I would be lying if I said I was looking forward to my ‘flexible sigmoidoscopy’; in layman’s terms, a camera inserted inside the bottom. Nonetheless, this is the procedure for those such as I who have endured a bout of diverticulitis. It’s a look around the insides with a tiny – I believe Olympus – camera and light on the tip of a flexible tube to see if there is any colonic damage that could at some point trigger another round of the screaming abdabs.
My last sigmoidoscopy was 23 years ago and all I can remember of it is that it was very uncomfortable, and more than a little embarrassing. There is no cure for diverticulitis but our medical profession has a system in place and having a close look inside the bum some weeks after the condition has subsided is accepted protocol.
My recent appointment was set for April 14 and accompanying the letter of confirmation from the Royal Cornwall Hospital were two packs of Moviprep and a bewildering instruction pamphlet. It included photographs of what my colon should look like when I arrive at hospital and a warning that the procedure could be cancelled if some of the nasty stuff remained in place. Moviprep is a powdery concoction that needs to be diluted in water and taken, in two doses, a predetermined number of hours before the anal photo-call. In my case seven o’clock the evening prior and twelve hours hence the next morning. Without dwelling upon the details I was unable to sleep after 2.30am and spent the remainder of the night in a state of high anxiety dashing to and from the smallest room in the house. The pre-med procedure also involves drinking copious amounts of water.
Kim took the day off work to drive me to the hospital and after dropping me off headed to Truro with Asta to meet some friends expecting that I could be up to four hours in the Endoscopy Unit.
In a waiting room, with a dozen or so men and women, I was asked by a receptionist to complete a short form inquiring among other things if I was on any medication and if I had consumed any alcohol that day. I wish. Another white and mauve form I was told to complete after the procedure. This was a feedback form that asks recipients to tick ‘how likely are you to recommend our ward or service to friends or family if they needed similar care of treatment.’ The boxes to be ticked ran the gamut from extremely likely to unlikely, to don’t know. A box at the bottom (sic) questioned why that response was given. On the reverse are twelve questions inquiring about, among other things, the staff’s compassion and if the patient was treated with dignity; more of dignity later. All that was missing were questions about staff dress code and favourite colours. If you, like me, are wondering what’s gone wrong with the world – I can’t help you?
From there I was led to a much smaller, male only, waiting room where the sheepish expressions therein said it all. My three compadres were in medical smocks and all glued to their smart phones. I daresay they were watching the procedure we were all about to endure on You Tube. Don’t laugh, there are several quite graphic films there, I’ve looked.
My second interview was with a bubbly nurse in dark blue medical attire in a small office adjacent to the waiting room. Here I was asked to complete and sign a consent form that would let hospital staff off the hook should my sigmoidoscopy go wrong and I wound up back on St.Mawes Ward. All completed I was handed a pair of dark blue dignity shorts, that’s boxer shorts with the fly on the back, a backless smock and a pair of non slip yellow slipper/socks. I was instructed to get changed and join the queue next door. Of course me being me I’d brought my own slippers and a dressing gown and despite the looming event and the hushed terror on the faces of those around me, I at least looked presentable. I like to think I could have been going into a spa, or awaiting a pedicure.
I don’t know precisely how long I was waiting in that airless 10×10’ room, thankfully with a door to a toilet in the corner, with our bare legs almost touching, but it was long enough for me to read the Guardian’s big read, two pages of news and begin the quick crossword. At a guess, I’d estimate 40 minutes.
That’s when another nurse in a dark blue outfit asked me to join her for a chat in the room I gotten changed in. Of striking appearance, with lustrous black hair, she didn’t beat about the bush. Straight off she said we’re not going to do the procedure today. And the reason for sudden about face? The sigmoidoscopy procedure has to be carried out six weeks after being discharged from hospital (see the previous blog) and according to the nurse sat with me April 18 was four days shy of the required 42. She said the administrators had taken the six weeks from the day I had been admitted to St Mawes Ward and not the day of my discharge. Didn’t anyone look? Should I buy the hospital a calendar?
Secretly delighted I briefly attempted to ask my nurse to have a word with the surgean who was to carry out the procedure. My tummy felt fine. The Moviprep had done its job. I was as empty as a pub without any beer. Kim had taken a day of work, I’d been in a state of high stress for the best part of a week, and besides I was kitted out in dark blue dignity shorts. Let’s just do it I said, conflicted but desperate.
That’s when it struck me, they couldn’t do it. Of course they couldn’t. After all the risk waver forms I’d filled out if the slightest thing went wrong during the procedure, four days shy of the required six weeks, my nurse and the clinician would be up to their stethoscopes in litigation, and I’d be back in St.Mawes Ward looking forward to a world cruise and a new suit all paid for by the Royal Cornwall Hospital NHS Trust.
Because I will forever been in the debt of the NHS and in particular Mr.Michael Graham Clarke, the consultant, who brought me back from the brink without resorting to the blade I decided against completing the mauve feedback questionnaire because I’d have been stuck on question seven: Do the staff appear confident and able to perform their tasks when caring for you?