neonleon
Player Valuation: £35m
Just had one of them medical procedures to look in my stomach.
s h i t ting myself because it was obviously gonna be unpleasant. The doctors put a camera down your throat and then pump your stomach full of air and have a look around. There’s a little claw mechanism on the end to take biopsies of anything they don't like the look of.
I got there and they were delayed for two hours. I swerved the waiting room full of daytime telly zombies to read a book in the corridor figuring I'd hear my name being called out from there. A guy with a strong nigerian accent took me to a cubicle and went through the forms with me. He took my blood pressure on a machine that didnt seem to be functioning well.
- are you on any medication, he asked me.
- I've been taking anti-acids, but recently the pain went away so I stopped.
- Yes, but are you taking any medication now?
- As I said, I've been prescribed anti acids but I stopped taking them because the pain subsided.
I am not trying to insinuate anything Mr Neon. I just need to know if you are currently on medication.
Well I suppose the answer is no, but I’ve been prescribed them.
Sir, I am not trying to insinuate anything.
The conversation went on like this. He kept using the word insinuate which was a mystery to me. I don't expect nurses and doctors to insinuate anything. At most I'd suggest they could resort to euphemisms. Along the lines of, how long have I got doc? Don't bother booking your summer holidays. But insinuate?
They left me hanging for another hour and then an oriental women came in and went through the procedure with me. The cubicles were close knit and I'd heard her spiel a few times before. I was determined to show such glittering intelligence that she'd be forced to talk to me like an adult rather than the naughty child tone she'd adopted with everyone else.
- Is this your first gastroscopy? She asked me.
- Yes.
- What happens is we put a camera down your throat into your tummy.
Whenever someone says the word tummy to me I think they believe they are talking to a retard. Even rudimentary biology deals with the naming of the tissues and organs involved; epiglottis, oesophagas, stomach, duodenum. This isn’t the exclusive terminology of the medical profession, most people with a secondary education have been introduced to the words. You know them, I know them...
I swear doctors use these terms because they think it pacifies people. The effect on me is the exact opposite, it terrifies. If someone in the medical profession uses words like tummy I think they dont know what the feck they are doing. Ultimately I'd sooner they talk to me as a doctor (not that I am), at least I'd be in the position of having to educate myself to understand them; better than having to regress to infancy - because you’re poorly the big doctor has to put the snake into your tummy before you go to beddy boes.
Anyway I try and skip past the baby talk to get to the essentials.
She says to me:
- The thing to remember is to keep breathing.
- Yes.
I make a joke about oxygen usually being a good thing and she gives a polite laugh. It deserved little more but I wanted to break the tension. Then she says:
- We spray the back of your throat with an anesthetic. We are told it tastes like bananas.
This is true. It does taste like bananas. In the same way that cyanide tastes like almonds. Your throat burns for a minute or so, like you've eaten Banana Madras without the cucumber raita. Then as the burning lessens you realise you cant feel much in the mouth and neck department. Its about then they feed a fibre optic rope down your gullet.
I should tell you that I’m having this procedure because I’ve got gastric pain. And that my concern, my overriding fear, has been stomach cancer. It could also be down to my heroic/pathetic intake of beer and wine. As I lay on my side awaiting my oral violation the background radio (radio 2 as it usually is in such places) informed me during their news bulletin that 14000 people a year were diagnosed with cancer due to alcohol related abuse. Perfect. It felt like karma crapping on my soul. The test was a foregone conclusion. I was doomed. To confirm the diagnosis the DJ put Paul Simon on. The camera went down my neck and I was fighting the worst gag reflex of my life as the lyrics to Call Me Al polluted my ears.
