Archives: Chest

Hi, this is K, Oli’s parents have gone away to Luxembourg for a week so to coincide nicely with that Oli has landed himself back in hospital.  He did the same thing in January when they went to Rome.  If I were them, I’d be a little concerned about booking any more holidays!

Oli has gone in today because his stomach/chest pains haven’t really gone away, they kept him there because he decided to spike a temperature as well, I think I’ve said before that if Oli is going to do something he’ll do it well.  It shouldn’t be a long stay for him, the main aim is to get him re-hydrated (he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything for a few days due to pain), get his temperature down and they’re giving him some anti-biotics as a purely precautionary measure.  Blood cultures should come back in the next day or two and they’ll tell if he’s growing anything but the general opinion is that sleep and fluids should make Oli a happy boy again.

In other littler news, a few of you might like to know that I got accepted to City University yesterday to start a Speech Therapy degree in September, I am ridiculously ecstatic and thought you might like some happy news to temper the hospital news.

I’ll fill in with updates once results have come back from blood tests, etc.

This weekend has been manic and really, really tiring, but wonderful at the same time.

I woke up Saturday with the pains in my chest not abating in the slightest.  I’ve still got a stock of Tramadol which I often take for pain in my scar overnight but haven’t used during the daytime for a good few months now.  I’ve been forced back onto them by the pains in my chest again, which is a real drag as it means I can’t drive when I’m on them.

Still, I downed a couple of Tramadol in the morning when we woke up and then stayed in bed for most of the morning while K did kiddie-prep for the arrival of our two nieces in the afternoon.  A while ago we agreed to have them over for the night, Liv being 3, JJ 11, as their ‘rents had plans.  The plans fell through but we figured we’d have them over anyway as we love spending time with them and Liv especially was so excited about it.

I honestly thought we’d have to cancel when I woke in the morning, such was the pain in my chest I knew I wouldn’t be able to do much to occupy them, but K was adamant she could do it herself if the worst came to the worst.

So they rocked up with their mum and little bro around 3pm, then stayed solo later when they headed off home.  The first thing we did was make some little wooden spoon people, which was great fun, although I didn’t actually get a spoon of my own, since there were only 3.  I was relegated to being Liv’s glue-operator, at her beck and call for blobbing when she needed it.

After dinner, we (well, K and the kids) made some cakes, which they threw in the oven to cook while we got the littl’un ready for bed and read her a story.  Once K had rescued the ever-so-slightly over-cooked cakes from the oven, we sat down and played a board game with JJ, before discovering Liv sitting up in bed unable to sleep.

Eventually, after another story and a bit of a grizzle/cry for her mum, we managed to get her off to sleep and we settled into a game of Scrabble with big sis, which was great fun, even though I lost to the always competitive K by 2 points.

It’s funny when I play board games because I’m really not a competitive person – I’m happy enough to play the game, not really bothered if I win or lose.  But if someone else who’s playing is competitive, it somehow turns me into a competitive monster.  I’m happy enough when everyone is chilled and happy playing a game, but if someone is really competitive, I just really, really want to beat them.  I’ve no idea why or where it comes from, but there you go.

Once we were done with Scrabble, JJ headed off to bed only to find little sis had managed to roll herself into a position with her head on one pillow and her feet on the other side of the bed on her sister’s pillow.  Having gently moved her back to her side, the light of her sister coming to bed woke Liv up and we proceeded into a round of very, very tearful calls for mummy.

Eventually, after a call home and a promise that mummy would come get her if she got some sleep (I hate lying to children, but it was a parentally-sanctioned lie, so I felt slightly better about it), Liv settled down and no sooner had she stopped crying than she passed out into slumber again.  Bushed from the day, K and I weren’t long behind, although my night’s sleep was pretty poor since my brain was tuned in to picking up even the slightest peep coming from the bedroom in case the littl’un woke up again.

As it was, we didn’t hear another peep out of either of them until they came into our room at 7.30 the next morning, pretty respectable as mornings go.  We all settled on the sofa bed in our PJs and watched the Incredibles while K, JJ and I slowly brought ourselves to consciousness and Liv ran around jumping all over us like a mini-loony.

