Two Old Fools in Turmoil

by Victoria Twead

  “Now, Mr Twead…”

  “Please call me Joe.”

  “Thank you, Joe. would you mind if Beth here sits in with us? She is training to be a prostate nurse.”

  “Not at all.” Joe smiled at Beth who was young enough to be our granddaughter.

  “Right, Joe, how familiar are you with the prostate?”

  “Er, not very, though I did Google it.”

  “That’s an excellent start, it’ll make our job easier. What did you find out?”

  “Um…”

  Joe hesitated, a little unwilling to regurgitate the rather intimate facts that he had gleaned about the prostate in front of the two ladies.

  “It’s a gland about the size of a walnut,” he offered.

  “Quite right!” approved Nurse Debbie. “The prostate produces prostate fluid, part of the seminal fluid that nourishes and transports sperm. It sits below the bladder, near the rectum.”

  “Yes,” said Joe, nodding.

  “Sometimes abnormal cells develop in the prostate,” continued Nurse Debbie. “These cells can multiply uncontrollably and spread around the body.”

  Joe listened carefully, trying not to look alarmed.

  “But in most cases, prostate cancer is slow-growing and, if treated in time, will not be allowed to spread or become life-threatening.”

  “So what will my treatment be?”

  “Your precise treatment depends on an MRI scan.”

  “I’ve heard of an MRI,” Joe said.

  “Beth, tell Joe what MRI stands for.”

  “Magnetic Resonance Imaging,” said young Beth smoothly. “It provides us with a clear picture of the internal organs.”

  “Exactly. The MRI should reveal how much of your prostate has been affected. You will also be sent for a CAT scan of the surrounding bones just in case the cancer has already spread to them.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Och, it’s Computerised Axial Tomography but we need not concern ourselves with that. Basically it’s the same as the MRI but uses X-rays.”

  “Oh.”

  “Normally, the treatment begins with hormone injections which are administered every three months.”

  “Hormone injections?”

  “Yes. I know my gentlemen clients find that strange, but the reason is very simple. Testosterone is the main carrier of the disease, and the hormone treatment will reduce your body’s supply of testosterone.”

  “Really?”

  “Och, aye.”

  “Will I grow breasts?”

  “In unusual cases, some gentlemen may notice a small increase in breast tissue.”

  Joe looked horrified, and another question sprang into his mind.

  “Um, does the reduction in testosterone affect one’s, er, you know...”

  Young Beth stared out of the window, sparing Joe’s embarrassment.

  “Intimate relations? I’m afraid it might, Joe. But we can suggest aids to help you through it.”

  “Aids?” Joe’s mind was doing somersaults.

  “Well...you know...”

  “I’m really sorry, Nurse, but I don’t know.”

  “Well, vacuum pumps for example.”

  “Vacuum pumps? Vacuum pumps? I’m not going to use a blasted vacuum pump! Austen Powers might need one but I most certainly do not!”

  Young Beth giggled. Even Nurse Debbie was smiling.

  “Let’s move on, Mr Twead. These hormone injections can continue forever, if necessary, or for the next two years, depending on how you respond. There is a weekly discussion group here at the hospital. It’s for prostate patients who will describe their own experiences during treatment. They also talk freely about any side effects like a reduced libido. You, of course, are welcome to attend.”

  Joe thanked her, knowing that he was unlikely to take her up on the offer as he was anxious to return to Spain.

  “Do you have any other questions?”

  “I wondered how many patients you look after, Nurse.”

  “Och, I have about six hundred gentlemen patients. Angela, the other prostate nurse, has the same number.”

  “And they all have prostate cancer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good grief! Do many patients die from it?”

  Debbie paused as she considered Joe’s rather crass question. When she looked up she was not smiling.

  “I like to think that my gentlemen are all doing very well.”

  “I understand and I apologise if you think me rude. I just want to know what my chances are.”

  “No apology necessary. Your chances are very good. In fact I would say they are excellent. Most of my gentlemen simply shake off the news of their cancer and get on with their lives. I have to admit though, that a tiny handful can’t handle the news. They become depressed, and are convinced their days are numbered. Gentlemen like these sometimes simply give up. Please don’t be one of them, Joe, because, as I said, your chances are very good.”

  “Not to worry, Nurse, I intend living life to the full! I won’t let this nonsense concern me at all.”

  “Aye, well, I’m pleased to hear that. Now, I’m going to prepare your first injection. You can have the injection in your stomach or in your buttock. You choose.”

  “Buttock please.”

  “Good. Then I will make a note that it is your right buttock. In three months time I will send for you to have another injection in your left buttock. Then three months after that, we’ll swap buttocks again. Here is a booklet that keeps a record of the injections.”

  Debbie pulled Joe’s trousers down to reveal his right buttock and, with Beth observing, injected him. Then she handed him a small white booklet with columns for the dates and comments. The first injection was already recorded, with ‘right buttock’ written neatly in the comments column. Joe looked worried.

  “Debbie, I live in Spain and will have to return for the next injection.”

