The Judgement of Athena

So was I well, or was I not? And how would my Christmas consultation turn out?

The answers were 'yes and no' and 'not as expected' respectively. Even Greek goddesses need some time to make their minds up. As you see from the picture, she is rather 'on the one hand, on the other hand'.

The latest scans had confirmed the reduction in the main tumours but identified some abnormal activity as well, which could indicate a resurgence in the lymphoma or some unrelated infection - or both. Whatever the cause, a blood test on the morning of the consultation set alarm bells ringing because a protein called CRP, which is an indicator of inflammation or infection, had risen to a level which caused the White Coats to lose their usual sang froid and disappear for an urgent consultation with each other, a sign that things could be complicated. Curious about the cause of the excitement I asked how high the level was, and was told it measured 296. I then asked what level counted as normal. 'Five' they said.

That news did indeed seem to justify the consulting room equivalent of flashing blue lights and sirens, but they were rather confused by the fact that I did not feel desperately unwell. I thought that perhaps we should sit down over a nice cup of tea and have a calm discussion about what to do next. Perhaps the analysis was wrong and we were dealing with a false reading. I was happy to let them have a bit more spare blood to check the results. No, they said, it can't be wrong enough to make a difference. We think it might be best to keep you in. They disappeared for another internal conference before making a final decision. I had come in expecting to have a chat and go home to get ready for Christmas, but could feel my chances of seasonal indulgence slipping away.

The judgement from Olympus was passed as I had feared. They wanted to give me some powerful antibiotics which could only be delivered intravenously and also keep me under close observation to make sure I did not develop sepsis. That meant a stay in hospital of indeterminate length until that CRP number came down, and it had a long way to go. There were no beds at the Marsden, but they had found something at the Chelsea and Westminster, which is just down the road. This was all a bit out of the blue, but clearly the only wise course of action.

And so it came to pass that as there was no room at the inn I was moved on to the nearest place with a spare bed, not on the back of a donkey, but in an ambulance with real flashing lights, and in the care of two burly young lady paramedics in dapper green uniforms. When the NHS moves patients around, they don't do it by halves. I thought the siren was a bit over the top, but the girls clearly relished belting down the Fulham Road and watching all the traffic flee from their path. It was one of the perks of the job. The journey took all of five minutes, but was quite exhilarating.

The exhilaration proved to be fleeting. On arrival, I was shown to a ward, put on a bed and hooked up for what turned out to be ten days of measuring blood pressure, inserting cannulas, and dealing with IV machines that bleeped when they got their tubes in a twist. The worst things were some stroppy neighbours on the ward who loudly advertised the fact that they didn't want to be there, and the food. The best things were a Christmas dinner brought in from home in a special operation requiring great logistical effort, and a series of visitors who came not only from the east, but from the west, north and south as well, guided by Google maps rather than a star. Some came bearing gifts and all brought good cheer.

Daily highlights were the doctors' rounds with reports on the CRP level. I awaited these eagerly as they were the key to getting me home. The level went from 296 to 245, to 232 to 192, and then got stuck at about 180. I was still coughing a lot and was still short of breath, so they gave me some bursts of oxygen. Then someone had the idea of doing an x-ray which revealed that my right lung had filled up with fluid again. Without further ado they decided to drain it once more and removed over two litres, which explained a lot. After that the CRP went down to 148 and then plummeted, and I started to feel better. When it reached 48, they let me go. At the last count, it was 11.

However, the cause of the CRP drama was still unclear, so the next move was to carry out a bronchoscopy and take a biopsy. That meant going back again on New Year's eve, but it was worth it because at the next consultation a week later they confirmed that they had a new suspect. The antibiotics had cleaned up any bacteriological infections but from the biopsy they had detected another infection called PCP, a form of pneumonia which is fungal in origin and can be treated with a course of tablets, which I am currently munching on as prescribed.

The biopsy showed no positive evidence of a resurgence in the lymphoma. However, that does not mean it is gone for sure. We don't want to fall for a false oracle. So I'm booked in for another PET scan at the end of February.

Ultimate judgment is deferred again.