So, the bowel screening service – that bulky brown envelope that plops in through every 50+ Scot’s letterbox (and on a three-yearly basis thereafter) – well, yes, that scheme – it’s just possibly caught my old maw in time.
It’s confirmed. After the colonoscopy and the radioactive-arse-fallout and the excruciatingly loud wind that we all laughed at, she’s been diagnosed.
This is the third consecutive year we’ve had a visit from the Big C.
Maybe it’s that frequency – the familiarity – that explains this bizarre ‘business as usual’ approach that we’ve adopted.
Thing is – the auld yin looks well. No weight loss (maybe the one thing she’s not entirely happy about); no pain; no bowel habit ‘change’. And she feels well.
So, all good so far.
Then there’s the very Scottish approach to all things bowel related. This boils down to: shifty embarrassment OR hearty embrace of toilet humour.
We played her this the night before her colonoscopy.
As a fellow Scot, the Big Yin totally nails it (and according to Mum, his is an entirely realistic account….).
So we’ve decided (until she thumps one of us) that the Connolly-approach is the one we’re going with.
This all said, I am fucked off with life to be honest.
It’s the relentless inevitability and powerlessness that ticks me off the most.
Here I am. Here we all are. And there is not a fucking thing we can do.