The “C” Word!

Dollarphotoclub_54992629 (Small)

A few years back Trent was diagnosed with cancer. The Big C. I got a call from himself asking if I could please drive to work and pick him up as he had just gone to the manlet he was urinating blood, also there seemed to be some pains in his side. When I pulled up outside his donger he was crouched over his knees and his face grey. I remember feeling a bit concerned then. I usually ignore most of Trent’s bleating when he is sick. He’s a real winger, lies on the couch like a sloth in his Chelsea pajamas that have to be peeled off him and force him to shower, usually making demands “where’s the remote”? “Can you make me chicken soup” “I got a wedgie” “can you get me some warm socks”. It is with great restraint that I do not bash his brains in with a hammer. But then I remember that when I get the sickness, which is never that I would like to be looked after, which reminds me I need to buy a bell.

So after some tests we discovered he has renal carcinoma. I remember being extremely tense and eating a lot of cheeseburgers. Trent was acting like he just needed to have a tooth pulled, it was very irritating. When the anesthetist rang me to tell me he was ok and survived the Op I bawled like a baby (it was the only time I cried) and then ate another cheeseburger and went to see him. When they wheeled him into his room after recovery he was all groggy and he looked at us all (and we would have all looked frightened rabbits, the lot of us) and then looked at the clock and said “What? Did I miss Neibours”? Like I said, he is a very irritating man.

He had about 40 staples across his stomach and lots of tubes coming out of him, I arrived one morning to Trent sitting up in bed with a strange look in his face, it was a look of smugness mingled with fear – beside him, were two very pretty student nurses removing his staples, drain and catheda. The fear I could understand, I imagine most men want someone who know absolutely what they’re doing down there, however I did advise him quite sternly that should anything move of its own accord it will be ME removing the rest of tubes.

Trent was not so easy to handle while he recovered at home, he had lists of things he needed while he flaked out on the couch: Ice cream, DVD”S, cuddles, a special blanket that wasn’t ‘itchy’, Doritos, more ice cream – I wasn’t allowed to complain about any of the TV shows he wanted to watch but I couldn’t leave the couch beside him either. I think I gained about 5 kilos that week. So far all his scans and tests have come back clean, and these days we don’t even think about it. He can’t play footy anymore or any contact sport so he plays golf and he’s got a bit porky. I don’t mind though, I look at that long bubble gum scar snaked across his torso and it reminds me how close we came to losing him and how very lucky we are, I can put up with his little keg and his winging – I have warned him though, that should he get it again, he’s just going to vet to get the big green needle.


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