It was just two days later when I had to go to hospital for a week. The plan being that I was to undergo numerous investigations and tests to further determine what course of treatment I should have and then hopefully start it as soon as possible.
I’m not sure what upset people the most, that I had cancer or that I was going to Cookridge. Many cancer specialist hospitals in those days had an unfortunate reputation similar to that of a haunted house, lots of people go there, but very few come out alive.
My Dad took me to the hospital, he worked in Ilkley so it was pretty much on his way. He dropped me off very early at 7.30am because he had to be at work for 9.00am (I guess that’s where I get my conscientiousness from), I didn’t have to be there until 10.00am!.
After sitting for a couple of hours in the reception area, I was taken to a separate building, which could only be described as an old air raid shelter. There I was introduced to other young men who were being treated for cancer. Some of these guys looked really ill. I began to think perhaps I’d been in denial up until now, I don’t think I really believed anyone my age got cancer, it’s for old people like those in the waiting room. It was then I began to realize why my Dad insisted on dropping me off so quickly. He hated hospitals at the best of times, how the hell was he going to cope with this when he called in on his way home from work!
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