Waiting worry for one cancer sufferer

Next week, I'm finally due to go into hospital. It's been a long wait.

It was in the spring of last year that I first went to my GP, concerned about the frequent need to go to the toilet in the night, no matter whether I'd had a drink or not.

Rectal examination, blood tests for PSA (prostate specific antigen), more tests, x-rays, MRI scan and, eventually, in July, a biopsy that confirmed my fears: I had prostate cancer.

It's been a long time to worry. On the one hand, you're advised to present yourself just as soon as you can if you think you have cancer. But then, under the NHS, it takes a very long time to go through all the tests to determine what the extent of the disease might be. And, of course, the concern is that while all this time is passing, the cancer is doing its thing, unchecked.

With cancer of the prostate, there are several treatment options, each of them with its "benefits" and drawbacks. But, of course, making these informed decisions takes time.

I opted for brachytherapy - the implanting of radioactive "seeds" into the prostate gland. It's an innovative treatment recommended for what (they think) is my particular condition. And it's said to have fewer of the unpleasant side effects (impotence/incontinence) associated with either radical prostectomy (removal of the entire gland) or radio and chemotherapy.

It was November before an appointment could be arranged with the consultant oncologist at the teaching hospital in Leeds where they perform this technique. He was charming: softly spoken and kindly. It just seemed a pity that the circumstances of our meeting couldn't have been a little different. When I left, he gave me a blue folder full of information about the procedure I am to undergo.

The booklet explained that, a few weeks before the operation proper, I was to go in for a general anaesthetic and something called a "volume study". It's a low-tech name for a three-dimensional ultrasound imaging of the prostate gland. And it's those images that determine exactly where the iodine-125 radioactive seeds are to be positioned.

Being ill naturally makes you feel vulnerable, especially when you're short of good sleep. Unfortunately, when it's cancer, it's not uncommon to feel unaccountably ashamed as well. "Stricken" is the word that's sometimes used. During these past months, there's really been no time during the day that the situation hasn't been on my mind, but I've tried to keep it to the back. It's not denial, not at all, just a way of trying to cope.

It's now nearly a year since I had those first tests. Friends say, "Blimey, it's been a long time." I know it's been a long time. The same friends, even friends who are GPs, repeatedly say: "You have to make a fuss; it's the only way to get things done." But I can't - making a fuss would only push someone else down the queue.

Anyway, I've been waiting since November for the word and now, on 2 April, I'm due to go into hospital for the volume study. I'm to go to Leeds, 120 miles away, to have part one of the operation. I've not been in hospital since I had my tonsils out as a child, and yes, of course, I'm a little afraid.

Meanwhile, these past four months, I've been taking a course of hormone therapy pills. They are supposed to block off the testosterone that feeds the tumour in the prostate. They may be working: certainly, as the accompanying leaflet suggests they might, my breasts have become tender and hard. And, emotionally, I feel like a premenstrual woman much of the time: my mood swings are more pronounced than usual, the euphoria of one moment followed by gloom and melancholy the next.

Last week, just a few weeks before I am due to go into hospital, a second-class letter arrived. It had taken five days to get to me and it said that the radiologist was going to be away on the day of my appointment, and that my admission had therefore been put back two days.

Two days in the whole scheme of things probably won't make much difference (I hope). But I couldn't help thinking: why didn't someone pick up the phone to tell me this, or e-mail me? Or at least put a first-class stamp on the letter?

All the travel and other arrangements I've made with my son these past few days (the anaesthetic means I can't drive for 24 hours) have now been rendered redundant. And the frustrating thing is, even as we were making these arrangements, the letter telling me of the postponement had been written and was making its slow progress across the country.

And so, 4 April it is, then. I hope so ...

? David Armstrong's latest novel, Small Vices, is published by Allison and Busby at £17.99.

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