Once we’d breakfasted and got dressed, we iced the cakes for their little bro’s birthday party then played a couple of rounds of Tiddlywinks (what an awesome game!) and made a birthday card, at which point it was about time to head home with them.  We took them back and were greeted by an incredibly happy, smiley little brother, who was delighted to have his sisters home to celebrate his 2nd birthday.  I’m not sure he entirely grasped the concept of a birthday, but he was enjoying it all the same.

We hung around for a couple of hours, playing with some of the new toys, reading some books and saying hey to the other family and friends who turned up throughout the start of the afternoon.  Unfortunately we couldn’t stay day because Nana has a bit of a chest infection, which I obviously need to steer clear of, so we had to split the afternoon in half for us to visit early on and Nana to come along after.

Instead, we headed over to my ‘rents to have a great Sunday roast with my mum’s two brothers, one of whom was over from Luxembourg with his wife, and my cousins.  My mum and her siblings are absolutely priceless entertainment value when they all get together and today was no exception.  It was one of the nicest, most raucous, most fun family lunches I’ve had in a really long time.

By the time we got home around 7 in the evening, K and I were shattered.  We have no idea how parents cope with kids 24/7 since we were completely run into the ground after just 24 hours.  We have a new found respect for our brothers and sisters now, since we clearly showed how weak and rubbish we are.  I’m just glad that, unlike K, I don’t have to go to work tomorrow so I can chill out and not worry about anything.

Today’s been the weirdest day, and my first real experience of “illness” for three or four months.  I’ve had no energy at all, I’ve been in bed most of the day and hardly been able to keep my eyes open.  Added to which, I’ve had some really bad pains in my chest which I can’t figure out the source of – they could be muscular or bruising around my scar, but they don’t feel too drastic or lung-related so I’m not too worried.

It’s really odd being unwell again, though, because I’ve not laid in bed for an entire day since before my op.  I don’t like it at all.  Well, the staying in bed part I can handle, but not when it’s enforced because of not feeling well.  I’m sure it’ll all clear up soon, though.

Around September/October last year we – as a family – decided that we’d grace my Godfather and his family in Ipswich with our presence at Christmas. They did invite us, it must be pointed out, we didn’t just decide we were going to descend on them and then inform them of their newly arranged festive plans. We were all looking forward to it – Mum because it meant she didn’t have to cook, me because getting away anywhere was a bit of a treat at the time, epic as it was to shift all my kit from place to place, K was positively brimming at the prospect of swimming on Christmas day.

We all know how that turned out, of course (or if you’re that much in the dark, check out the blog entry for Tuesday 20 November to get abreast of my detour), much to everyone’s consternation, not least Mum’s as it meant she not only had to cook, but subsequently take me to hospital while hurling my insides up on Boxing Day, lucky lady.

I jest, of course, being as we were all delighted to have the world’s greatest Christmas present thanks to the generosity of one family and their amazing loved one who took the time to sign the ODR. That being said, my lovely “Auntie” Norma has not stopped chiding me since my op for abandoning them over Christmas.

As wonderful a Godson as I am and as much as they berated me, it’s taken me until the end of March to find the time to take out and go to see them all. Mostly, that’s down to the hospital visits being way too regular to get over to Ipswich and back across to Harefield and enjoy anything of a stay there. In the end, once the docs decided they were sick of the sight of me and told me to go away, I managed to phone Norma and let her know we would be imposing ourselves for the week this week.

Best laid plans and all that, the week turned into 3 days after I planned a CBT on the Monday, which was (as you may have read) snowed off and switched to Friday, meaning we’d need to return from the East on Thursday night for me to make the 8.30am start.

Still, 3 days is better than nothing at all and it was a wonderful opportunity not only to see them all for the first time post-op, but also to get some good gym work done in their fantastically appointed gym and swimming pool, which has recently been complimented with a gob-smacking spa complex to boot.

So after a mad morning of rushing around trying to get a prescription done last-minute (because I’m a womble and I forgot), we set off and headed down/across/up/whichever way Ipswich is and found our way there after only going wrong once (quite an achievement considering the tiny, twisty, back-country lane they live down) – and that was on the main road, too.

After chilling out a little, it wasn’t long before my Godfather, ex-Army man that he is, had me bashing the treadmill to show him what my new lungs could do. They held up admirably to the strain, I have to say, Graeme working me harder than I’ve ever worked on these lungs and although I felt like I was just about to be flung full-force backwards across the gym by a treadmill turning way too fast for my ever-weakening legs, there was actually an amazing sense of accomplishment afterwards.

