Secret Squirrel

by Secret Squirrel

  In the car, my by now rampant guest asked where we could go to complete her satisfaction. Not wishing to press my luck any further, I drove us to a large well-hidden field. We really tested out the car’s suspension to the point where we became really bogged down. As I was on call, and had a couple of incidents going on, it was very likely that I was going to get another call soon, so I had to get out of the situation and soon. I could have called workshops with all of the publicity that would come with the “what was he doing there” speculations. I determined to get out of it myself. The more I revved, the more we slipped into the mud. Then the adrenalin really kicked in. I put my passenger into the driving seat and I pushed on the rear of the vehicle for all I was worth. The inevitable happened and the vehicle shot forward spraying me with mud and I was unrecognisable. There was much relief and laugher and I returned to the previous fire station that we had just visited because it had good vehicle washing facilities. Unfortunately, on arrival at the station, the two fire engines had just returned to the station after a call out and the crews were engaged in washing them. They watched me get out of my car and were shocked when they saw this brown mud-covered figure strut past them heading for the showers inside. Some were open mouthed whilst others were muffling their laughter. Now, firemen are noted for their general piss taking and ability to make smart remarks, however, I was in no mood to receive any comments so as I moved past them I said through clenched teeth: “Not a word.” and they knew that I meant it, so they disappeared to a location where they could exchange their views. I stepped into a shower fully clothed in order to get all of the mud from my clothing. I had nothing to change into, so I dropped off this girl and drove home soaking wet to complete the clean-up job.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Challenging Times

  I received a phone call from some of my ex-College colleagues who had decided to pay me a visit. They had booked a night in a city centre hotel. I drove over to meet them after work. I hung my uniform jacket on the back-seat coat hanger and replaced it with a civilian jacket. We had a few sherbets as I showed them the sites. I did not go mad as I had to drive home to go back on call the next morning. We came across a group of ladies destined for a good night out. It was only 9pm and most of them were already drunk. One of them was particularly attractive and very well dressed. I approached the bar and stood next to her and she was moving about quite a lot as if she could not wait to get onto the dancefloor. Then she turned to speak and it was one of those occasions when the voice does not fit the body. She informed everyone within earshot that, “I’ve had to take me knickers off as they were cheese graters and me piss flaps were hanging oot.” I really don’t know what kind of accent that was but it really made everyone lose interest and this was a good time to bring an end to the evening.

  As I was driving home around midnight, I became aware that I had picked up a tail—a police traffic car—so I was particularly careful not to exceed any speed limits. This car followed me for a considerable distance before switching on his blue beacons just as we were about to cross the A1M flyover. I pulled up and he walked over to my car, had a good look around and spotted my uniform. He was a really arrogant individual obviously looking for a good nick. He said, as he invited me to sit in his car, “I spotted your uniform, so you’re obviously thinking that I should let you off.” “Not at all.” I replied. He then reeled off a list of who’s who of senior police officers and asked if I knew any of them. He then asked me if I had had a drink and I said that I had had a couple of halves, not admitting to the five pints that I consumed. “Well, let’s find out,” he said as he produced a breathalyser. He was a really arrogant individual and he had a prime catch. I then began to really worry about the outcome of a positive reading. I would lose my job and my pension which would be unthinkable. I then wondered if he had made radio contact with his control before stopping me. Had he passed my registration number? I was becoming more and more concerned because if the breath test was positive, I would have to consider throwing him off the bridge. The consequences would be less, provided I did not get caught of course. Could I get away with it? My friend would certainly do it without question. What an awful dilemma. How could I be so stupid to put myself in this situation? I could have put my blue light on and sped away saying that I had had a call. My mind was racing around all of the options.

  Then came the verdict. His arrogance waved the unit in front of his eyes, pondering the reading; this is probably the ‘sweat phase’. The reading was obviously borderline. Then he turns to me and says, “That was just between you and I—” (a likely story) “You have been a lucky lad.” Relieved, I said, “No, you have been the lucky lad.” “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “Let’s just leave it at that.” I said. “But I shall be speaking to your Deputy Chief later today and informing him of your unsavoury manner, so I will say good morning to you Constable.” I thought that I would turn the worry tables onto him. I was so relieved. That was one decision that I did not want to have to make again.

  Soon afterwards came another very important decision that had to be made. My life was a rollercoaster of eating to excess, drinking to excess, womanising to excess and so on. I had now bulked to over nineteen stone. I often wondered, as did many others, if I was actually human or not. Now, everyone gets a bit of constipation sometime in their life, but I never had before and it persisted for a few days. I rarely visited my G.P. other than for a prescription for hay fever remedies. I telephoned for a prescription and mentioned my current bodily change. He said that he would make an appointment to have it checked out; I wished that I had never mentioned it. Anyhow, off I go to the local hospital for a barium meal and scan. You know that I will do anything for a meal and I had never had a barium one before. What a very uncomfortable procedure it was. You drink this pink milk shake the day before and they shove this tube up your arse and begin pumping (by that I mean inflation). At the end of the scan, they warn you that when they pull out the tube, you have to sprint to a nearby loo and to expect the fart of all farts. They were not kidding. I went home and began shitting concrete lumps for the next few days. If I hadn’t been constipated before, then I was now. I heard nothing for weeks and assumed no news was good news and forgot all about it.

