Confusion Reigns Supreme

I haven’t worked a single shift since 27th of March. I guess I’ve had more important things to worry about, but it does bring up one or two not insignificant concerns.

Firstly what happens if my bosses, in all their wisdom, decide they can’t wait for me to feel better before I return to work?

Second, what will my payslip look like without all those opportunities to earn overtime, late night premiums, weekend premiums and the elusive Sunday Late premium with overtime?

The answer to that last one is around £600-800 per month less than if I’d just struggled on manfully regardless.

And to answer the first point: Well, they’re not going to fire me without trying to find out what’s wrong.

Yesterday saw me back in the office for my first meeting with my case manager and a representative from People Services (HR) now that I’m officially on Long Term Sick absence (LTS). I had to let them know what was wrong. Everything from the couple of weeks of feeling bunged up, through my collapse and admission to hospital, the eventual diagnosis and what steps are coming next.

“Fine. So everything’s in hand at the moment then. Do you have any idea when you’ll be able to get back to work at all?” he asked with a look of genuine concern.

“Not really. Not until tomorrow when I get the result of the biopsy and we’ve discussed the way forward with treatment.” I replied

“OK. I’ll schedule a phone call for Monday so you can update me on that, but otherwise we have a wide range of tools for people on LTS on our People+ network, if ever you need anything. Other than that, we’ll try to schedule similar meetings to this every four weeks or so, just so you can keep us in the loop, as it were. Obviously if any of our meetings clash with your treatment, your treatment comes first so just let us know and we can work around it. The main thing is to make sure your are supported as much as possible in your recovery.”

-o0o-

The sun broke through the gap in my bedroom curtains this morning, disturbing me for a wonderful reverie in which I found myself cycling along a French canal towpath, occasionally stopping to assist with getting boats through the locks… No idea where that one surfaced from. I haven’t been boating in France since I was ten…

Just thought I’d add that to show that things aren’t getting on top of me too much…

-o0o-

Off to the hospital this morning for those all-important results, bringing mother with me for moral support and because I think she ought to hear first-hand what treatment I’m going to be enduring.

First things first, after signing in I was guided to the scales to check my weight.

50.82 kg.

That’s encouraging. Last time I was weighed I came in at 48.93. That was before the biopsy and debulking. Obviously being able to swallow properly again has helped.

And then a brief wait until I’m called forward to meet some of the team that are going to be looking after me for the next couple of months.

First of all, the Clinical Oncologist. In charge of my case with the support of a team of other doctors. She guided me (and mum) through what I need to have done, the benefits and the possible side-effects. I’ll need at least 6 weeks of radiotherapy (15-20 minutes, daily) and three doses of chemotherapy at weeks 1, 3 and 6, followed by a check-up every couple of weeks for the next few months. But before that I’ll need a little dental work…

Next, the Clinical Nurse Specialist. In charge of ongoing support and advice on all aspects of my case before, during and after treatment.

And then the Dietitian. Providing support for me as I need to get myself back up to my “fighting weight” as it were and stay there or thereabouts.

And finally. The. One. I’ve. Been. Dreading. All. Along.

THE DENTIST.

I have never liked my teeth. They never seemed to suit me, and I could see that, even as a child. I think it was that I inherited the quantity from mother’s side and the quality from father’s. It didn’t help that I had a McCarthy face with Every teeth… Subconsciously I had set out to destroy my own teeth from an early age.

And it worked.

And now I miss them. Never more am I able to enjoy a Sesame snap, or a humble Ginger Nut…

But my distrust of The Dentist lies deeper.

Deeper than the old adage “how can you trust someone whose job it is to look down in the mouth all the time?”

Far deeper. Distrust of those whose probing about where you can’t see can exact exquisite pain at a fraction of an inch.

Deeper still.

I will never, NEVER, forget the time I had to be seen by a private dentist who shared a practice with his NHS dentist wife. He asked her advice on the treatment for my painful abscess: “I have a patient here who hasn’t seen a dentist in at least 15 years. How much medication should I give him for this abscess?”

Her reply, within earshot and with full knowledge that I could hear…

“IF HE HASN’T SEEN A DENTIST IN THE LAST FIFTEEN YEARS, GIVE HIM TWENTY TIMES THE DOSE.”

And that, unfortunately, is not the only time that I have fallen into the bad dentist trap.

It’s just the most egregious. And the main reason why I don’t trust the fuckers.

One dentist, maybe two or three (plus a shade of bad luck?) handed me a VERY broad brush and a large pot of tar…

The fellow I’ve been left in the hands of, due to my needing some *ahem* repairs. He’s been good. Sensitive. Not critical, just sees the situation and gets on with it, without judgement. Knows there are those egregious ones out there and is willing to step up and say “NOT ALL DENTISTS”…

He’s going to knock me unconscious. And when I come round, I won’t have a single tooth left in me gob.

Saves future dental bills, I suppose, but I’ll probably never be able to enjoy a Ginger Nut for as long as I shall live.

After my total dentectomy (is that a word? Google says it isn’t, but my research says it is…), the radiotherapy starts…