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img1I won’t horrify you with the nitty gritty details of when I recently completed my home bowel cancer screening test – a gift sent to me by our caring government for my fiftieth birthday.

 

Suffice it to say, that I remained in denial about it for a good couple of months, hiding the medical proof that I’m as old as fuck with its offensive finger-pointing packet in the depts of my in-tray, partly out of fear and partly in disgust. Until worrying about the potential results, prevented me from sleeping at night.

 

It’s a more complicated process than you think, to collect two rice grain-sized stool samples when you’re a little on the OCD side, and I might have retched a couple of times during the extraction process. It didn’t help that the debacle gave me bowel fright, which even that old can of prunes circa 1999 at the back of the pantry didn’t improve. My revulsion surprised me, to be honest, because I pick up the Princess’s poo every day without batting an eyelid. But my own discomfort wasn’t half as entertaining as the reaction of the family when they spotted the bag containing my precious faecal matter in the fridge.

 

‘She’s put it next to the breakfast juice!’ was the horrified response. Sorry, lovelies, I didn’t realise there was a poo drawer in the fridge…and thanks for your concern.

 

I thought Kurt would pass out.

 

I’ve never poo-ed on a stick before, although there have been many times in my life when I’ve pissed on one – sometimes praying for a negative result, twice hopeful for a positive one. So poo-ing on a stick was a new experience for me and although the intention is obviously a good one, it’s a sorry reminder of what’s in store for me during the last few decades of my life in terms of medical intervention and prevention of serious illness.

 

In fact it seems that the the main focus of my life these days is about how long I can stay alive, rather than actually ‘living’. I’ve even had to tack on an extra half an hour to my morning routine just to get all my supplements and medications down my neck in time.

 

Anyone would think I was actually sick. Fortunately not, but every hypochondriac worth their salt knows that it’s all about how long you can extend your life quota once you reach middle age. The irony being that the stress caused by my general health anxiety is probably what’s going to knock me off prematurely, anyway.

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