I can’t remember how it went so I just looked up the lyrics. It was something to do. The first verse seems bizarrely suitable to the predicament I was in. Not that I noticed at the time. Someone was shoving a cable down my throat. This is Paul Simons running commentary:
A man walks down the street
He says why am I soft in the middle now
Why am I soft in the middle
The rest of my life is so hard
I need a photo-opportunity
I want a shot at redemption
Don't want to end up a cartoon
In a cartoon graveyard
Bonedigger Bonedigger
Dogs in the moonlight
Far away my well-lit door
Mr. Beerbelly Beerbelly
Get these mutts away from me
You know I don't find this stuff amusing anymore
I’ve put in bold the bits I found had resonance with my situation. Jesus. I wish I was making this crap up. Anyway, they’ve got the wire down my neck and the man near my head (there’s about five guys there) tells me to relax my arms and legs and to stop biting so hard on the plastic bit they’ve put between my teeth. He tells me to breath slower. He tells me to relax. I keep gagging and choking. The oriental women says to the team
-yes, and were getting great pictures.
Its like a broadcast from Mars. I expect Houston to start applauding. She keeps pumping my stomach full of air. I feel like a whoopie cushion pre practical joke. Finally she goes:
-ok coming out now.
She whips it out with ferocious speed. You know that button on the hoover that winds up the cord, the plug bouncing along, catching up. Just like that. That quick. One of the nurses points to a sink and I wash my face. Another nurse says to me that I’m not like other people. That I listened to his advice. I told him I thought it would be a poor moment to express my individuality.
Anyway you must have presumed the rest. No tumour, no cancer. No ulcers. Nothing demonic. A bad case of dyspepsia, or gastritis if you want to be latin about it. Lifestyle modification. Lay off the booze. Cut down on the red meat. The non acid diet reads like a puritan list of crap food. Anything with flavour is denied. I am to live on broccoli and bean sprouts. **** happens, another shot at redemption. Anyway, I got out of there and the sun was still yellow and the sky was still blue and all my mates made a fuss of me and that made me as happy as the results. Because however dark the world is I want to see it and feel it all. I want a part of it, not in some greedy egotistical way, I just want a part of it.
And because of that I hope the luck holds. At least for a good length of time. I hope it holds for us all.
s h i t ting myself because it was obviously gonna be unpleasant. The doctors put a camera down your throat and then pump your stomach full of air and have a look around. There’s a little claw mechanism on the end to take biopsies of anything they don't like the look of.
I got there and they were delayed for two hours. I swerved the waiting room full of daytime telly zombies to read a book in the corridor figuring I'd hear my name being called out from there. A guy with a strong nigerian accent took me to a cubicle and went through the forms with me. He took my blood pressure on a machine that didnt seem to be functioning well.
- are you on any medication, he asked me.
- I've been taking anti-acids, but recently the pain went away so I stopped.
- Yes, but are you taking any medication now?
- As I said, I've been prescribed anti acids but I stopped taking them because the pain subsided.
I am not trying to insinuate anything Mr Neon. I just need to know if you are currently on medication.
Well I suppose the answer is no, but I’ve been prescribed them.
Sir, I am not trying to insinuate anything.
The conversation went on like this. He kept using the word insinuate which was a mystery to me. I don't expect nurses and doctors to insinuate anything. At most I'd suggest they could resort to euphemisms. Along the lines of, how long have I got doc? Don't bother booking your summer holidays. But insinuate?
They left me hanging for another hour and then an oriental women came in and went through the procedure with me. The cubicles were close knit and I'd heard her spiel a few times before. I was determined to show such glittering intelligence that she'd be forced to talk to me like an adult rather than the naughty child tone she'd adopted with everyone else.
- Is this your first gastroscopy? She asked me.
- Yes.
- What happens is we put a camera down your throat into your tummy.
Whenever someone says the word tummy to me I think they believe they are talking to a retard. Even rudimentary biology deals with the naming of the tissues and organs involved; epiglottis, oesophagas, stomach, duodenum. This isn’t the exclusive terminology of the medical profession, most people with a secondary education have been introduced to the words. You know them, I know them...
