This blog post may refer, however tastefully, (if that is possible), to the inner workings of my gut. Male friends of mine, or those of a more sensitive disposition, may choose at this point to skip this particular post and with my complete blessing and encouragement. ;-)
I feel better today than I have done since the beginning of November and have possibly just got through a couple of the most stressful days of my life. The 'piles' issue I referred to in a previous post did not end up being piles but instead is some form of inflammatory bowel disease called proctitis. For goodness sake don't Google it, as Google then accuses you of being a serial bum shagger with an STD. (No, that is not true.)
Anyway, it is all treatable and controllable; happy days. If only I didn't have such an active imagination, which unfortunately I have. The problem with all forms of IBD is that it completely mimics the symptoms of bowel cancer. My rational head is fully aware that bowel cancer is pretty much unheard of in people under the age of 40 (yes, Martin Russel, I am). However, when Googling on your phone at 3am in the morning it is totally possible to convince yourself otherwise. I have been a complete mess and hiding it well, apart from to my nearest and dearest who have greatly suffered along with me.
It is incredible how an intelligent, relatively sane, human being can overnight become a victim of their own Googling, pathetic self-diagnoses. I am pretty convincing though, even to myself. Sam told me on the phone tonight that she has been coming off the phone to me each time telling me to pull myself together and that I'm fine and then crying on her husband over the fact I might be dying. It's catching. I am bloody convincing.
Zoe and I have done some black humour counselling sessions in our office. Kyl is the only man in our department and we have stopped talking on a number of occasions when he has entered the office. We fed him the absolute bare minimum information about the situation so that he didn't get paranoid about our secret squirrel conversations and the poor man ran scared as soon as he possibly could. I texted him tonight: 'All good, not dying' and got the reply: 'Ah, that's nice'. It's as deep as the two of us ever need to go into that kind of discussion.
But this week, I had this procedure today, proceeded by my first ever Head of Department interview yesterday. To say I look like shit is an understatement and I am inhaling a bottle of wine ready to have passed out by 9pm tonight. I think I may actually sleep properly for the first time in two months. I celebrated last night in style when I got the job but all the time with the cloud hanging over me that it was such a shame I was a professional success when I knew really I would have to phone the Head tomorrow and tell him that I couldn't accept the job after all due to my speedily-declining ill-health. For such an optimist I do a good line in scary black clouds. Maybe I tempted fate through through all this doom and gloom imagination? Maybe I just need to get a little more statistical awareness? Or maybe, as Shelley suggested today, after the week I've had, I should really go and buy a lottery ticket.
All's well that ends well. High on gas and air this afternoon I do remember telling the consultant that I didn't want a copy of the picture of the inside of my bowel for the family album. He looked at me as if I was a complete cock. He was right. However, I'm a completely alive cock, with a fabulous new job and a rejuvenated attitude towards the insignificant trials and tribulations of everyday, happy, mundane life. Cheers. :-) xx
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