It wouldn’t have been a visit to G&N’s without a quick dip and K had me in the pool no sooner had we finished in the gym, K proudly sporting her new swimming leggings and imploring me to teach her how to swim, completely over-looking the fact that the last time I’d been in a pool was quite possible over half a decade ago and the last time I’d had anything approaching a lesson I’d still been shy of single digits.

We swam all the same, and took advantage of the gorgeously relaxing rainfall shower in the spa before drying off and heading in for dinner.

Best part of the day, though: hands down the after-dinner retirement to the top floor cinema room, with drop down screen and Blu-Ray projector with U-shaped super-comfy sofa on which we settled with tea, cake and biscuits to watch Atonement, an amazing flick which is one of the few adaptations I’ve seen in recent time to do their literary counterpart justice. James McAvoy is remarkable and Keira Knightley very good, but it’s director Joe Wright’s grasp of the subtlety of emotion and deft handling of the varied viewpoints and tricky time-lapses which give he film its weight. Some of the choices on dialogue delivery weren’t my cup of tea, but I could acknowledge them as a strong stylistic choice and as such not something to do the man down for, nor was it anything which would spoil the film as a whole.

Suitably buoyed up by the happy-go-lucky flick* we all stumbled off the sofa in the direction of our beds, with another day of activity – not least another gym session – ahead of us.

*not an accurate reflection of the film. It’s more down-beat that something incredibly down-beat with strong undertones of “somber” and a slight edge of “depressing”. But still very good. And surprisingly warm.

Up far too early this morning to get off to Harefield for my first trip there in a month. Slipped into clinic still dripping from the torrent of water being unleashed from the heavens in the short walk between the car park and the main building, to be greeted by a very quiet scene after an apparently large number of cancellations. All the better for me, though, because the fewer people in clinic the earlier I get away.

Went through all the usual rigmarole and emerged the other side pretty much unscathed – weight’s up a kilo, SATs looking pretty stable, temperature good, lung function moving up smoothly.

K had the day off work, so took it upon herself to take us both shopping in Watford thanks to our 3-hour hiatus afford by the usual clinic practices of waiting for results before seeing the docs. Somehow, we managed to walk the entire length and breadth of the Harlequin Centre in the middle of Watford (albeit mostly looking for food) and come away without spending any money whatsoever and a brand new Blackberry Curve for me. I was impressed.

Proceeded to return to H-base and got into see the great MC pretty snappily. He was perfectly happy with my progress, which was something of a relief as last time I’d seen him he was mildly concerned about my slight plateau in lung-function and indicated that if it didn’t improve I’d have to go back in for another Bronch et al. My issue was I didn’t know how much he wanted it to have improved by in order to skip that part of the plan. Turns out, it just needed to be going steadily the right way, which indeed it was. More than that, some of the more obscure numbers (rather than the simple FEV1/FVC numbers we are given) had apprently jumped further than he’d have looked for. So win-win really.

Also managed to catch up with Emily briefly after we missed each other in the morning thanks to her having a bit of an “off” moment. Really weirdly, having not seen each other for months and months and months (since I was in hospital after my initial op), we’re now down to see each other twice in a week as we have a Trustees meeting for Live Life Then Give Life on Friday. Funny how the world works.

Managed to escape Harefield by just after 3, which had us home and dry by 5 after a brief Tesco-and-petrol detour on the way back. After half-an-hour or so of sitting doing nothing, itchy feet took over and we settled on a night out at the flicks to catch The Other Boleyn Girl.

Although on the surface – and in large parts – it’s a very ordinary (if star-studded) costume-drama/book adaptation covering the lives and loves (well, love – Henry VIII) of both Anne and the lesser-known Mary Boleyn, there are moments of brilliance smattered throughout.

It’s testament to the two leading ladies, Natalie Portman as the Queen-to-be-beheaded and Scarlett Johansson as her younger, less fortunate(!) sister, that one still feels fairly hefty pangs of emotion at the denoument that you’re well aware of before the film even starts.

