Less than three hours ago I was unconscious and coming to in the recovery room. Since then, I have had a glass of wine and cooked lamb chops, boiled potatoes and carrots.
The ordeal of bowel preparation which required some stoicism and most of all a sense of graveyard humour, has faded into the mists of yesterday. Funny how toilet paper can feel like coarse grain sandpaper coated with scotch bonnet chillies and sulphuric acid, after a while. I have had my cancer follow up and in a foreign language, to boot. Now we await the histology of the biopsies thus harvested. There is nothing I can do but wait.
I cannot control the outcome.
The nice people at the hospital commented that my command of French is good, which makes me think that the general level of Brit. French is shite.
When we discussed the likely outcome of today, I said that they would find a few polyps. This has been proven accurate, they found four. Which means that I have a rendezvous with the chimney sweep three years hence.
It is better from a participant experience to be fully sparko. I did miss watching it all on arse-cam and critiquing polyp type and quality, but it was much less traumatic to be unconscious. Less PTSD with induced coma, perhaps.
Tomorrow is another day and in ~ten days’ time, they will slice a potential laser induced basal cell carcinoma out of my left hand…
A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials.