Tag: Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm

Ennui Through Mayhem

The title comes from a phrase that I used in a Covid Christmas post (Festive Planning Principles) something like a lifetime (and 3 lockdowns) ago.  I like it and it seems a shame to waste it, especially as it sums up how my life has been the last few days.  ‘Listless’ might also work, but is far less fun.  The cause of this particular bout of languorous mental inactivity was the impending ultrasound scan which is now in the past, and the results which – although requiring an extra pair of hands (called away from the nearby computer screen) to extrapolate (I did not enquire why) – were good.  ‘Very healthy’ said the lady with the scanner and the gel, and a weight lifted from my wizened shoulders, only to re-descend a few minutes later when I remembered that the two practitioners who huddled for an unseemly amount of time over the screen to the side of me, just millimetres out of my vision, repeatedly muttered the word ‘bifurcation’ during their deliberations into what, exactly, they were looking at.  What is a bifurcation and why did its presence necessitate a lengthy second opinion?  What if the scan result – ref the whatever-it-was they were looking for – was very healthy, but the bifurcation was bad news?  What if they were not allowed to tell me what they had found because it was not what they had been tasked to look for?  What if I was unlikely to make it home anyway, so no point in upsetting me with bad news?

Of course, I know what a bifurcation is now – I looked it up the very second I left the surgery.  The question that remains is whether that which is – inconveniently it would seem for the purposes of an AAA* scan – bifurcating within my torso, is doing so as per general guidelines or has gone rogue?  Do I have a subdivision where no subdivision should rightly be?  Has someone upgraded my main aortal access to a dual carriageway whilst I slept and, if so, why?  I know how bad a road has to get before the local council upgrades it (with one man, a spade and a bucketful of tar): I would dread to think that my arterial network could be in anything like the state of the roads around here.

They both seemed to be perfectly content to send me on my way without feeling the need to press the number of a local paramedic into my sweaty palm.  I did ask if there was a problem, but they both just said ‘No, you’re fine lovey’ – all well and good, although not exactly addressing my concerns, and I know what you are thinking – and you are indisputably right – I am merely squeezing every ounce of optimism out of good news and finding myself with something else to worry about.  Did they see something in there that had only previously been known to live within John Hurt?  They said that they would be writing to my GP – I presume on a professional, rather than personal basis – so I am certain that they would pass on any concerns they may have had at that stage: ‘patient has a bifurcation that may well not be ideal, particularly when attempting to see beyond it on a scan’.  Anyway, you know what it’s like when a medical professional gives you good news, you get out of there before they have the chance to change their mind.

Besides these are professional and caring people, they would have told me anything I needed to know there and then, and what they told me was that my measurements were ‘A very healthy 1.5cm.  This is a one-off scan and you won’t need any more.’  There is no bad news at all in that, is there?  All is well on the Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm front.  I’m sure that if I have bifurcation issues I will get to hear about them in due course.  Perhaps they’ll invite me for a scan…

*Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm

Stage

Photo by Monica Silvestre on Pexels.com

I don’t anticipate writing any specific ‘Christmas’ posts this year, but as I do tend to get wrapped up in the spirit of it all, I’ve no doubt that a small amount of pantomime is likely to creep in anyway.  If you’re not into it at all, I can only apologise.

Here in the UK we had our first proper snowfall at the start of December – going by the previous few years, it might be first and only – and by now the kids are almost as excited as me.  I watched ‘Nativity’ on the 3rd and it has taken a superhuman effort for me to put off ‘Love Actually’ and ‘Miracle on 34th Street’ until now.  I have not been quite so restrained with the port and mince pies.

Somehow December has a habit of being an incredibly busy month and a peek at the calendar shows that we don’t have a free day now until well into the New Year.  One of my appointments – an Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm (AAA) scan – lies ahead of me as I write this, but will be behind me by the time I publish.  It is, apparently, completely routine for men of my age and, should the result be ok, the test will not be required again.  Should the result be less good, however, a world of worry lies ahead.  And boy can I worry.

My problem lies, of course, in writing this before I know the result.  I am by nature a very optimistic pessimist, but going forward, I’m not at all certain how that will stand up to the possibility of finding out that I am one good fart away from a fatal heart attack.  My outlook may not be so sunny then.  Of course, it could be that all is well, but what is it they say about counting chickens?  (Well, the only thing I would say is that they are a whole lot easier to count before they hatch than afterwards.)  There is little in this life more galling than going to the doctors well, and leaving ill:
Dr. – How are you feeling today?
Me – I feel great.
Dr. – Well I’ll soon put a stop to that…
The entire appointment – according to the accompanying leaflet which, on balance, seems to assume bad news – will last less than twenty minutes and I will be given the results immediately.  It feels a little like voluntarily sticking my neck into a guillotine.  But if I don’t go?  Well, my mind is not going to entertain the possibility of good news is it?  In my mind, what I don’t know is almost certainly designed to kill me, so I will just have to suck it up and see what the doctor says.

It would help considerably to have a set of symptoms to be aware of, but apparently there are none: fine, fine, fine, dead is the way it goes.  I will take the test and hope that I don’t need any treatment.  If I do, then at least I’ll know it.

Now, I feel as if I should point out here that I am in absolutely no way special.  Every man of my age is eligible for this scan.  You are not invited to get the test, but simply contacted with a appointment and a letter telling you that you don’t have to go, but if you don’t it will be taken down and may be used against you.  The problem is, if you are like me, you are completely unaware that the possibility is even there… until you get the letter, at which point it becomes impossible to think about anything else.

But think about other things I must.  As I write this, the clear-up from the leak is in full swing, because all stains must be gone before Christmas.  Give me a paint brush, a roller and a can of paint and pantomime season is always just around the corner.  I am Panto Painter: one man, both Chuckle Brothers.  I know from past experience that water stains are unfathomably difficult to cover up and the more coats that are needed, the greater the potential for disaster.  Bizarrely, the harder I try, the more inept I become.  My whole life is like an inverse apprenticeship.  Lord help us all if I ever qualify.

“All the world,” said the Bard “is a stage” and mine, it would seem is always set up for panto. 
“Whatever happened to the best years of my life?” I ask.
“They’re behind you,” scream the audience…