In the hands of a lesser pairing, Anne’s betrayal of her sister and her semi-sadistic schemeing to win the heart of the King and the throne she believes to be her right would be too much for an audience to forgive. And while I can’t say I went the whole hog to total forgiveness, to imbue such an innately unsympathetic character with enough humanity to carry such weight on her death is remarkable. But it’s not solely down to Portman’s work – without Johansson’s pain, anguish and subsequent forgiveness and the enormous risks taken at the end being wrote so large and ingrained so deeply within her performance, the audience wouldn’t be allowed the access to the emotions we’re lead to feel.

It’s not a flawless film, by any means – there’s a few stilted performances and even some of the big guns involved take a while to hit their stride, but it deals deftly with the passage of time and there are some emotional beats within the story that the film nails as perfectly as any movie I’ve seen this year. Worth a look if historical and/or costume dramas are your kind of thing – not one to be immediately dismissed if they’re not.

Great day today – not only did I get through a second gym session in 2 days with no ill effects (read all about it…), but also found out that I’ve hit the Plymouth Sound website.

Because the Marines are based in Plymouth (and possibly because my bro happens to be dating one of the presenters), the local radio station (I say local, they’re pretty awesome, not like some “locals”  I could speak of….) have picked up on the marathon story and are running pieces not only on air but on their website too.  They’ve even included links to the ODR and my Just Giving page so people can either show their support financially or just by signalling their intention of saving someone’s life after they’re gone.

It’s getting quite exciting this marathon lark.  What with the gym sessions and all, I’m starting to think that being able to run a mile in 6 weeks’ time isn’t necessarily totally beyond my reach.  Not sure how fast I’m going to do it, but then the Marines are going to have done 25 miles and be weighed down with 30lbs of kit, so at least I’m not going to be the only one looking shattered by the whole thing.  Although I think I might feel a little inferior jogging across the line just little ol’ me – I might have to fill a rucksack with polystyrene to make myself blend in more.

I also impressed myself today by being remarkably sensible and going against my all-go post-Tx mood and having a sleep this afternoon.  We’ve had a bit of a busy few days since heading to friends in Kettering on Sunday and having two early-morning hossie appointments for K two days in a row, which has added up to not much sleep and lots of go-ings during the days.  Getting back in from the hossie run to Northampton this morning, I spent a bit of time trying to keep sleep at bay checking my emails and doing some work-y bits and pieces, but in the end decided that if my body says “tired” then to bed I must take it – not point playing games with a body still in recovery.

Pretty smart, huh?

Was back at Harefield today for my first clinic flying solo. Up to now I’ve been along with Mum or Dad and maybe K in tow, too, but now I’m more mobile and – more to the point – can drive myself comfortably for an hour or more (just), I can finally let Ma and Pa go about their usual daily business. In other words, they have to stop skiving off work to run me to the hossie.

What was even better about today (barring all the medical stuff, which I’ll come to in a bit) was that after our experiment with popping into Town last week, I took myself off on the train after the morning tests and got to have lunch with a really old school mate, who’s working for a record label near Archway. It was brilliant to see him and catch up – both of us feeling really happy about our lot in life at the moment, which not only makes a change (for me, anyway) but makes for a refreshingly up-beat and happy little luncheon.

Back at the big H, I saw the main man himself for the first time in a few weeks, which apparently worried him, because you only normally get passed to him if there’s something wrong.

As it happens, there’s not – he’s even given me such a clean(ish) bill of health I don’t have to go back for four weeks(!), barring unseen complications on my part. It’s amazing to think that just 3 months post-transplant, I’m already in a place where my docs are happy for me to stay away for such a prolonged period of time.

The down-side to it is that my lung-function doesn’t appear to be following the usually predicted improvement curve that he would be expecting to see at this stage. Whether this is left-overs from the Organising Pneumonia or signs of something potentially more sinister, he’s not sure.

The big issue with the O.P. is that it can take a long time to resolve (hence the 6 weeks of high-dose oral steroids I’m on at the moment), which means it’s pretty hard to detect if there’s anything else happening. The good news is that the biopsy from my bronch a couple of weeks ago is definitely negative for any signs of rejection and there is also very little or no sign of infection, which are the two main dangers right now.

More likely than not, the plateau in my lung function is a by-product of the O.P. and as that clears up over the next few weeks, my lung function should start to creep back up towards the predicted curve that they would hope and expect to see. Going to the gym and getting more exercise, putting weight on and generally getting stronger should all help that. Since it’s a bit of a waiting game to see how it progresses, that’s why they are happy for me to head off until the steroid course finishes and they can have a proper look to see if everything’s resolved.

