or sedative? I think she was a bit surprised when I asked for both but eventually conceded that a sedative would be given. I was then off into my little cubicle where I was pleasantly surprised to find I had no need to exchange my rather fetching Levi 501s and cashmere top for a designer hospital gown with unrestricted arse access.

Another nurse appeared to insert the canula and the fun began:

'Ah, I seem to be having difficulty finding a vein in the back of your hand.'
(at this point, the tourniquet thing was pulled so tight, my hand had reached a shade reminiscent of Royal Navy uniforms)

'Well, I have got some - honest'

'Let's try the other hand'
(oh good, both arms match now!)

'Nope, no good. let's go for the vein at the elbow.'

'Why didn't you go there first?'

(short pause) 'Well, we might need that'

'Erm, why?'

'If things go wrong, we might need it, you know, for an emergency, like'

Well, that was reassuring but never mind. The next nurse got me to sign the consent form after explaing that very occasionally things might go wrong. I queried this and she explained that sometimes the camera can tear the bowel but it was very rare indeed. I asked her to perhaps elaborate on "very rare" and she suggested 1 in 1500. I quickly computed the number of endoscopies performed daily times the number of UK hospitals and started glancing round for the Exit signs. I blithely said to her that, presumably, it was just a matter of opening the unfortunate victim up and sewing the hole but she went into great detail about how it was far more complicated than that and could be life-threatening.

As they wheeled me to the endoscopy suite with several burly nurses sitting on me to prevent my escape I was enveloped with a sense of Kismet. I was told to lie on my side (flashbacks to the last time they asked me to do that!!!) and next thing I knew I was lying in the recovery ward with oxygen mask, BP sleeve and various other bits attached to my body. Phew, all finished - now where's my cup of tea?

They were all very pleasant although refused my request for the oxygen mask to come home with me (it would be great as an addition to my flight sim. pilot role). I apparently manufacture too much acid as there was a fair bit of scarring in there as well as a hiatus hernia but it seems I am not quite due to shuffle off this mortal coil as yet - just more tablets to forget to take. Master B arrived to take us home and, as I floated through the front door thinking thoughts of more tea, we found we had a power cut which continued for a further 2 hours. Thank God for a gas hob - one large saucepan of PG Tips then off to bed for a 3 hour kip, I've spent the rest of the evening being the ideal invalid. I've managed to force down several cups of tea and coffee, grapes, sandwiches, gobstoppers and the Tunnocks Snowballs have finally got their comeuppance.

To paraphrase my hero, Victor Meldrew, I still have to go back and see a Yasser Arafat lookalike masquerading as a consultant but hopefully, that's the end of another chapter in the medical mishaps of B. Bassett Esq.