  About two months later, I was in my office at about 7:30 in the evening when my phone rings. It was my G.P. which was a huge surprise: “Can you come and see me straight away?” he asked in a very strained nervous voice. “What’s it about?” I asked. “I’ll tell you when you get here,” came the reply. It sounded serious to me and I wondered if it had anything to do with my last test. When I arrived at the surgery, my G.P. was the only person in the building. I went into his consulting room and he said: “I will come straight to the point, at your scan, they found something. For some reason your file has been found in the bottom of a consultant’s in-tray and it has been there for two months. Anyhow, the bad news is that you have a tumour and it’s in a very bad location, next to your liver. It needs to come out straight away.” I was absolutely shocked. The doctor then told me that he would phone the next day to arrange an appointment with a consultant. I went home and pondered my future.

  The next morning, I received a phone call from my G.P. informing me that he had arranged an appointment for two weeks’ time. “Bollocks to that!” I said, “They have made a ball up, having delayed my results. You can tell the consultant to expect me today and I will not accept any excuses.” I called into work to inform control that I would be going off call for a few hours and off I went to the consultant’s office. I did not have to wait long and he squeezed me into his schedule. He apologised for the delay in contacting me and re-affirmed his diagnosis. He also went on to say that I may have had the tumour for some time and that it had probably already spread. I could not believe what was being said to me. “This is not me,” I said, “There is nothing wrong with me. I am over nineteen stone, fit as a lop and I could walk straight through that brick wall. I felt totally invincible. I’l
l have an M.R.I. scan and I’ll pay for it.”

  Within half an hour, I was in this metal tube having an M.R.I. scan. Within less than half an hour I was back in with the consultant discussing his finding. “Well it’s definitely you,” he said. “As I said, it’s in a bad spot and it definitely needs to come out.” I asked what the likely outcome would be. He said that the tumour may have spread and I may end up with a bag. He rated my chances of resuming a normal life as 50/50. I did not like those odds. He said that he would arrange for me to be admitted to hospital, the next morning (Friday) with the operation to take place on Monday morning. I said that I would go away and think about it. The Consultant gave me his telephone number to let him know what I had decided. I went home to discuss the situation with my friends and family.

  I had determined that I did not like the odds. I was feeling extremely good, and besides I had lots of trips and holidays planned. I thought that if the operation was carried out, it may go wrong and I would have a short life expectancy. Therefore, it may be better just to leave well alone and enjoy whatever time was left. I had this overwhelming feeling of disbelief. My family were not helpful, crying and saying that I MUST have the operation. “It’s not you that’s taking the risk,” I said. A very good, really intelligent American friend of mine made the most sense to me. He questioned how the consultant could be so sure: “How does he know it’s spread? But it may do tomorrow.” This struck a chord with my logic and I decided that I would have the operation. The difficulty of making this kind of important life changing decision depends on whether you are a glass ‘half-full’ or ‘half-empty’ type of person; you have to be cold and clinical and listen to expert opinion.

  Having made the decision, I immediately contacted the consultant and asked that he do the operation immediately, otherwise I may change my mind. He told me to attend hospital the next morning at nine o’clock for pre-operative tests. Having made the phone call, I went straight into my work headquarters to see my Chief and make him aware of the situation. I went into my office, cleared it of all personal belongings and pinned a large notice on the wall: “I’LL BE BACK.” The news spread like wildfire and I am sure that nobody thought that I would ever return. The Fire and Rescue Service is an extremely supportive organisation, but I am sure that my Chief and others were secretly delighted.

  The next morning, I was dropped off at the hospital and the tests commenced and all concluded by lunchtime. I had a discussion with the anaesthetist and I was assigned to a colorectal nurse, who was obviously new and totally useless. Her contribution to the situation was to say, “Don’t worry.” “You stupid girl,” I said, “have you any idea what a stupid statement that is? You’re totally useless, now go away and I will come back after this operation and show you how to counsel people.” Next in was the consultant who told me to go away and put my affairs in order and enjoy the weekend and be back at 8am on Monday morning with nothing to eat from lunchtime Sunday. He told me that if all went well, then I should be discharged after 12 days. I was determined to beat that.

  I went home and made out a will. I phoned all of my girlfriends, relatives and friends over the weekend and generally prepared myself mentally as if I was having a fight on Monday morning. Apart from that, I stuffed as many pies and as many pints down my cake hole as I could. My parting words to everyone were very clinical. I was determined not to think of the matter any further until Monday morning.

