In the Land of the Feral Prostate all Men are Equal

Wat yer dont want ter see in nettie

There are times when mortality stares a man down. Aye, and this past few months from July 2017 has been me time of reckoning. Not that there was mooch risk of drawing me last breath like, boot, awld age kicked the goal posts a bit further out than I have the puff to trundle oop and down the paddock of life chasing the small round ball of meaning that has kept me going ter this point in time. Me prostate went feral. From mandarin ter large orange and unable to pee while the bladder turned inta medicine ball.  Then there were a trip inta emergency of our great pooblic hospital fer large blood clots ter be syringed out by a very young looking lass who were an almost newly minted urology consultant in a uniform of plastic goggles, sou'wester and gum boots. And who apologised each time she sucked the marra oot me plumbing with a syringe as big as a fire extinguisher. Boot it were me who was sorrier as saline went in and blood and clot came oot! Aye, and the indignity of being fitted with a catheter*, summat ah have had to endure too many times this year. Aye inserting a tube oop yer urethra sound simple until yer have a blockage in yer pipes an' it won't go round U-bend. Me eyes watered an' I had to think very hard of the Toon drubbing MUFC 5-0 and how mooch St Kevin of Keegan paid ter have his hair permed in North Shields Beauty Parlour. Me own fault fer being big boots that I could ignore me prostate and keep wurking, making light of increased blood in nettie. It were only a pint of red being flushed down drain. Nowt ta a big hard Geordie lad. Plenty more where that came from. Lost more in a nose bleed etc. Joost bollocks. MEN ARE YER PAYIN' ATTENTION, LIKE!! A doctor's finger oop yer rear end is a small price ter pay.

All hands ter pump...boot still betta legs than Wor Big Al

Aye, within two days I were steered down the conveyor belt of medicine to see the wise, experienced water works and knackers specialist who I'd seen the year before and who told me if I did nowt, I would come ter a bad end. Niver once did he say I told yer so boot balloon above his head were saying "another bloody man who knows better than me with me thirty years of training and forty years of experience in dissecting prostates like peas from a pod". The doctor did the exam, asked questions, took notes and then returned ter corner of his desk where grindstone were and began sharpening scalpels transforming inter the surgeon. "Troost me." He said "I'll whip yer thru this and you'll coom out other side with enough pneumatic pressure in yer water works ter dent porcelain!"

A week later, shaved like a baby and under bright lights the surgeon were unleashed ter do his cutty thing - too late for key hole finesse, instead slicing the Belgo Geordie abdomen from side to side, peeling back the muscle and lard an' drillin' through the walls in the bladder to attack the prostate with all the gusto of  Swiss mountaineer let loose with an ice axe on a vertical granite wall. An then stitchin' me oop with all the flair of an Auntie embroidering a hankie. Eeee, he were right proud of his needlework (great big bloody staples tha coudda been used ter hold the Gothenburg bible together) and the smiley face scar he left...me I were too afraid to look at it in case it burst open scattering smarties, five cent pieces and kapok stuffing everywhere.

To be fair, at the time of the operation I knew nowt that could pass fer a sensible idea being tree panned by lungfuls of anaesthetic. Me last memory before goin' oonder were the surgeon (old school) grinning like a loon surrounded by a school photo of more fifteen ploos (but not by Mooch!) year old boys and girls all gowned and masked up with titles such as 'almost consultant' (aye she were back fer round two), 'anaesthetist', 'registrar', 'theatre nurse' and 'Dr Death'. The last one (at least 4003) only hung about on the off chance a slip of a scalpel, or an eruption of me ticker would require their specialist intervention.

Anyhow waking in recovery what seemed like thirty seconds later when it were over three hours and baffling. Me brain was like a hive of oopset bees. Me recall were of endless swirls of questions, all deep and meaningful and that sense of yer life passing before yer! Soom parade it were! Aye, it were worrying the things that the waste bin of me mind emptied out inta thought.  A surrealist kaleidoscope of rapidly changing bits and pieces of thought process which made me think it were time ter trim parts of the grey matter before I turned into an overwrought blancmange. And there in the middle of some me more out there hallucinations were me surgeon tellin' me it had all gone very well, and I'd hardly bled- so there were no need to draw on the blood supply, And they hadn't found owt they didn' expect, although it hadn't helped that I insisted (patient's rights) being operated on while holding firmly onto ceiling mounts and lights while asking fer me mammy to be present. They distracted me by saying Big Al was in recovery waiting ter sign me gown. Were he heck! The choice between flying ta Sydney to hold the Belgo Geordie mitt or playin a round of golf...weel, nae contest!

