Mum came to St Thomas' with me today for my pre op scans. I am really doing the tour of this hospital. Today we were in another wing at the Nuclear Medicine Department.
In contrast to the moody cows who "greeted" us at Dermatology reception a few weeks ago we were welcomed in to this department like old friends,
"Oh yes! Holly Berry, I spoke to you on the phone didn't I?!"
That was weeks ago, must be the name, either that or the fact that once again I was about the only person there under the age of 50 or 60. After a bit of a wait (we were early) a nurse/ nucleographer or what ever you would call someone in this department, came to take me away. Apparently they're not radiographers, that's different. She was very nice as well. I got changed in to the gown that she gave me. I didn't like that, it made me feel like an ill person who was in hospital, but I tried to ignore it by chatting about nothing at all to her.
I lay on the thing- not a bed really- and the nice man who I'd spoken to on the phone came in and did 4 injections of some kind of nuclear matter around my wound. Again it was like the injections at the dentists- the needle going in is fine but it stings a bit when you feel the liquid going in. He had an Irish accent which was quite nice and soothing. He chatted away to me about how I had noticed the offending Melanoma, in order to take my mind off the injections (errm, yes, great choice of subject, but at least he was trying to distract me from the present discomfort I suppose!). My platform/ bed then slid under what I can only describe as a large upside down hanging photo copier. It felt like I was sliding off behind the curtain at a crematorium as my little platform slowly glided along at exactly that speed.
Luckily no curtains closed behind me and my head and feet still stuck out from under the photocopier as Tom's do when Jerry drops a piano on him. The photocopier took a photo of the progress of the nuclear matter once every minute as I read my Rupert Everett book and tried to ignore the fact that the morning cup of coffee had clearly been a bad move.
I asked the nurse/ nucleologist (?) lady what was happening on the screen and she pointed out the lymph node that was shining like a beacon on the screen. I was slightly alarmed at how big it looked but she reassure me (well, in a way) saying it was just that the injected stuff was so powerful- I'm assuming she meant relatively speaking as it is radioactive!
"There's your bladder"
she said, pointing to the only other noticeably lit up point. Yes, the coffee had definitely been a mistake, even the photocopier could tell.
Apparently it all worked very quickly and the guy came back in and zoomed out on the diagram on the screen. I could see my hips and thighs,
"That's me!"
I said excitedly, like an extra seeing them self behind Matt Damon for a split second. It was really quite interesting. They measured and marked with a metal pen where the potentially offending node is, on the outside of my thigh- much lower down than I expected. Damn. There goes my hope of my totally relaxing last bath for the next 4 weeks; I have to keep the pen mark dry.
And that was it for today. Mum and I pottered back to Crystal Palace where she treated me to a Thai meal and expressed her usual delight at the root vegetables that they decoratively cut in to flower shapes. Thanks for lunch mum!
So we arrive back at plastic surgery at 7 bloody 30 am tomorrow, although they may not operate till hours later. If anyone is in town on Thursday or Friday and fancies coming to see me that would really cheer me up. I'm sure my blog about the ward has probably put you off doing that but if you can bear it the opening hours are basically anytime that isn't late at night. I will be in one of the plastic surgery wards on the 11th floor, but presumably the information desk at the main entrance will be able to tell people where exactly once they put me in a ward.
Wish me luck!
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