I swear doctors use these terms because they think it pacifies people. The effect on me is the exact opposite, it terrifies. If someone in the medical profession uses words like tummy I think they dont know what the feck they are doing. Ultimately I'd sooner they talk to me as a doctor (not that I am), at least I'd be in the position of having to educate myself to understand them; better than having to regress to infancy - because you’re poorly the big doctor has to put the snake into your tummy before you go to beddy boes.
Anyway I try and skip past the baby talk to get to the essentials.
She says to me:
- The thing to remember is to keep breathing.
- Yes.
I make a joke about oxygen usually being a good thing and she gives a polite laugh. It deserved little more but I wanted to break the tension. Then she says:
- We spray the back of your throat with an anesthetic. We are told it tastes like bananas.
This is true. It does taste like bananas. In the same way that cyanide tastes like almonds. Your throat burns for a minute or so, like you've eaten Banana Madras without the cucumber raita. Then as the burning lessens you realise you cant feel much in the mouth and neck department. Its about then they feed a fibre optic rope down your gullet.
I should tell you that I’m having this procedure because I’ve got gastric pain. And that my concern, my overriding fear, has been stomach cancer. It could also be down to my heroic/pathetic intake of beer and wine. As I lay on my side awaiting my oral violation the background radio (radio 2 as it usually is in such places) informed me during their news bulletin that 14000 people a year were diagnosed with cancer due to alcohol related abuse. Perfect. It felt like karma crapping on my soul. The test was a foregone conclusion. I was doomed. To confirm the diagnosis the DJ put Paul Simon on. The camera went down my neck and I was fighting the worst gag reflex of my life as the lyrics to Call Me Al polluted my ears.
I can’t remember how it went so I just looked up the lyrics. It was something to do. The first verse seems bizarrely suitable to the predicament I was in. Not that I noticed at the time. Someone was shoving a cable down my throat. This is Paul Simons running commentary:
A man walks down the street
He says why am I soft in the middle now
Why am I soft in the middle
The rest of my life is so hard
I need a photo-opportunity
I want a shot at redemption
Don't want to end up a cartoon
In a cartoon graveyard
Bonedigger Bonedigger
Dogs in the moonlight
Far away my well-lit door
Mr. Beerbelly Beerbelly
Get these mutts away from me
You know I don't find this stuff amusing anymore
I’ve put in bold the bits I found had resonance with my situation. Jesus. I wish I was making this crap up. Anyway, they’ve got the wire down my neck and the man near my head (there’s about five guys there) tells me to relax my arms and legs and to stop biting so hard on the plastic bit they’ve put between my teeth. He tells me to breath slower. He tells me to relax. I keep gagging and choking. The oriental women says to the team
-yes, and were getting great pictures.
Its like a broadcast from Mars. I expect Houston to start applauding. She keeps pumping my stomach full of air. I feel like a whoopie cushion pre practical joke. Finally she goes:
-ok coming out now.
She whips it out with ferocious speed. You know that button on the hoover that winds up the cord, the plug bouncing along, catching up. Just like that. That quick. One of the nurses points to a sink and I wash my face. Another nurse says to me that I’m not like other people. That I listened to his advice. I told him I thought it would be a poor moment to express my individuality.
Anyway you must have presumed the rest. No tumour, no cancer. No ulcers. Nothing demonic. A bad case of dyspepsia, or gastritis if you want to be latin about it. Lifestyle modification. Lay off the booze. Cut down on the red meat. The non acid diet reads like a puritan list of crap food. Anything with flavour is denied. I am to live on broccoli and bean sprouts. **** happens, another shot at redemption. Anyway, I got out of there and the sun was still yellow and the sky was still blue and all my mates made a fuss of me and that made me as happy as the results. Because however dark the world is I want to see it and feel it all. I want a part of it, not in some greedy egotistical way, I just want a part of it.
And because of that I hope the luck holds. At least for a good length of time. I hope it holds for us all.
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