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.


At each of these briefings, we've found that we learn a little more: something new that we'd not known before, even though we have talked at length and researched on t'Interweb. So, here's a summary:

I had to sign a document to say that I acknowledged the fact that I could not undergo cremation. This is quite amusing really, phoning one's executors and saying, "Oh, by the way, in my will it says I want to be cremated, but because of this op, please ensure that in the event of my untimely death, I get buried - at least for the next two years. Not meaning that you then dig me up and cremate me ... I stay buried thereafter. Clear?" That really was a strange conversation - but Gloria had to do the same, because she might "untimely die" with me and then no one would know!

I'm to be given a card to carry that will explain to anyone who needs to know that I am indeed Radioactive Rod and that you better be damned careful, because my super-irradiance might zap you. So, if another surgeon wishes to poke around, bowel-wise, I shall simply flash the card and exclaim, "No, you shall not pass!" Similarly, when the airport radiation scanners go off and the SWAT teams hurtle towards me, guns akimbo, I shall proudly wave my little card and declare, "I am Radioactive Rod and this card says I can pass through!"

I was also given a delicate little tube of stuff to squirt up my bottom one hour before I leave home. The micro-enema is designed to ensure "bowel preparation" is fully functioning and that everything in that area is bright and sparkly for when the consultant begins her broggling about in my nether regions. This stuff generally has no side effects, apparently ... other than to have you download, big style. Stay near a loo for a while, huh?

Another little gem is the Tamsulosin, a drug designed to help my bladder and urethra relax into the new regime. So relax-y is it that I may actually fall over when standing up sharply or feel strange dizziness as a result of the dilation of blood vessels. However, the best one is that I may experience "abnormal ejaculation", which can be summed up as ejaculating back into the bladder instead of the usual prescribed method. Apparently harmless, this phenomenon means that semen leaves the body when you wee.

I was shown the entrance to the dedicated operating theatre and recovery room - dedicated because they're handling radioactive materials in there so it is locked and bolted against people going in there for a quick fag or wander around.

All in all, this part of the process was very straightforward and the nurse then passed me over to the pre-op department where my medical history was scrutinised. This is where it got a bit scary. A quick measure, weigh and ECG (no, the nurse didn't look like the one in the picture ... but then again, neither do I look like the bloke) and then ...

"What do you mean, you nearly died on the operating table in 1988?"
"Well, it was after I had an allergic reaction to contrast medium ..."
"And then you might have died if an ENT surgeon hadn't found the cholesteotoma in your ear?"
"Yeah, he was repairing the ear drum and found this thing and it was attacking my brain ..."
"What about this DVT you had?"
"I kicked a football, right? Then my calf muscle tore so I had to go to A&E, but they didn't do anything and so I got a DVT ..."
"And sleep apnoea?"
"No, I don't have that ..."
"You say here that you did."
"Yeah, but I didn't. I'm not symptomatic ..."
"Hmmmm."
"What?"
"The anaesthetist is not going to like this ..."

And so it went on. Childhood bronchitis and asthma, infantile TB, spinal fusion, glaucoma ... "I know, I'm a medical miracle."
"You certainly are - amazed you made it this far."

And, to be honest, so am I, because my family didn't have a great track record of survival. Parents and grandparents all dead by the time I was 15. Everyone at that time seemed to keel over the moment I walked into the room. And I wasn't even radioactive at that point!

The final bit was a blood test to set the benchmark for my PSA. Once the op has been done, the medics expect the PSA to fall and to keep on falling. If it does so, that's great news. If it doesn't? Well, we'll cross that bridge ...