He didna remove me flab!

Then returning to general urological (watta works and general plumbing) ward fer proper rest and recovery (oxymoron for falling inta seven pits of Dante's inferno without clean kaks) with enough droogs to bring a bull elephant ter its knees. Me I was poleaxed beyond sensible. Then in next bed separated by a thin public health service curtain were Sid and Nancy - boot more narcissistic than punk. Sid had a swollen ball. Nay hallucination! It were loves young dream on an interrupted road trip ter coostard. Two demanding chits with enough attitude ter sink a dreadnought and who communicated at distance of six inches by social media. The busy tap of sticky fingers as dumb phones chirruped and tablets (not the ones that should have been inserted oop their rear ends ter clear the blockage of shite they were talkin') signalling incoming messages. She made a hum of agreement to each of his trite platitudes sound like she was sucking the lolly wrapper offa sweetie. He droned on like me physics teacher from school making him sound forty and her fifteen.  But lookey fer me I had the calming influence of Mrs Belgo Geordie at me bedside. "Eee, are yer allreet pet? Yer yammerin like a bairn thats swallowed his marbles." Boot stroking me forehead then tappin' "Blaydon Races" with two knuckles against me fevered skull - it were right soothing. Yer should a seen me gannin'! Boot it were not Scotswood Road, it were an hospital full of sick folk. I were right glad when they moved me ter another room where all four of us could moan in peace and get on with serious business of recovery and finding oot where our waterworks were at. Boot, like, when I were being wheeled outta room it were social workers, police and a parking warden cooming ter deal with Master swollen ball and his junior missus.  Me, I take me cap off ter what staff in yer public hospitals have ter deal with and do so in good grace.

Aye the nurses were grand! All except one mooch older night shift nurse who thought she were special boot she were joost unkind and ignorant, I were reliant on nurses emptying me catheter bag every two hours as they were poomping the North Sea through me bladder to clear the blood clots. If the bag filled to burstin' then there were back flow and yer felt like yer needed ter pee, boot there were a great big tube doing that fer yer and it weren't. So yer try and pass the tube. Aye, I know girls nowt like pooshin' oot a bairn! Boot, I'm joost a man ok! Ringing call bell when the iron nurse were on were like summonsing Sunday school teacher ter ask if Jesus farted and if he did, did it smell of Cod like? The rest of the crew were grand and there were mooch crack aboot the poor work conditions and attack on penalty rates. In my view we don't pay them enough fer what they do. There were also in the first light of dawn the creak of leathern wings as the Dracula trolley made its appearance to draw a pint of blood - "Oooh, what nice big juicy veins you've got." I diddna win owt fer suggesting putting tap on end of cannula and pulling a pint as and when needed. And the regular being shaken awake ter do 'general obs'. Pulse, temperature and blood pressure - all delivered by squealing trolley and pressure sleeve with the squeeze offa man on steroids lifting weights. Aye sleep is a distant, rarely visited in the night hours, country in a busy hospital.

The first coop a coffee in weeks

Then there were the delight of the morning round. Anywhere between 7and 11am. Having fun poked at yer by a moving tide of doctors. Aye usual culprits. Including new consultant who were looking younger by the day and the leader of the pack. The surgeon was too busy working his way surgically through Sydney's ageing population ter do more than a once in a blue moon bedside visit. He gave orders from afar, like "if he bleeds too mooch from moving about, tie him ter bed...I'll not have him spoiling me needlework!" Aye and yer were a hero on the urology ward if yer could fart. Some nights it were like a colliery band practicing scales. Aye an Ms Consultant tellin' oos if I passed a bit a wind, I could have a bowl of coostard. Nah contest! Boot it were. Took me a day to let out a miserable squeak, like a mouse being strangled. Boot the coostard were the stoof of legend! Bright yellow and standin' oop on plate by itself.