For the time being, he’s kept me on some oral antibiotics and added in a second immunosuppressant to try to discourage rejection should there be any lurking or even thinking about having a bit of a lurk. It does make me mildly more susceptible to colds and infections and things, but not to such a degree that it should mess with too many of my plans. The main thing is I can still go to the movies…

All in all – beyond the slight concerns over the plateau – it’s been a good day hossie-wise. In terms of independence and self-confidence, it’s been even better. For the first time since my transplant, I really feel like I’m fending for myself and reaching a level of true independence and it feels amazing. I’ve not known this kind of freedom for a really long time and boy is it good to have it back.

Back in the olden days of years ago, I distinctly remember plaguing my parents with moans about being made to walk far too far and the whole lark giving me sore feet.  Today, after over an hour wandering the shopping centre in Uxbridge (more on which later), I turned to Mum with an enormous smile on my face to declare, “My feet hurt.”

I’ve not done enough walking to make my feet hurt for pretty much as long as I remember.  There must be a time, three or four years ago, when I’ve been on shopping sprees with K in the days of our simple friendship, which ended with me having sore feet, but it really must be that long ago.

In the four-hour wait between tests and seeing the doc at clinic today, Mum and I decided to head off and explore Uxbridge, which is only a few miles down the road from Harefield. We found our way – surprisingly easily – to the main shopping centre and spent a good two hours browsing around and taking things in.  Unfortunately for my bank account, “taking things in” also included “putting things in bags” and since most shops are reluctant to let you bag things up without paying, my wallet came away a fair bit lighter.  That said, my wardrobe is now a fair bit fatter.  Or will be when I make room amongst K’s stuff for my new additions.

Clinic went really well, with my lung function up, weight up, X-ray clearing up nicely, all other obs stable and doing well.  My CRP was up ever-so-slightly, but we think that may be due to the semi-cold I have been suffering this week; it never fully developed but I’ve had the snuffles on and off since Monday.  The doc gave me 2 weeks of oral Zithro to ward off any nasties that may be lurking, but I think it’s unlikely that anything’s going to come of it – it’s more a protection measure than anything else.

The last few days have been such a joy – doing all sorts of things that I haven’t done for ages and just starting to feel normal again.  Today we finally managed to catch up on Christmas with K’s brother, which has been delayed and delayed after my stays in hospital and a combination of them and us not being well enough for us to meet up (bearing in mind I still have to do my best to avoid anyone with colds or bugs).

It was great to see not only them, but their new house too – a 3-storey affair which I’ve now got the lungs and the legs to enjoy a proper tour of.  Not only that, but discovered my fitness levels are also now up to the Nintendo Wii.  Dangerously addictive, that machine.

I think the most amazing thing about the last few days is being able to do things without thinking.  There’s no moment’s pause between the impulse, need or desire to do things and actually getting up to do them.  For so long I’ve been used to working out all the ramifications of what I’m about to do and how much it’ll tire me out, how much O2 I’ll need to take with me, what I need to save my energy for later in the day and everything else.  Now, if I want to do it all I have to think about is whether I have time to. (And possibly whether I can afford to….).

I honestly can’t believe how much my life has totally turned around and the fact that this is only the beginning fills me with the kind of excitement I haven’t known since I was a child.  It feels like the whole world is opening up to me and all I’ve got to do is reach out and grab it.

Freedom at last – after a week spent couped up inside despite feeling just as well as I had the week previously, it isn’t half a relief to be back at home and within my own four walls.  Even if I don’t leave them for the next 7 days, it’s going to be a heck of a lot nicer than it has been on E ward this week.

That’s nothing against E Ward, you understand, it being the very best of the best places to be if the docs suspect you’ve something dodgy going on in the new blowers they implanted, but let’s be honest: hospital is hospital.

Interestingly, I didn’t find this 5 night/6 day stretch as hard going as my previous one (just a week prior) – I was fairly upbeat and resilient the whole way through.  I think it largely had to do with the fact that when I was admitted the team let me know straight away that I was going to be in until Saturday at the earliest, most likely, whereas the previous week every day had been a will-they-won’t-they let me go connundrum whic, upon the arrival of the nigh-on inevitable “won’t”, always served to deflate and depress me – getting one’s hopes up in a hospital is a bad plan at the best of times, but when you’re feeling physically fragile, too, it’s never good.

