Depancreafication
One of the hardest things to handle is when you keep getting pieces of news that are neither good nor bad, yet somehow manage to be both at exactly the same time.
9 June 2025
The day arrives. The phone call. The big reveal. Is it cancer? Is it not? The answer…? Indeterminate. The histology of the samples is benign, but the entire multidisciplinary team (MDT) isn’t convinced. I’ve got so many high-risk stigmata I may as well have a target painted on my back. Even if my rather unwelcome friend is benign, there’s every chance it won’t stay that way.
So, the offer is made for a total pancreatectomy with splenectomy. I willingly accept the risk of dying in exchange for evicting my pancreas (along with my gallbladder, spleen, duodenum, and a bit of my stomach), in the hope that I can get a little bit more time.
It is, however, the call where I realised how human my surgeon is. When they were about to announce my biopsy result they managed to briefly place me on hold, with awful classical hold music and everything. You can tell they were a bit flustered once they managed to unhold the call, but I had to chuckle. It was, to be honest, the perfect way to do it. I do hope they hold a scalpel with more accuracy than they can use a phone though.
He tells me that I’ll get a call from the CNS in the next week or so to discuss arrangements and prepare me some more before a surgery date.
Time is then well spent with a friend, discussing the outcome of the call whilst I have my Shrek slippers on (I mean, if you’re going to give bad, good, or unknown news, you’ve got to be suitably attired) with a soundtrack of Now That’s What I Call Music! 51, and with more carbs and cake ultimately being eaten than is strictly necessary. Actually again this is nonsense, all cake is necessary.
10 June 2025
The phone rings from an unknown number, just as I’m leaving a local coffee shop. Fully expecting this to be the CNS, I answer.
“Hello, this is the admissions team from the Royal Free Hospital, I’d like to arrange your surgery with you. We’ve got you down for an operation on the 17th of June,” and my brain and world went silent. I knew that call was coming, but I didn’t expect it quite so soon. I thought I might have had a couple more weeks to prepare for life as a former pancreas owner. Instead, I was just given a week.
That, then, is the story, minus a tonne of other “oh ffs” moments, that leads us to the upcoming divorce from a significant chunk of my insides.