Cancer Ward 1: Diagnosis

The philosopher Woody Allen, who will probably be remembered more for his bons mots than his films, essays or clarinet playing – once remarked that the three most beautiful words in the English language are not “I love you” but “It is benign”. This thought occurred to me most recently after having been persuaded by my daughters to visit the local doctor. I had triumphantly told them that at long last my strict diet seemed to be paying dividends. Instead of congratulating me, they replied almost in unison - a difficult feat as Nathalie lives in Lausanne while Annabel lives in London - as follows: “Daddy, you have been dieting for over thirty years without success, there must be something wrong”. But how could I visit the GP without any positive symptoms – other than a successful regime – to report. Apparently my diet of whiskey, crisps, nuts, fish and chips – but cut out the deep-fried Mars bars – was at last paying dividends. Reluctantly I made the visit to the local surgery, and told our GP that of course at my age – I had just turned 75 – troubles with the plumbing were to be expected, and I did have two cousins who died recently of colonic cancer.
“At what age?” he asked.
“Well, they were in their mid-eighties.”
As my oncologist later remarked this, clearly, did not represent a significant family history. (However, somewhat more so than when some time ago I reported to a French doctor that I feared arterial problems as my father-in-law had suffered from this.)
Nevertheless, my doctor, with wisdom and surprising sympathy, booked me into University College London Hospital for a colonoscopy (insertion of a small camera to investigate the colon) and an endoscopy (ditto for the gullet and upper stomach). These were booked with almost no delay – a National Health Service policy dictates that such investigations be made within 14 days – and were preceded by consultation with the relevant specialists, who seemed rather impressed by my seeming all-round fitness.

The colonoscopy proved negative. However, as my daughter Annabel and I were preparing to leave the ward after the tests, a rather young and presumably under-briefed nurse handed me a letter addressed to my GP which contained the endoscopy report and which I, of course, immediately opened. The phrase which leapt to the eye was “probable malignant tumour” – not, as Woody Allen would have agreed, the three most beautiful words in the English language. On taking leave of the assembled nursing staff, I could not resist the following bit of repartee.
Me: “Well, I am on the way out.”
Staff: “No, no, please don’t say that.”
Me: “Why not, I just meant we were going home”.

(To be continued).