by huw williams » Tue Oct 02, 2007 5:23 pm
WARNING - This tale contains narrative of body horror unimaginable outside of early David Cronnenberg films - DO NOT READ IF EASILY NAUSEATED!
Seven years ago I was diagnosed as having a sebaceous cyst on the middle of my back. Though these things look unsightly – something like half a golf ball buried under the skin - they are perfectly benign for the most part, painless and not really very important at all. “It’s not a problem as long as it’s not a problem,†said the doc at the time “just keep an eye on it and come back if there’s any trouble. I’m not going to risk taking it out because it’s right over your spine and you never know, one slip with a rusty scalpel…â€
There never was any problem and I almost forgot it was there.
Then six weeks ago I became aware that it had grown significantly and now more resembled half a tennis ball under the skin. Still no pain but I decided I’d get it checked out at the soonest possible opportunity.
In France last week everything went pear shaped – literally. It grew to the size and shape of half a pear, turned bright red and started to hurt like the devil was sitting on my shoulders taking huge bites out of my spine. This wasn’t good – especially as we were riding up some of the biggest climbs in Europe. Every time I put a tight fitting base layer on, the pain increased to the point of nausea. Day by day it got worse and on the final day’s blast up the Croix de Fer I was fully aware that the sickness I was experiencing at the top was only partly due to the effort on the climb.
Surviving the flight home I went straight to A & E in the evening where they immediately arranged for me to see a specialist, today (tuesday) . In the meantime the cyst had started randomly erupting, leaving a greasy, white gel-type substance on the inside of my shirts. My cat Salem, who normally sleeps on my back at nights (don’t ask), was banished to his basket with a non-comprehending long face.
Disrobing for the specialist he immediately exclaimed “My god look at that†which didn’t fill me with confidence, “I can’t it’s behind me†I replied. “I’d better get the gloves on and have a poke around in there,†he said. Next thing I know I’m face down on the couch hearing the dreaded double ‘fnap’ of the Marigolds going on. “This is going to hurt,†says old sawbones “it’s already hurting†I say “how much worse can it get?†A lot actually – it felt like somebody trying to extract my backbone and pelvis through a three-inch hole in my flesh. “Haven’t you people heard of anaesthetic?†I cried trying to ease the pain with a little light humour. “Oh I think there’s half a bottle round here somewhere, but we’ll be done in a few minutes†came the physician’s discomfiting reply.
After what seemed like several hours of laceration and teeth-loosening pain later, the doc’s gloved hands appear next to my sweat-soaked face and he’s holding a large handful of what looks (and nauseatingly smells) like solidified cottage cheese.
“There’s your problem†he says, explaining that this calcareous lump of poison is in fact the cyst which has been trying to eject itself from my back for the past few weeks “You’re lucky†he says “we don’t have to operate now, it’s come out naturally.â€
“Listen Findlay†I sneeringly retorted as I reached for his throat “you might call that natural but it was positively caesarean as far as I’m concerned.†But suddenly I realised that the intense pain of the past several days was gone and I calmed down somewhat.
Now, instead of a lump, I’ve got a three inch long, half inch deep divot where the cyst used to be in my back which the nurses have to re-pack with some kind of tissue-substitute each of the next few days – that and a trolley load of antibiotics to stop the whole lot getting infected.
Fair play to the NHS though, 48 hours after walking in to the docs in unimaginable pain I’d been sorted out at little more than the cost of a prescription (£13). No enforced time off the bike and no days off work, so god bless Clement Atlee I say.