Timmy and Me

A heart-warming tale of one man’s budding friendship with his tumour.

They laugh, they learn, they grow

It’s striking how much faster things are moving now. For a long time, when the suspicion was an inflammation or infection; a bit of damage caused by straining too much or not straining enough, I would wait weeks for an appointed phone call or blood tests. But now that the C bomb has been dropped nobody can move quick enough to remove fluids from me or insert objects into me.

I started suffering some…unusual…toilet habits many months ago. The constant urge to shit, followed by a symphony of wet, bloody, mucusy farts finally convinced me to ring the doctor in July of last year. It took until New Year’s Eve to get a colonoscopy. The nurse came into the room I had sat waiting in dressed in my arseless gown and told me the doctor had arrived and from that moment on there was a 90 second whirlwind of climbing on beds, assuming positions, breathing deeply and swearing loudly.

There were 3 nurses in the room, one of whose only job seemed to be to keep me occupied by making small talk as a large bald man foraged around behind me in a habitat that had up to that point been untouched by man. We talked about the weather, the kids, the weekend. She noticed me grimace

‘Does it hurt?’ she asked

‘Yep’

‘Where abouts?’

‘Well, my arsehole’

The nurse had a large flatscreen behind her showing the colonoscopist’s voyage through my deepest, darkest colorectal tract and I was fascinated by how clean it all looked. It was pristine. You could eat your dinner off my anus, if that’s something you’re into and you ask my permission first. They had given me a laxative drink to take through the night prior to my appointment and, don’t get me wrong, I had a good old empty out. But speaking as someone who has always been a bit on the heavy side, and who had always secretly and hopefully suspected that was at least partly down to being quite constipated, it disappointed me to discover that even when completely empty I am still — medical term — a chubby bugger.

The doctor let me know that the exploration had finished, and he was going to pull the camera back out now. I buried my face in the crook of my arm and began to count, thrilled that it was almost over, but something was taking too long. The camera wasn’t as eager to leave my bumhole as one would imagine it would be.

The doctor calmly told me he was going to take some samples and 2 other nurses who hadn’t seemed to be doing a great deal suddenly sprang into action. Through their quiet conversation I overheard one word and knew exactly what my own next conversation would be about.

‘………..biopsy………’

As soon as the samples were collected and all foreign objects from about my person were removed, I was wheeled onto an adjoining ward, and given a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit. The doctor came in to me just as I was pulling my trousers back up and sitting down. He seemed nervous, hesitant. A stark contrast to the cavalier attitude he had displayed moments earlier when lunging shoulder deep into my anus.

‘So we know now the reason for your urgency. The reason you have been feeling unwell. We had expected it to just be some inflammation, you know, some inflammation of the bowel’. He danced around the subject like a shitty fingered Michael Flatley. ‘We found a tumour in your rectum’

‘Is it cancer’ ‘

We can’t know until the results come back but it looks like it’

‘How big is it?’

‘It is what it is’

It is what it is. I’ve asked this question to 3 nurses and doctors now and been given the same answer 3 times. Why is it a secret how big my own tumour is? Why am I not entitled to know the size of big fleshy lump that’s blocking up my shitpipe? The doctor put his hopefully well-washed hand on my knee and looked down at the ground. ‘I’m sorry’.

That was over a month ago now. Since then I’ve had CAT scans, PET scans, prep scans and MRI’s. I’ve had 7 holes poked into my arms and 1 more finger poked into a hole that I wish people would leave well enough alone.

They describe it as ‘large and aggressive’. The tumour that is, not the hole. Localised, large and aggressive. Big and mean. Like someone freeze-framed the boulder scene on Raiders of the Lost Arc, I have a sizable, meaty cobblestone blocking me up, physically stopping any waste from passing. This pile up of poo causes a build-up of gas which keeps me sat on the toilet all day as the excess blood and mucus means that I can no longer trust a fart. One can only hope that Harrison Ford escaped in time.

Rectal cancer is a pain in the arse. It’s annoying, inconvenient and tiring. It’s sprints to the toilet through every waking hour. It’s sneaking shitty underpants into the wash without anyone knowing. It’s uncomfortable nights and uncomfortable conversations. It’s sad eyes and irritating displays of concern.

I can feel my tumour every minute of the day. I can’t actually remember what it was like to not have this feeling when I walk and when I sit down. But he’ll be shrinking soon. 5 and a half weeks of chemo and radiotherapy and hopefully the surgeon will be able to get his scalpel out and do what he does best. In the meantime, I think I’ll keep writing about it. There are an ocean of anus jokes out there in the world, and it feels like I’ve only dipped my toe in.