Scans, full bladders and tattoos...

With a side of needle phobia!

Respect to all that have been through pregnancy and had a baby dance on their bladder…I am with you sister!

To recap quickly if you have not managed to read “So is 'it' still there?” yet…PSA results are starting to creep back up, very marginally. So urology and I have parted ways for now and Katie in oncology is my new ‘go to Doc’, and she has recommended hormone therapy and radiotherapy as the next stage. Sounds fun hey 😳.

So with another appointment letter dropping onto my doormat (I should have done a appointment letter count, I must be in at least the 20+ range at this stage) inviting me to Gloucester hospital for the scans that they need to do to me before I start my radiotherapy. This is the hospital that I had the pleasure of Dr Akhtar ferreting inside of my abdomen with robotic arms and removing my prostate through my belly button. I am going to be honest, it bought some real mixed emotions. Probably some small scale PTSD, as I had thought that once surgery was done that was me sorted, but no, here I am in the cancer unit (which has 4.9 google rating non the less!) waiting for a scan.

I turn up as expected, no searching for the ward this time as this unit has obviously had some serious funding and a top notch PR company assigned, and wait patiently in the waiting room. As I scan the room, it suddenly occurs to me that all of my fellow patients are probably here for their cancer treatment. I then reflect on how easy I have had it to date…there was a lot of tired, anxious faces in that room.

Nurse: “Mr Stevenson”

Me: “That’s me!”

Nurse: “We need you to have a full bladder, can you make sure that you drink a load of water before we scan you please?”

My Brain: “Ha ha ha, my bladder nowadays has very little respect for holding any quantity of liquid and not wanting to trickle it out of it’s own free will, but hey, in for a penny”

Me: ”Sure thing”

Now I drink this water and wait, and wait, and wait to be called for my scan. My bladder is now straining under its recently added contents and the more that I think about it, the more it bloody hurts.

Nurse: “We are ready for you now Mr Stevenson”

My Brain: “Thank fuck for that, I need to get this bladder empty before I explode and cause a small tsunami”

Me: “Oh good”

They needed a full bladder from me as they need my insides in a certain place, so that when they start zapping me in a few weeks with my new super powers (only joking, they are going to zap me radiation instead!) everything is in the right place.

Nothing much exciting happens during the scan, I lie there, they scan me and then like Usain Bolt I am in those cubicles and emptying said bladder with the customary ‘agghhhhhh’…at this moment in time it was better than any sex that I had ever had! I then return to the room, far more happy than when I had left it, and the Nurse said:

Nurse: “We just need to tattoo you quickly”

My Brain: “Say fucking what now? There is no chance you are going to tramp stamp me with “I Love the Radiology Department”

Me: “Sure, but why?”

Nurse: “It is just 2 little dots on your stomach so when they administer the radiotherapy they can line you up with the machine”

Me: “OK”

My Brain: “Tats…well hard me!”

What actually happened was that the nurse tattooed the smallest little dots on my stomach that blend in beautifully with any moles that have in this area of my body, very underwhelming. With that done, off I escaped from the unit back to daily life.

The next appointment was the hormone therapy treatment, now this is PTSD inducing (for me anyway). This is administered by the nurse at my local GP surgery. Now with all of the Covid jabs that I had recently, I thought that I was going there for a jab in the arm and sent on my way. That could not have been far enough away from the truth.

Nurse: “Mr Stevenson”

Me: “Hi”

Now the nurse in question was amazing, truly amazing, however, she did scare me a little. She had some amazingly colourful tattoos that included day of the dead masks which were then adorned by multiple other such embellishments, they put my recently acquired tattoos to shame, and for that reason I thought it best not to swap tat stories. She also spoke very directly with a strong domineering nature. Picture painted?

So as I got into the room and sat on the bed, she went through the standard questions and then told me what was going to happen:

Nurse: “So I am going to inject this into your stomach”

My Brain: “No you are fucking not! Never going to happen love! Stand back, I am out of here!”

Me: “What? Really? I thought it was just a needle in the arm”

Nurse: “No, this is an implant that sits in the stomach and slowly releases the hormone”

Now, as you may have picked up reading my previous posts, I do not like needles and I do not like pain. And this needle that she was proudly holding aloft ticked two of my ‘get stuffed, ain’t going to happen’ receptors in my brain.

Me: “Just give me a minute”

Nurse: “Sure, take all the time you need” (I am sure that she subtly looked at the time on her screen at this point, I will let that slide for now 😆)

It was at this point I started to cry. Yes, I have enough confidence to share with the world that I sat on a bed, in front of nurse ‘day of the dead’, holding up loads of patients behind me due for their flu shots, just so that I could have a mini emotional breakdown. That was me, at this time of my life. I think that I had just had enough of everything that was going on at that time and it needed it to come out of me, and it did.

Once I had calmed myself enough to actually lie down and let her inject this massive needle into my already pot-marked tummy area, it was over in a moment and in fairness felt like a bee sting. So with my first hormone implant now taking up residence in my stomach, I get myself composed and ran like the wind out of there.

As I reflect back on this period of my life, it seems so strange and out of character the emotions that I went through. However, I also share that anyone going through a similar diagnosis or treatment can, at times, just get overwhelmed by it all. So if you are that person currently receiving a diagnosis or treatment for something shitty, allow yourself a few moments of downtime…you are completely allowed. As for the people surrounding a loved one, go make them a cuppa and just hold their hand…they just need you around.

Fancy hearing what hormone treatment is all about? Head on over to my next post “God help me, I am self combusting?”.

If you need more support then there are some great charities ready to help:

United Kingdom: https://prostatecanceruk.org

United States: https://www.pcf.org