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The Colon Diaries - Part I of IV

by Steve Graham
It's ironic, I've spent 30 years working in the film business, a good deal of them as a camera man, and I'm lying here staring at a shot of the inside of my own arsehole. 
Granted the camera work was shaky at best, but the image was clear enough, a big angry, gristly lump of what? I looked at the doctor, “What is that?” He paused then said, “It’s a tumor…” I was dumbstruck, then I replied, “benign?” He shook his head, “No it’s cancer…” ‘Cancer’, that word that puts the fear of God into any soul. The high, the mighty, the humble, the weak, cancer has no remorse, no moral conduct, no sense of fair play. So here I was, with cancer, my enemy. Not many people get to look their enemy in the eye, to actually see their tumor, but here I was, face to face with my destiny and I'm sure it looked straight back at me.
Where did it all start? Believe it or not, Hollywood, LA LA land, the home of glistening sun kissed boulevards. Land of the stars, the world of make believe. But I was staring down a toilet, not a metaphoric toilet, a real one, in the Beverly Terrace Hotel, looking at my own shit. I don't normally analyze my shit (hey I’m no critic) but today it didn't look right, there were spots of blood and strands of stringy, raw looking, fleshy bits, like a half cooked burger. It may seem like too much detail, but I'm just telling you all what to look for.
But I'm the big man, indestructible, Captain Scarlet, and yes I like to cane it, drink, drugs the lot! So what did I do? Nothing! I just flushed it away with a shrug, too much booze, a big night on the gear. All just an occupational hazard. So I confined my flawed turd to rest in the Hollywood Hills (where it currently has an agent and is waiting for it's big break, let's face it, a piece of shit won't be alone out there) and I headed home.
But it didn't stop there, off and on for the next 10 months the signs got worse, and basic pooing turned into a ten times a day run to produce rabbit droppings and a blood stained tissue. My lovely girlfriend was loosing patience, so when my show was out doing hers, finally she could take it no more.
So I ended up outside Paddington A&E thinking they're going to laugh me off. This is a proper hospital, full of sick people. But I was fine! I felt fine! I looked fine! Everyone kept telling me how great I looked!
Then I'm in and after 10 minutes of filling in forms I'm lying on a hospital bed in a small anti room. They take blood, they take my blood pressure, then more blood, more blood pressure, how can I have good blood pressure if you keep nicking my blood? Then come the succession of doctors. Not one but four, one after the other and all female. The same routine, the same patter and the same outcome, "now I know you've told the last doctor your symptoms but can you go through it again with me?" Off I go with my list of symptoms and the brief meeting ends with the same outcome, "can I have a look?" Then comes the sound of the slapping rubber glove and the obligatory finger up my arse. Once is unfortunate, but being analy traumatized by a succession of four female doctors, just seems excessive. I swear they were queuing outside the room all wanting a go. The word has spread across the ward; “there's a bloke in room 10 if anyone fancies practicing the anal inspection?”
That over I thought I was home and dry until I was asked to go on ward to see the consultant. He was accompanied by a junior FEMALE doctor - you're getting the picture. After the same routine they had a new toy, "would I mind if they examine me with a hand held endoscope?" Now that all sounds very medical, but the device turned out to be nothing short of a cross between a bike pump and a periscope!" and would I mind if the junior doctor did the procedure, as, “she's never done it before". Now, it's not my idea of the best training ground but hey I'm not going to stand in the way of medical advancement, "be my guest", just like that. Now I've never invited any one into my arse before, certainly not armed with a bike pump. Most people when invited as a guest at least bring a bottle of wine, but I guess that could be worse? Mind you when she got stuck-in it felt like a bottle of wine. I was trying to stifle the cries when the consultant explained to the junior doctor there is a bend at the top of the rectum. Thank god he took control and slid it into some sort of comfortable position.
"We suspect you might have a polyp" he announced. Finally limping out of my first encounter of the turd kind I headed home to wait for the next invasive round; a full-on colonoscopy with an endoscope camera. 
So here I am, staring up my own arse. Who said you couldn't foresee your own end, well I've seen it and it's not a pretty sight, but like all good Generals I've seen the face of my opposition, my enemy, and I'm well up for a fight!
But this was no ordinary fight. How long had it been there? That was the big question. If it was years, there may be more. Now I love the inter-net. You can find out the most obscure things. It’s a mine of useless or useful information, but when you type in ‘Colon Cancer’ believe me, what popped up put the fear of God into me. The trajectory of the spread was the liver, then the lungs, then? Well then, it doesn’t really matter. 
We will be publishing this diary over the next 3 weeksTo be notified join the Source Mag on Facebook now.  
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