We were called in to see one of the surgeons in the specialist unit for liver and pancreatic surgery at the Mater Hospital in Belfast. He sat at a desk with a large monitor; beside him was a nurse in blue uniform. The surgeon turned the screen towards us and called up the MRI of my liver. As he scrolled through the scan, a small shadow appeared near the lower edge of the liver. ‘That’s it’, he said, pointing at the screen with his pen.
Next he asked to examine me. I took off my shirt and lay on the couch. He perused the long scar down the centre of my torso, which had come from my first cancer operation in 2011 and was again employed for the operation last December, and shook his head. ‘I’ll need to make a fresh incision,’ he said. Using his finger like a scalpel he drew a line across my belly that followed the edge of my ribs on the right side. He paused at the bottom of my ribs and prodded my right side with his finger. ‘That’s where the tumour is,’ he said. ‘But I’ve not felt any pain there,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t,’ he replied, ‘it’s too small at present.’ I nodded and gave thanks to the radiologist who had noticed that small shadow and alerted my doctors to the problem. The tumour would have been so easy to miss.
Back at the desk the nurse produced a one page colour diagram of the liver and pancreas. The surgeon inked the tumour in the diagram; it was near the lower tip of the liver. ‘It’s a reasonably straightforward procedure,’ he said, ‘I’ll remove the tip of your liver.’ He took his pen and drew a line across the diagram above the black dot. ‘I’ll need to leave a drain in for a few days,’ he said, ‘sometimes bile accumulates and that can lead to infection.’ I nodded, noticing that the nurse was writing notes below the diagram. ‘The liver is very resilient,’ he said, ‘what I’m going to remove should grow back in three months.’ T gripped my hand. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘’you’re making it very clear.’ The nurse smiled at us.
‘I’ve got a slot in theatre available on Wednesday afternoon,’ he said, ‘do you want it?’ I gasped; I wasn’t expecting anything to happen so soon. He looked at me quizzically. ‘I’ll take it,’ I said, my heart racing. ‘The sooner the better,’ said T, squeezing my hand
‘You’ll need to be admitted tomorrow afternoon,’ said the nurse, ‘for your pre-op.’ ‘Okay,’ I said, with a sharp exhale. The nurse took the one page diagram and wrote down the ward and phone number, ‘they will ring you to make arrangements for your admission.’ Then she handed us the page with the liver diagram, it had a label with my name and a barcode at the top. As we left the consulting room she handed me a document titled ‘Patient Information for Consent’ which listed all the risks associated with the surgery I was going to have. The first page included the names of each of the surgeons, she pointed out her name, phone number and email at the bottom of the page.
‘I’ve now been in each of the hospitals of the Belfast Trust,’ I said, ‘and this is the best patient information I’ve seen.’ She smiled, thanked us and returned to the consulting room. T and I paused in the corridor. The green walls and fluorescent lights began to whirl around me. ‘You alright?’ said T, clasping my arm. ‘It’s all happening so fast,’ I said. ‘You’re bound to be feeling the shock,’ said T, holding me tighter. ‘Thank you,’ I said, steadying. ‘The good thing is that it will all be over quicker,’ she said, and hugged me.
Level 3, McAuley Building
Admission 30th August for Surgery on 31st August.