Traces of blood-stained urine were the first alarming and definitely ominous signs. The mandatory visit to Eminent Urologist (EU) followed - and then mayhem. The mayhem that comes with what are delicately referred to by the medical profession as "procedures".
These ghastly and invasive tests included a number of cystoscopies (best to look in your dictionary if you don't know what they are); Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) scans and countless X-rays. At least the cystoscopies were performed under general anaesthetic: the MRI scans were done while totally conscious, probably the nearest possible experience you can have next to being in space. Your body is gently inserted into a metal (I presume) tube: you are instructed to lie absolutely still and then a sound akin to that of a pneumatic drill assaults you from all sides as sections of your body, from head to toe, are imaged. If you move or - as I did - cough involuntarily - you could face up to an additional 15 to 20 minutes drilling. And this was only the diagnostic phase which took something like two weeks to complete.
Then it was back to EU again and an entirely frank and direct discussion of what ailed me: cancer of the bladder.
In delivering his diagnosis EU was clear and direct about the seriousness of the situation but did declare that I had "been caught in time". Further emphasis was put on the good news when he added that neither radiation nor chemotherapy would be necessary. However, as well as emphatically recommending surgery he also offered a "wait and see" option consisting of monthly monitoring, more dreaded "procedures" and a mentally punishing waiting period. Could I cope with this? I had a couple of weeks to think about it.
That was probably the most grim time of my 50 years: the vacillating between having surgery or not having surgery. Wagons of family, friends and colleagues circled. A second opinion was the answer. (EU had pretty much told me that I should consult - for peace of mind if nothing else - another urologist.) And the other urologist's opinion was pretty much as conclusive as the first's. Should I seek advice in the US? I did but a phone call to a New York friend, and for good measure, to another in Philadelphia - both medics - told me what I pretty much knew: some of the best diagnosticians and surgeons in the world are Irish.
In the end, surgery - of the radical type - seemed the best option. It would include removal of my bladder and consequent re-routing of the urinary function, along with removal of other fairly fundamental organs, including prostate and lymph glands and maybe - for all I knew - other bits as well. All potential sites in which ghoulish secondaries could at a future time find a comfortable home to invade.
Meanwhile the storm clouds were gathering. Mean storm clouds which grouped over my head and invaded within 15 seconds of waking up each morning. And stubbornly refused to go away - no matter how positive the thinking. On more than one occasion I was unable to speak to either family or friends. And if I was, it was in restrained, muted tones at variance with the normal garrulousness. Almost catatonic, particularly when admitted to hospital for pre-surgical "procedures"; just glazed and sometimes uncomprehending as the talk revolved around where the urostomy pouch would be and as the spot was - literally - marked with a large "X". Next came the fasting and the drinking, within one hour, of I think a gallon of a liquid which tasted just like Jeyes Fluid. The purpose of this amount of imbibing is, in a family newspaper, best left to the imagination. And its effects.
I don't remember being taken to the operating theatre or having light-hearted banter with nurses, the anaesthetist or EU as I was heavily sedated - surely the only humane way to face arc lights and, for all I knew, circular saws. Neither, in common with the majority, do I remember the first day after surgery. Perhaps I do remember parts of day two - the day (probably) on which I was hauled out of bed, assorted appendages clicking, hissing and tick-tocking for maybe 20 gingerly taken steps along the corridor and back again to the embracing arms of Morpheus.
Small step as it may seem, discharge from hospital some 11 or 12 days later felt a gigantic one at the time, not to mention the faltering step into the convalescent home where I was taken by a decidedly over-enthusiastic friend. Over-enthusiastic for my sake, I might add.
Won't you be grand here, able to come and go at your own pace, have visitors when you like was the logic. But what might have been right for some was wrong for this patient at least. A "flit" ensued after 36 hours and, in the words of Isaiah, "peaceful homes, safe houses and quiet dwellings". Home - even if I did initially have trouble making tea - was the best option for me.
Of course there were problems with the wretched new plumbing arrangements. Occasionally there still are. But these are sorted out when they occur by yet another eminent person. And believe me, an eminent, patient, considerate, understanding individual is required when it comes to dealing with plumbing problems and the potential for disastrously embarrassing consequences if something goes wrong.
And yes, of course, the pall of gloom and doom does descend every now and then. And EU keeps on telling me that I am much better than I think I am. But here I still know best.
I know exactly how I feel sometimes - and that's pretty grim. And to be expected. To see it coming is the trick and be pro-active about dispelling the cumulus clouds. A further, and quite ludicrous drawback, is the propensity to analyse each ache, pain, moan and groan and agonise over whether or not it's a manifestation of it again.
Obviously having a sense of humour helps - most of the time. And you do need a sense of humour when you find that you go around with your trouser zip undone on more occasions than you'd care to think about because the doing-what-comes-naturally procedures these days are quite different and one simply forgets what was the imperative of a lifetime.
A kind and humorous friend tells me that the zip isn't my real problem these days at all: it's finding shoes and gloves to match the bag.