  On Monday morning I was dropped off at the hospital, stripped down, showered and shaved navel to nuts which I did myself. I went through one or two last minute checks and confirmed that I had nothing to eat since the previous day. I was weighed again and there was absolute disbelief when my weight was recorded. The difference since Friday was unbelievable. I donned one of those back to front nightdresses and was wheeled away for the fight. I made some smart-arse remark to the consultant, which I can’t recall now but it made him laugh. I also pinned lots of instructional messages on adhesive notes all over my personage, again to make him laugh. Good to put him in a good mood as I slipped into sleep.

  I awoke after much hallucination in a bed with an array of tubes. My first thought was that it may be some days before I was allowed to eat, then I began to do a full body check to see if everything was in order. That first day, I had many visitors including my mother who brought me a bag full of steak pies, which was a sort of cruel and unusual punishment to me. The consultant came to see me to say that all had gone well and he should have the results from the pathology lab in about five days. That’s a long time to wait for re-assurance and the consultant would not disclose exactly how much colon he had actually cut out. I had lots of questions and I wanted to know everything and fast. I also had some enquiring phone calls and visitors after visiting hours with innovative excuses.

  I was determined to get out of that place as fast as I could. I was lying there all day watching the routine going on. Dirty, lazy bastards were shitting into bed pans behind bed screens rather than make the effort to get up out of their beds. I watched nurses change dressings on feet and stomachs and then go to serve lunch – all without washing hands or changing neoprene gloves. This display made me even more determined to get the hell out as quickly as I possibly could. A grossly overweight physiotherapist paid me a visit and tried to get me to do sit-ups. I said, “What?! After less than 24 hours since surgery – go away, you stupid woman and don’t come back.” I was not going to disturb my staples that soon for anyone. I did go walkabout, however, complete with tubes on a frame. I got rid of the tubes on the second day which made me more mobile. I had a couple of girlfriends visit me after the official visitors, by arrangement with the staff. We went walkabouts in the hospital, rather than disturb anyone else on the ward. The nursing staff assumed me to be in the dayroom, when, actually, I had nipped outside into a waiting car and had a short visit to my friend’s house. She tested out all of my important bits to confirm that all was in working order. I did the same the next night with another friend – for a second opinion you understand.

  The next day I began to try and eat because the colon had to be functioning again before you could be considered for discharge. I was having difficulty in eating even potato crisps and mashed potato. I persevered and broke all previous records by being discharged on day six. Then began a good few weeks of recovery at home. I had lots of visitors, particularly from work, who were keen to learn whether or not I would return to work. My Chief was praying I would not. Just for him, I returned after three months. I could, in fact, have gone back much earlier. It took four weeks of pestering to receive the report from the pathology laboratory; you can’t move on mentally until you receive this. I had a long conversation with the consultant who carried out my operation and discovered that the probable cause of my problem was due to excessive coffee consumption. I had a coffee machine in my office and I counted up the number of cups that I used to drink in a day. It could have been as many as thirty. This is excessive, I know, but I did not realise that coffee was the number one cause of colon cancer. I resolved to write an article with the consultant’s help to warn everyone about this. He panicked and totally refused to be involved with this venture, saying that we would either get bumped off or be totally discredited by another more eminent expert paid to do it by one of the multi-million-dollar coffee producers, or even the governments of Columbia, Brazil etc. whose economy depended on coffee. I resolved to move on but made the consultant the offer of speaking to anyone finding themselves in a similar predicament to myself and suggested that I begin with the useless colorectal nurse.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Big Change

  When I returned to work, the first thing I did was rip down my McArthur/Terminator sign stating my intentions. I was called to the Chief’s office. Not a welcome back discussion, but a ‘I have to plan for the future, so I am going to move you to another post’ waffle. I was really annoyed and said nothing. I said to myself, “Like fuck you are.” I am looking behind him and I can see
a hole in the wall, the same shape as him, and I am wondering whether or not it would be worth losing my pension to do this. I pondered for a few moments and then said, “No, I’ll keep my pension. Do your worst little man, but you will always have to keep looking over your shoulder. Accidents can and do happen.” I exited and was duly moved to another post, far less demanding. I decided to retire then – but not for at least another twelve months. I retired in as much as I allowed my staff to do as they pleased, as long as the work got done. I attended more meetings and lunches and went on as many holidays as I could. When I did eventually submit my resignation, I received many calls from other officers begging me not to go. They enjoyed me agitating the Chief, being of bombproof disposition.

  My retirement functions had to be planned carefully as to what groups of people attended with one another. Retirement functions tend to let the skeletons out of the cupboard, so I organised three functions. One for senior officers, one for firemen and junior officers, and one general headquarters invitation. No family members or friends were invited.