A Clearer Picture

Since I came here a few weeks ago the new unit has been opened at the Royal Marsden Hospital; It’s a different experience altogether. 

I hate coming up to London at the best of times. 

My last two visits have been a Spectator memorial service to my brother at St.Martin-in-the-Fields and now to the Marsden for a full body MRI.  Possibly the first of many visits. 

I’m definitely not a city boy. 

Only hours before I was in a pair of shorts and a tee shirt, walking in Dartmoor National Park, admiring a feisty young foal and the wide vistas of moorland and sea with my dogs. 
Now I’m lying in a noisy scanning tube with confining equipment strapped across my face, arms and torso. 

I was given ear plugs and earphones over the top but even so , I felt as though I was strapped into a space rocket prepared for take off as the jet engines started to rattle the launch pad. 

I was promised there would be music but it never came; just the strange and strident sounds of the contraption in which I lay. 

The whole thing lasted forty-five minutes: at first a series of loud beeps of different pitches – a sort of synthesised whale song. Then a techno rave beat,  followed by the more earthy and industrial hammer drill. It finished with the soundtrack and vibrations of an old washing machine on spin cycle knocking against a Formica worktop. 

Finally I was done and could get that itch on the end of my nose that only seems to manifest itself when one cannot reach it. 

The nurse had been very chatty and reassuring: as Paul O’Grady might have spoken to a three legged chihuahua suffering from anxiety and was refusing to be coaxed from his kennel.

He’s gone now too hasn’t he, I thought. 

I went next for bloods and saw a sea of faces waiting for one of three phlebotomists. Apparently 310 people were booked in for a blood test on that day alone. 

I had a word with the receptionist and explained that the consultant had agreed to see me early so I could return to Devon. 

She raised her eyebrows and they told me to follow her towards phlebotomy. 

Once we were out of earshot of the hordes she explained that we might both be lynched if it was perceived that I had somehow jumped the queue. “They’re always a hostile crowd in here,” she said. 

The reality of my situation and the galloping spread of new tumours added to my tumbling thoughts. It was a little like getting that first diagnosis all over again. 

I was away from the people and places that I love- and my dogs- and it wasn’t pleasant. 

The staff and volunteers did their best and were all very helpful. 

 As I awaited my verdict and sentencing from the oncologist, I read in the news that the NHS had been advised to wear ‘gratitude ponchos’ on which staff could write words of encouragement and support to make colleagues feel appreciated. 

Forgive my insensitivity but I do find this more than a little patronising and insubstantial.

Looking at all those faces of people about me with cancer- some incurable- I wondered what I might write. 

Now that we’ve stopped clapping for the NHS and worshippers have ceased bringing burnt offerings of rainbow pictures are nursing staff really so fragile that they feel this is necessary? 

The doctors and nurses I met seemed altogether more robust and caring. 

I parted company with the oncologist with unpleasant but not wholly unexpected news. I would now have to tell my family. 

Hopping in the back of a taxi I passed a small protest at the hospital gates. 

My thoughts turned at last to home and family and to the Dartmoor hills and Tors.