Brachytherapy. One week on.

It's exactly one week since I had my brachytherapy implants of Iodine-125 radioactive seeds and I have to say that I don't feel a lot different at the moment. This may of course be the lull before the storm and Gloria is watching my every move intently, analysing me for any possible sign of outcome.
"Have you found any seeds yet?"
"Nope."
"Not even when you wee?"
"No."
"Let's look at your bruises ..." There follows an embarrassing lying on the bed with legs in the air while Gloria peers at my scrotum area with intense interest. "I can't believe you heal so quickly."
"Me neither."
"What about your poos?"
"Gloria!"
"Well, I'm just being caring. You know ... like I'm supposed to."
"Yeah, well that's lovely. Thank you. I'm all fine. I'll tell you when I'm not."
"I'm sure you will!"

Radioactive condoms?

Gloria's dedication to my comfort and pleasure knows no bounds and therefore, on a shopping expedition to Tesco, she decided to wander the condom aisle, looking for (in her words) "radioactive condoms".

The thing is this; when you've had brachytherapy for prostate cancer you have dozens of radioactive "seeds" inserted into the prostate. As you know, (well you do now) the prostate delivers the fluid in which sperm float and so, if you have sex ... when you have sex ... the fluid may possibly contain one or more of these seeds. It's not something that a lady of Gloria's delicate sensibilities wants floating up into her personal areas, not least because it could in theory do her damage.

Night on the ward

My sleep may have started at 9:30pm, but it was soon disturbed by the goings-on on the ward. Considering there were only three others in the room, they all had their own particular way of ensuring my sleep was broken. It has to be said at this point, however, that I had my own way too as I snore like a moose when asleep (certainly not when I'm awake though).

It was the music that got to me first. The opening four notes of Magic Roundabout: da-da-da-da ... da would normally follow. What's that? Oh, it's some instrumentation saying that it needs checking. The guy next to me was constantly monitored with drains in his leg and he was the most musical of all. He also had Mungo Jerry's In the Summertime which I think was the blood pressure monitor because we all had that set of notes at various times in the night.

The day of the brachytherapy operation

The morning dawned bright and clear and I was up with the lark ... well, with the alarm, actually that Gloria had set for six-thirty. I needed to be up quickly because my last chance to eat was before seven-thirty and I didn't want to faint with hunger before going down for the op at either 1pm or 3pm.

Gloria brought me tea and toast in bed - what a treat! Then we were up and about, getting some cereal down us before getting showered and putting the last things into the overnight bag. Then, the best part - a micro enema. Gloria had asked if she could administer it - absolutely not! It was a little tube of stuff with a long spout that had to be inserted right up your bum and then squeezed - and keep squeezing as you pull it out. Did that and then sat on the loo and waited. It didn't take long ... about five minutes and all of a sudden my back passage was clear and sparkly. Then it was time for a shower.

And then the oxygen test

It had all started innocently enough while I was having my pre-op and the nurse was checking off the list of ailments that may impede my survival of anaesthetic. The "sleep apnoea" box was ticked by me because someone once said I might have that - mainly because I snore a lot!

"Oh, yes!" pipes up Gloria, "I think he has sleep apnoea," and the nurse looked concerned.
"Look," says I, "the tests were inconclusive and I'm not symptomatic."

The pre-op before brachytherapy

It was a very cold day as Gloria and I emerged from the car into the multi-storey car park and shivered. We'd taken three quarters of an hour to cross town to the hospital and now, nearly at the top of the parking building, we had to find our way to the radiology and oncology department which was in the basement.

Once there though - Gloria with her computer bag, of course - we settled down for a short wait before a briefing from an enthusiastic young nurse. She wanted to talk all about our sex life, how well I wee and poo and a raft of other conversation items that would never grace a refined dinner table. Totally unfazed, she confidently reassured us about how most problems can be solved and that the operation is all about success. Indeed, the negatives seemed mostly to be about weeing or ejaculating radioactive seeds and the appropriate responses thereto.