  “Not to worry,” said Debbie, “I will give you the next injection to take with you to Spain. All you need do is ask the local doctor to administer it. I have quite a few gentlemen who are doing the same thing. I will also give you a letter explaining the injection so you won’t have any trouble at the airport.”

  Joe couldn’t thank her enough for all she had done and for her consideration regarding the subsequent injection.

  “My pleasure,” she said, “but you must have two scans done before you return to Spain. These are vital. They will show how far the cancer has spread.”

  Canadian Custard

  Huevos moles

  This dessert is a great option if you have guests coming because it can be made well in advance and left to chill in the fridge until needed.

  Ingredients (per person)

  3 egg yolks, whisked until creamy

  3 tablespoons of sugar

  3 tablespoons of water

  Choose from the following toppings

  Grated chocolate, white, milk or dark

  Chocolate powder

  Cinnamon

  Hundreds and thousands

  A few raspberries or strawberries

  Method

  Put the water and sugar into a heatproof bowl over a saucepan of water and heat quite vigorously.

  Once a caramel, or syrup is formed, and all the sugar is dissolved, gently add the whisked eggs.

  Keep stirring for about five minutes but turn the heat down to medium/low.

  When it all thickens (couple of minutes) pour into individual containers.

  Chill for at least an hour.

  Sprinkle with your chosen topping.

  19

  A STRESSFUL COUPLE OF WEEKS

  The telephone rang. I was painting, so I carefully climbed down the ladder and reached it just before the automated voice kicked in. I knew it would either be Kurt wanting to talk about the house sale, or Joe phoning from the UK. It was Joe and his familiar voice boomed in my ear.

  “Are you managing okay?”

  “Of course I am! I’
ve been painting like crazy, I dread to think how many gallons of white paint I’ve got through. Kurt phoned, he’s bringing some people to see the house this weekend.”

  “Gosh, already?”

  “Yep, I’ve got so much to do! But never mind the house, what happens next with you?”

  “Nurse Debbie said the specialists would decide which treatment I need. It’ll probably be radiotherapy.”

  “Radiotherapy? Is that like chemotherapy?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “What happens?”

  “They use a powerful X-ray beam to kill the cancerous cells. It’s all quite painless, or so I’m told.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Nurse Debbie said they’d need to prepare me first. She said in the old days, her ‘gentlemen’ would have been castrated!”

  “What?”

  “I know, but she was quick to reassure me that doesn’t happen nowadays. They put gold ‘seeds’ or ‘fiducial markers’ into your prostate. Gold because it doesn’t react with what’s inside your prostate. They’re about the size of a grain of rice. They act as markers for the X-ray beam to be directed accurately on the affected area. The gold will also be easy to spot when scanned and used to line up the beam.”

  “Gosh, I had no idea!”

  “Me neither. Nurse Debbie said I’d get a letter telling me when I’ll have the markers implanted.”

  “How long does the radiotherapy take?”

  “The sessions last for either four-week or eight-week periods. When the specialists have had a look at my MRI and CAT scans, they’ll decide which I should have.”

  “Well, I’m very pleased that you are getting sorted. What about your COPD? How is your breathing?”

  “Not too bad. It’s been drilled into me again how important daily exercise is and to eat properly, so I’m doing my best. I have inhalers, and they help a bit. It’s still pretty cold here though, I can’t wait to come home to Spain. Have you heard any more about your lost luggage?”

  “Nope, not a word, so I phoned Iberia. Honestly, it makes me furious just to talk about it. I phone them every day, and get passed from pillar to post, then have to repeat the whole story again. They say they’ll look into it and phone me back, but they never do. I got so angry about it all, I started Tweeting them. They didn’t like that but what else can I do to get their attention? One person said that I was now entitled to full compensation because twenty-one days has passed and they still haven’t found it.”

  “That’s good!”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it. I’m sure they are trying to fob me off. They say things like they need to see my passport again, or the list of what I’ve lost. They’ve asked for my bank details three times! I’m so sick of it, and I really miss my camera and all my favourite clothes and stuff.”

  The next day was busy. I wasn’t intending to paint the whole stairwell, but the one wall I had already freshened up made the remainder look shabby, so I just carried on. Annoyingly, there was a small, high section that I couldn’t quite reach.

  As luck would have it, Geronimo happened to pass our front door, so I jumped at the opportunity.

  “Geronimo!” I called out of the window, paintbrush in hand. “¿Qué tal?”

  “Malo,” he replied. Bad.

  I wasn’t concerned because this was his stock response.

  “Geronimo, if you are not in a hurry, could you possibly do me a favour? Would you mind painting a little section of wall I can’t reach above the stairs? I’d be so grateful.”

  Geronimo was a man of few words, unless the subject was Real Madrid or football.

  “No hay problema,” he said, taking the paint brush out of my hand. “No problem. Show me.”

  “Thank you!” I walked ahead and pointed up at the section that needed painting. “Can I get you a drink at all?”

  In the past, Geronimo would have happily accepted a beer, or brandy, but now his reply delighted me.

  “Café solo,” he said. Black coffee.

  I went into the kitchen to make the coffee and was just returning with it when somebody knocked on the front door.

