My Diagnosis – tests start to ramp up.

Jaggy things, whirly things, pointy things, and boring things.

original post - April 2022

After the GP said they'd be in touch, I went home. No call the next day. My worry, which had bloomed like Japanese knotweed overnight, began to wither into something stranger: indifference. I figured if they weren’t rushing, how bad could it be?

I called the doctor. His exact words: "Innes, there's a lot going on in the background, be patient." Cool. Cryptic reassurance. Totally fine.

The weekend passed like treacle. Then the calls began. Appointments stacked up like dominoes: scans on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Not just a few. The full diagnostic degustation: CT, MRI, chest X-ray, bloods, ultrasounds.

The following week: Bone Marrow Biopsy. A phrase that still gives me a facial twitch.

Trust issues? Absolutely. Every person I encountered — doctor, haematology registrar, nurse — gave the same beatific nod and gentle coo: “It’s tricky, but relatively painless.”

BOLLOCKS. Absolute bollocks.

I’m in a gown, curled on my side like a foetal armadillo, exposing my right arse cheek to a trio of professionals. I get the green whistle and instructions: puff, breathe, relax. The Bone Marrow Dementor — the smallest person in the entire hospital — asks if I’m ready.

I puff again, cough like a Dickensian orphan, and then: BOOM. White-hot agony as she burrows into my hip like a terrier going after a fox. More anaesthetic. Round two. Same drill. Shooting pain down the leg, full-body pressure on the tool like she’s trying to crank-start a lawnmower. Where was Hatty Jacques when I needed her? Or at least someone who could uncork my pelvis with efficiency and some upper body mass.

Then, I was patched up and sent home with Panadol. Panadol. Not Endone. Not even a cheeky Panadeine Forte. Just the over-the-counter stuff you take for a hangover.

Naturally, I milked it. Played the ‘brave soldier’ to Kerry. Got sympathy. Possibly a takeaway dinner. Every marrow has its silver lining.

Next day: little pain, more wounded pride than anything. The dressing was intact, albeit stained with what I told myself was bone marrow, spinal fluid, and maybe a dash of ancient Viking blood.

Then came the Gated Heart Pool Study. Sounds like something out of a Marvel plot, but essentially it involves tagging your blood with something glowy, putting it back in you, and watching your heart on the job. Pain-free and oddly fascinating. I had a brilliant chat with the Nuclear Medicine Technologist, who casually mentioned he was “extremely autistic” — which made sense. Intense, focused, and absolutely fascinating to talk to. The Good Doctor, live and local.

Then came the PET scan, and let me tell you — the procedure is fine. The waiting is what breaks you. They inject something radioactive, then make you lie still in a dimly lit room like a medieval monk in a vow of silence.

Fifteen minutes in: “Mr. Thomson, put your phone down. This is QUIET TIME.”A few seconds later: “Mr. Thomson, hand it over.” At 54, I had my phone confiscated by a junior member of the Nuclear Medicine team. I’m still recovering from the humiliation. Apparently, the radio-labelled substance reacts to stimuli, so no phones, lights, or brain activity. Might have been useful to know that beforehand.

I gave the ceiling camera a Paddington stare and counted tiles. Plugs. Anything. By the time they wheeled me into the scanner, I was mentally broken. And no one tells you you’ll be contorted in weird positions and have to stay that way — perfectly still — for up to 20 minutes. Three times.

Afterwards, I was given a disc. Yes, an actual disc. Raced back to the office like it was 2005, found a laptop with a CD drive, cracked the seal marked “DO NOT OPEN”, and opened it. Of course I did.

The scans were amazing. I had no idea what I was looking at, but could clearly see something had lit up in my groin like a Christmas tree. My colleagues and I reverted to schoolboys: “That’s massive.”Not the first time I’ve heard that,” I replied.

And now…Tests done. Scans done. Bloods, bones, and biopsy – all ticked.

Just waiting now. The haematologist appointment is set: Wednesday, April 12. Five days. All done bar the waiting.