Now Mrs Belgo Geordie doost not like hospitals, never has. Doorty places full of sick folk. She has X-ray vision fer spotting single germs afloat in atmosphere, so yon hospitals send her off deep end. Boot behind every great man, tied by tubes ter a hospital bed, is a better woman and Mrs Belgo Geordie put her man first by turning up everyday, bringing in steamed cod, mushy peas and tayties on demand. Without her I wood ha' been a sad sack of Geordie misery! Like when Pardew were manager or the days of Dennis Wise... And it were down ter her I had me first decent coffee in weeks brewed in King Street. Before that one of noorses kindly brought me one from hospital cafe. Aye, it were wrong calling that watery brown stuff coffee! Sick folk and all. Be kind! Deprived as I were, ah could not drink that one, Its why private businesses and pooblic needs don't meet. Think what would happen if they decided it were better taking care of folk rather than emptying their pockets! Aye Mrs Belgo Geordie bought in an endless supply of Chinese doomplings with seaweed salads, peppermint tea; stoof thar makes yer appetite want yer ter recover.

It brought a mote of North Sea watta ter me eyes tha soo many Belgo Geordie friends and colleagues could be bothered to make the trip ter an inner city hospital to lift me spirits. Aye, and those who rang me saying "Howay lad, nay problems?" Before launching inta union business. Aye joost because I were laid oot in bed didn't mean I wasn't still workplace delegate. That were not so bad giving the grey matter a stretch, as nowt prepares yer fer how boring being in hospital is. Yer don't sleep mooch, yer can't read when lights go oot. I don't watch television and everywhere yer go, yer take bags of saline, catheter bags, tubes and wearing next to nowt. Aye, lookey I'm a Geordie and having no kit on is nae bother! Then there is thems with high heels tha likes ter clatter down corridors at two in morning. Collecting signatures fer health insurance, or busy doctoring, or taken wrong turn off King Street on way home. Thinking union strategy were good fer the soul.

Aye, hospital is nae place fer rest and recovery. Every day Belgo pleaded with junior consultant fer early release. Boot it were "when yer stop bleeding inta bag bonny lad. When yer can pee by yerself! Tut, did I say that? Aye, yer have ter pee more than a dribble. Aye, when yer can empty that squishy thing (yon bladder). Keep oop the good wurk! Another twenty four hours and I'll think aboot it." Boot camp fer the awld! I wurked harder than the Toon at training, I weren't going to be left sittin on bench fer game time! Oop and down corridor. Aye pullin' oot yon catheter were the business! Except wee nurse told oos it were like pulling string ter start chain saw. All in one swift bit of wrist action. Only her second try boot she were a master, Aye, catheter-less I still had ter convince the ultrasoond machine that me bladder were emptying. It took some convincing. Three empties in a row and I would have me ticket oot!

It were right grand, following hours of paperwork, finding a doc to sign it off and sitting on me chuff, ter be able ter walk out in ter fresh air. I promised Mrs Belgo Geordie I'd catch a taxi home, boot not before I had a wee walk sniffing oop the petrol fumes of Missenden Road and seeing Newtown sparkling in all its doorty glory. It had been two weeks of endless winter days of sun in Sydney. Every morning Id stood by ward winda clutching everything I got watching sun come oop. Dreaming of sitting oot in garden reading or listening ter burds squackle and creow. Sydney mid-winter an' it were right cold! Boot sun was glorious as wrapped in blanket and with wooly hat keeping me bonce warm, the reality were as good as the day dream had been! There were a few mishaps on road to recovery and a bit more time back in hospital. Boot that's life, play a blinder an' win joost ter go down in next match.

Aye, well noo I'm oot hospital. The surgeon is happy. I pee like a pneumatic pump, so he signed me off. Joost regular blood tests and not wearing tight fitting jocks. Remember marras, it joost takes an experienced finger oop yer bum te check the size, shape and surface of yer prostate. If it helps, think of Big Al puttin' away another goal, against Manc doos it fer me....

Weight loss-boot Id grown tall like

*An implement of torture designed by catholic noorsing sista nuns ta make bad boy bairns behave