  “I’ll just put your coffee down here, Geronimo,” I said, and hurried away to answer the door.

  It was our postlady.

  “Good morning, Valentina, qué tal?”

  “Good, thank you! Marcia said you were at home. I have a letter for you that needs signing for.” She passed me a large brown envelope. “Would you mind signing here, please? And then printing your name. And your NIE number in the box.”

  In Spain every foreign resident was given an NIE, or tax identification number, and by now I knew mine by heart. I signed.

  I suddenly remembered who was behind me in my house, and my sneaky match-making tendencies slipped into overdrive.

  “Would you like to come in for a coffee, Valentina?” I asked casually. “I’ve just made some.”

  “Thank you, but I must go,” she replied, smiling. “Another time, perhaps.”

  Disappointed, I watched her sail off down the street on her yellow moped. I returned to Geronimo but he was nowhere to be seen. The section of wall, however, had been painted and the brush rested neatly on the old newspapers I had provided. The coffee, still steaming, was untouched.

  In the kitchen, the back door hung open. Geronimo must have heard who was at the door and had executed a quick, silent getaway. My plan to throw them together had been foiled.

  “For goodness sake!” I muttered to myself, exasperated.

  I turned my attention to the envelope in my hand. It was stamped with the word Iberia which made my heart race. It could only mean one thing.

  Oh! I thought. I think this may be the compensation cheque…

  I tore it open but my elation was short-lived. Yes, it was a compensation cheque, but the sum was precisely 96.24 euros (approximately £80, or $105 US dollars). This did not even begin to cover the loss of my rather nice Fuji digital camera, my clothes, and the other items in my suitcase.

  Disgusted, I wrote a furious letter of complaint back, returning the cheque.

  “You weren’t tempted to cash the cheque then?” asked Joe when we spoke on the phone that evening.

  “Nope. Why should they get away with it? I’m going to carry on being a nuisance until they give me what they owe me.”

  “Are you ready for the first viewers this weekend?”

  “No, but I will be.”

  It was the Easter long weekend, but I never saw the villagers arriving. This year I didn’t see the village ladies carrying armfuls of flowers to decorate the church. Neither did I hear the church bells ringing to celebrate Easter. One of Marcia’s sons brought me a plate of aromatic rice pudding but, apart from that, I refused to be interrupted from my painting and tidying duties. Marcia’s arroz con leche was delicious, as always, still warm, sprinkled with cinnamon, and scented with lemon and vanilla.

  On Easter Sunday, in the afternoon, the house and garden was ready. I felt they had never looked better. Inside, the house was decluttered, scrubbed and freshly painted, the shutters thrown open to let in the sweet mountain air. Outside, the grapevine was bursting with new leaves, and pink geraniums bloomed in pots.

  The first viewers arrived, escorted by Kurt. A large English family, so large that they arrived in three cars, stampeded past me into the house. I felt quite overwhelmed.

  “I’ll leave you to show them around,” I said to Kurt, who was bringing up the rear. “I think I’ll just stay out of the way.”

  I hid myself away on a shady seat in the garden, away from the main activity. I couldn’t work out who belonged to who, as there were at least three generations, including children of all ages. I couldn’t even begin to imagine them all living in our house. Although I was out of sight, the windows were open and snatches of conversation reached me.

  “Have you seen how thick these walls are?”

  “Nice kitchen, but the dining room only seats eight.”

  “Have you
counted the bedrooms?”

  “Yes, three so far. Not enough.”

  “You can see the sea from the roof terrace.”

  “Mum! The beach is miles away!”

  No, the signs were not good. I didn’t think we’d be getting any offer from this family, and I was right.

  “It’s a lovely house,” said one of the ladies as they were leaving, “but we really need five bedrooms. And we wanted to be able to walk to the beach. I don’t think it will suit us at all.”

  I agreed with her, and wondered whether they had even read the particulars before the viewing.

  When they left, I felt quite exhausted, and deflated. We needed to sell the house. Was there somebody out there who would fall in love with our house and El Hoyo?

  The next day, Monday, brought a surprise. At Easter time, Spanish public holidays begin on Thursday, and Easter Monday is a normal working day. Our phone rang, and a Spanish voice spoke.

  “Señora Twead? This is Iberia calling from Almería airport. We have found your suitcase.”

  “You have? That’s wonderful! Where was it?”

  “I believe it has been to India, but it was found at Heathrow.”

  “Fantastic news! When will you deliver it?”

  “Oh no, señora, you must come to the airport and collect it.”

  “But I was told you would deliver it to my house as soon as it was found!”

  “No, you must come and collect it yourself. Please bring identification and a copy of the Property Irregularity Report, the claim you made at the airport.”

  I was too excited to get the suitcase back to argue. It was late afternoon, so, to avoid the evening rush hour, I waited until the next day to drive the forty minutes to the airport.

  Parking was easy, but collecting the suitcase was harder. I was told to stand in the checking-in queue which, of course, took ages. When I finally reached the front, the hostess held out her hand.

  “Passport, please,” she said, bored.

  “No, I’m not travelling today.”