Still, three days of being pumped full of more steroids that the US sprint team and the Tour de France combined have served to set me back on the straight and narrow (we hope) and get me sent home for a glorious span of 5 days before my next clinic appointment.  Getting discharged on a Saturday is usually no mean feat, but luckily for me, my team were on duty this weekend, which meant full access to the key decision makers who could kick me out at will (mine or their’s, I’m not sure which yet).

All I have to show for my week’s stay in the Big House this time is a severe sleep-deprivation hang-over.  One of the side-effects of the Methal Prednisalone (the IV steroid they put me) is sleep disturbance and although I managed through the first night with just a bit of a late nod-off and minor leg-cramps, last night saw me lie awake until 6am before being unceremoniously awoken for my breakfast at 7.45.  Under 2 hour’s sleep does not for a chirpy Oli make.

Still, it’s hard to moan too much when I’m just happy to be out and back home.  Perhaps the total lack of sleep last night – and my managing to stay awake throughout the day so far today – will do me good in getting me off to sleep nice and swiftly tonight.  One can only hope.

Oh, the only other good thing to come from having far too much time on my hands in hosp for the week was a chance to get started on the treatment for my next writing project – a low-low-budget flick about a band on tour which I hope I’ll be able to knock out in quick-time and see about getting shot sooner rather than later.

Of course, like most of the projects that get mentioned on the blog in their formative stages, there is bound to be a mishap which gets in the way of this one at some point soon, but then perhaps this will be the exception that proves the rule.  Watch this space is about the best I can say, I guess.

I’m off to flop in front of the telly to try to stay awake till my last dose of daily immuno-suppressant is due at 10pm.

For those of you who read this in time over the weekend, pick up a copy of tomorrow’s Observer, where I *should* be featuring prominently in a health-article to back up the paper’s continued push behind the Opt-Out campaign.  For those who can’t get out to pick one up (and thus see a picture of my lovely mug) I shall endeavour to post a website link up here as soon as it’s up.

The inside four walls of Harefield hospital are starting to become depressingly familiar.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great place, with experienced medical teams who are – in my humble opinion – second to none. But every now and then – just occasionally, mind – I do find myself wishing I could spend more than 4 days in a row at home without getting myself admitted back onto E ward. Or F. Or any alphabetical character’d ward in the place.

Give me my due, though, at least I’m giving the docs a variety of ailments to deal with – Heaven forbid I should make their job dull and repetitive. First off we had high Tac levels, swiftly followed by good, strong infection, chased down with Norovirus with a sprinkling of chestiness and now we have my first official episode of rejection.

Now, I’m assured by people who know a lot more about these things than me that this is perfectly normal within the first year and particularly the first few months and is nothing to be worried about.

My lung function hasn’t picked up since the touch of infection last week, indeed it’s dropped back ever so slightly, and combined with a stubbornly low level of Tac in my blood, the doc’s are left to presume that, what with my infective markers all dropping and me feeling grand in myself, rejection is top of the list of possibilities.

What this means is a wee holiday on the ward so they can perform a bronchoscopy tomorrow (Tuesday) morning to take a biopsy of the lung tissue to have a good look-see.
For those of you who prefer non-medical, they’re gonna chuck a camera down me gob and snip out some bits of me blowers to see what’s causing the hissy fits.

To say I’m scared would be to over-state it – I have a team I trust 100% here and if they say it’s cool I believe it’s cool – but I still can’t escape the niggling reminders that they last time I was knocked out for a “routine procedure” I woke up a day later in ITU on a ventilator and dialysis. Not fun.

Doubtless this is all going to go a lot smoother, but I will certainly be glad to see the ward staff at lunchtime tomorrow and know it for sure.

For the time being, I’m now enjoying my stay in my 4th room on E ward, my 5th room between E and F in the last 2 months and that’s not counting the two spells on ITU.

One day I swear I’ll get to spend a whole week at home with my new lungs. Now that’s gonna be a novelty.

 Update…Oli is fine, just a bit of a sleepy head because of the general anaesthetic.  Unfortunately we haven’t seen the doctors so don’t know how it went but we are working on the assumption that if there was anything serious they’d have been in to see him before now.  Will post news tomorrow once we’ve got biopsy results.   K  x