On to the Marsden

Shortly after my transgression I’m transferred to The Royal Marsden Hospital’s rehabilitation ward for occupational therapy and physio. The staff are friendly, and the food is excellent. Its nice to have my own room, and I’m soon to form a lasting friendship with a chap called Colin, a patient in his twenties with a similar set of circumstances to my own, i.e. diagnosis of brain tumour, surgery, some initial mobility problems followed by radiotherapy and the onset of temozolomide oral chemotherapy, which I am still fighting for at the time. Initially, I am introduced to the delights of the wheelchair and commode, and after a number of weeks, I progress to crutches, and eventually a grandpa style walking stick. Physio sessions are laborious, and I push myself hard all the time with all manner of exercises, which eventually pay off dividends. Even Special Agent Jack Bauer helps me get feeling and movement in my left hand. Well not personally. More a case of I’m lying in bed watching episode after episode of 24 on my portable DVD player, manually exercising my fingers with my other hand, and monitoring and building upon minuscule levels of response in the tips of my fingers as I scrape the fresh cotton linen of the bed sheet under my arm for feedback. Support from my ‘big family’, read: THE MET. POLICE is strong. I have a constant stream of visitors with their own welcome brand of inimitable humour. They’re priceless, and more than a couple of nurses become besotted with my ‘rough diamond’ brothers.

Shower Room Shenanigans

A few days later my wicked sense of humour gets the better of me. The two nubile blonde twenty-something physiotherapists tasked with getting me mobile again decide to wheel me down to one of the ward’s shower rooms and introduce me to the delights of the ‘raspberry’ wash. Sorry, for all you non-Met types out there’ raspberry’ is shortened Cockney rhyme for raspberry ripple, which is cripple, which is basically moi! Anyway, I jump, not literally, at the chance of getting into a lather with these two babes, so it’s a huge beaming smile and a head full of 1970’s porn flick images, and off we trundle. Damn, I need a ‘tache! Upon entering the completely tiled room, one of the babes turns around and locks the door, the other starts to unfasten the knots at the rear of my hospital gown. Bonza! With a wily old sneer and a flick of what’s left of my fringe I pronounce, in the best Swiss Tony accent, ‘I’d pay a fortune for this in Thailand’. Oh is that a pin I hear dropping in reception? Okaay, they’re not amused. Never mind, in for a penny in for a pound. ‘Look ladies, its about to get very wet and warm, you might consider removing an item or two?!’ “ We’ll be outside if you need us, any problems just pull the orange cord”. I snigger quietly to myself; it’s the little things in life that help you get through the day. However, six weeks later, when a friendly doctor lets me look over my medical records, I see the two 'health professionals' have entered, “Made inappropriate comments”. Don’t you just love the politically correct culture we are forced to live in?!

What is a free gift? Aren't all gifts free? Sorry, thats been bothering me for a while!

Over the next few days my neurosurgeon, Mr Henry Marsh or one of his cohorts visits me frequently, and despite scoring very very low on the Glasgow coma scale, he assures me that my mobility will return in a few weeks. Apparently, this sort of hemi-paresis is common and transient. Yeah, who are you kiddin’?
But I got bigger worries at the moment, my bowels haven’t moved since the morning of my last surgery. I’m constantly urged to go by the nursing staff, but lying horizontal on a cardboard bedpan with nothing but a flimsy curtain between you and a ward full of mix sexed visitors kind of contracts one’s anal sphincter, if you know what I mean! Where’s the amyl nitrate when you need it? Being pumped with codeine and liquid morphine doesn’t help much either. The codeine is naturally constipation causing on its own, but the morphine is causing me to be extra lethargic and apathetic. Must say though, it is an interesting sensation being eaten alive by your mattress. Now I know what it feels like to be a ‘smack head’. If I ever get out of this shit in one piece I’ll certainly be able to relate with the prisoners I interrogate back at the ‘nick’. I momentarily contemplate asking one of my visiting colleague friends/family to bring a COZART Rapiscan test in for a laugh. Imagine, he’s a serving police officer, well half of him is, and he fails the opiate part of the standard drug test for prisoners. What a hoot that would be!
On the eighth day I put my foot down and demand the works, multiple hi-potency enemas, after all the visitors have gone home. I’ve been preparing for this for the last few days. I’ve been turning my nose up at the bowel impacting crap they call dinner and have been secretly gorging on fresh fruit, bran flakes and senokot. Yeah, I’m in pain, so much so in fact that I’m convinced the Devil himself must have conjured it up especially for me, Private Hell number 56,170866 I’m also pretty confident that the catheter isn’t helping my bowels much either. So much so in fact, that I actually tried to rip it out the previous day whilst squatting on the toilet. Despite repeated tugs it didn’t budge, lucky for me. According to the nurse, if I had been successful I would have ripped my prostrate gland and bladder out through my piss aperture. Mmm, nice! Probably would have looked a lot like a frog vomiting his own stomach up. Now there’s an image if you haven’t already eaten your dinner tonight.
Suffice to say the industrial strength enemas were successful, “CLEANER, CUBICLE THREE!”

As promised

And just as I promised yesterday, isn't that a nice long entry?

Stay tuned sports fans...

From this...

to this. Yes its possible, and I'm living proof. Anyway, apologies for the lack of update for a while. I've been a little distracted by other projects. However, I promise to make a nice long entry soon.