Thursday 29 March 2018

An intrusion


I’m at an age now where my poor old body is beginning to turn traitor.  I wish that in the past I’d regarded it more as a beloved pet dog – fed it a lean diet, taken it for regular exercise.

Recently my number came up for bowel cancer screening.  I’d heard nothing about this program and suspected an elaborate practical joke.  But when the enema kit arrived in the post, the joke was over.

As if that wasn’t enough, the wee infection I had before Christmas (wait a minute, am I really blogging about my own urine infection? Is disinhibiton another sign of old age?)…..as I said, my urine infection before Christmas led to my GP noticing traces of blood in my urine samples.  Next stop, a cystoscopy.

Yep.  Another camera where I never expected to find one.  Getting those bits of my anatomy to smile was going to be challenging.  

And although the two procedures were to take place in different hospitals, by coincidence, they were scheduled on consecutive days this week.

No wonder my end-of-term celebrations were somewhat muted.

I told Pascoe and he offered me a “bright spot” – under the data protection act I can demand a copy of the video footage taken of my colon and bladder. 

We could show them to our guests as after-dinner entertainment.  Thus trumping the whole holiday photo/wedding video experience.

So during the procedures, I twisted to assess the monitor.  My bladder was fine, although it did look a bit like an alien’s den in Star Trek.  But I actually felt quite proud of the journey through my pink, healthy looking colon.  Except where the enema hadn’t been completely thorough, which made me feel unaccountably ashamed.  I guess it’s not every day you get to watch a live broadcast of your own poo in a small room full of strangers.

So, bottom line (bottom line – ha ha) is that I didn’t ask for the video. After this week’s goings on I have just a shred of dignity left and I intend to hang on to it.

Thursday 15 March 2018

CBT - my therapy of choice

Hawfinch
Recently, there's been a lot going on chez nous: Nigel's father died and the twins moved out.
My normal therapy would be to strike out on long walks. But the operation which was supposed to fix my foot got cancelled just before Christmas, so I can only do short strolls.
So instead I'm seeking comfort in an old interest - bird-watching.
The kids say it's okay to be a nerd nowadays - even fashionable - I do hope they're right.
Caroline took me to see fluffy tree sparrows.
Angela directed me to a great place to spot green sandpipers bobbing in the stream.
I dragged Carol, Caroline and Diane on hawfinch safari in a breezy churchyard. 
"Where are you off to?" asked Perran.
"To see hawfinches."
"What? - You going to find them sashaying up and down the fence, trying to attract male finches?"
No Perran.  Not spelt that way.

In fact, I had always wanted to see these brightly coloured finches with a bill that can crack a cherry stone.  Luckily there were some reports  - on twitter of course. 

In the icy weather Caroline and I added siskin and redpoll to the list.

I don't know how to confess this:
I think I may have become a twitcher. 
I can feel my wrist making an involuntary ticking motion each time I spot a new species.

Of course it's not cool.
But when I'm down, it's the kind of CBT I need - Cute Bird Therapy.

Binoculars at the ready