Basketball On The Internet.

MOVEMBER these days is always an unusual month for me because having a moustache is second-nature.

Apparently I was born with a little pencil-moustache, and had a Zapata mustafa-mo at age ten. OK, maybe not quite but it has been a while since the real estate beneath my nose was hair-free and care-free. So I guess I got into the REAL spirit of Movember last Sunday.

The month is actually about raising funds and awareness of men's health issues because, let's be honest, there are three categories of men in Australia when it comes to illness.

We all like to think we're that guy who has just taken a spear through his thigh, yanks it out, wraps some glad wrap around the wound to stall the bleeding, then continues to hike the north face of Mt Kilimanjaro.

Closer to the truth is we are either 1) the guy who prefers denial when he notices something amiss with himself, rationalising pain or ignoring it; 2) the hypochondriac, who confuses a headache with a tumor, a thirst with dehydrated exhaustion or sitting on his testicles as a hernia; 3) the reluctant compliance officer who will acknowledge when something is getting worrying physically.

Studies have found in Australia, the majority of men fit into category 1) and, I must confess, I did too when I was younger before I moved into 3). It was prompted by a brother of mine - I have six so I think his identity is safe - who showed me the folly of that credo.

Ignoring or rationalising the signs that were evident to him for months, he finished up with bowel cancer and a colostomy bag. Put it this way. You know the saying "opinions are like assholes - everybody has one." Well he only has an opinion these days.

Yes, he did make famous the fabulous line: "Do you know the worst part about having a colostomy bag? Finding shoes to match," which is one of the myriad reasons we were all happy not to lose the silly bugger.

But he cut it close because he did not want to acknowledge the signs, the symptoms, the pain or, most likely, his growing fallibility. Anyway, in one swift lesson I learned first-hand that if there was something amiss, I should, even if instinctively begrudgingly, check it out.

I'm not rushing to my GP if there is a hint of darker color in a stool - see category 2) for that fellow - but I will revisit how much red wine I had the previous evening, or beetroot soup and I will keep an eye on it. It's just sensible.

So last Saturday, after thoroughly enjoying the 50th birthday celebration of a good friend and confidante at a near-city restaurant, I was surprised when, at 1am, I could not find a single comfortable way to sleep.

My stomach had become increasingly painful and as time ticked away, it was impossible to lie on either side, certainly not ON my belly, and lying on my back was the best of a bad bunch of options.

I ran through my mind what I had eaten and drunk that day, from muesli and coffee at breakfast, through lunch, the evening's great meal, then backtracked for any snacks I may have indulged in and overlooked in my what-could-be-causing-this inventory.

Nothing made me squeamish or rumbled my stomach when I revisited it mentally, heading to the bathroom also making no difference. By now I had popped a Mylanta for indigestion - no effect. And taken two Nurofen. Zip.

Not a lot was happening as I sat contemplating my ill-fortune, though my stomach pain was evolving into cramp. Sitting there in a cold sweat, I thought there was only one way to rule out this being food or drink-related. It was an ugly option but I had to try it, so I forced two fingers down my throat, gagged involuntarily, and gave the infamous technicolor yawn.

To be honest, it didn't produce much more than revulsion - how do people even do this? - and there was no desire to continue down that track. I could rule out food or drink.

Made it back to bed for a while but the pain was severe now. I lay on the floor for a few minutes, tried bed again, but it was getting worse. I went out to the lounge room to see if lying on the sofa might help in any way.

I was in some stage of disoriented disrepair when my younger daughter arrived home from an evening of partying. It wasn't 3am yet. Oh good. On the one hand, she is home safe. On the other, that has been two hours from hell for me ... so far.

So, let's try sleeping at an angle in the sofa chair. Genius?

No. Total waste of time.

I buckled in the kitchen a few times, making it back to the bathroom, clutching my stomach which now felt bloated as I tried unsuccessfully again to resolve this situation, take a deep breath, go to sleep and wake up miraculously cured in the morning. See category 1).

It wasn't happening. Eventually my wife realised I was in agony - perhaps she could hear the screaming? - and suggested Nurofen. Enough time had passed by then so I popped a further two. Drinking water also did not make much difference.

Hiccups was just what the doctor ordered which, on top of clutching my belly like a pregnant woman ready to give birth, was truly a Godsend. Fortunately, a long glass of water eased that away.

Eventually I made it back to bed and was able to drift in-and-out of sleep until 8am when I texted my GP. The cramp had not relented and I had visions of what Neil Mottram must have endured, albeit my comparison being at maybe one per cent of what that poor bugger suffered.

Who contacts their GP at 8 o'clock on a Sunday morning and gets a response? Well, very few I would think. Except my GP is also a friend so he rang back almost immediately. I walked him through my night and he said get straight down to Ashford Hospital Emergency, have an ECG, X-rays and any other scans they think and let him know the upshot.

"What do you think it might be?" I asked him.

"Gall stones, pancreatitis or an ulcer seem the most likely explanations," he told me. "My guess is gall stones."

Gall stones? WTF? I haven't had a stomach ache I couldn't explain in years. Usually it was a wayward fart waiting to burst into full bloom.

Whatever. I eased into the shower and had a hot one, the steaming water pouring on my stomach providing some measure of actual relief. Should have thought of that sooner.  

I texted my sports editor to give him an early heads up he may need to have a standby reporter ready for the afternoon's 36ers-Wildcats NBL game, although I expected to be right by then. See category 1).

By 9am I was walking into Ashford Emergency, greeted by Allie at reception who took my details and handed them on to Bronwyn, a nurse who ushered me through to begin my tests.

Yes, I had a "battery of tests" - always wanted to write that. First up, I changed out of T-shirt and shorts into that lovely hospital gown that does up at the back. Good thing I was wearing clean undies, eh? (Tips your mother gave you #17)

Lying on the bed, the nurses stuck some metal gizmos onto my chest to which they then attached to electrodes. I'm no James Bond. Within seconds I gave them all the ASIO agents working undercover in east-Asia and the blueprints for water-powered cars.

Actually it didn't hurt a bit as they tested my heart. I had a needle in my left arm and next I was off for X-rays which apparently didn't require me to move from my bed. The kindly nurses pushed me through the corridors to the appropriate area.

Do you remember the days when you went for an X-ray and the nurse would line you up against the machine, tell you to keep still - that it's perfectly safe. Then she would put on some two-foot thick apron made of reinforced steel and rubber or something even Superman's X-ray vision couldn't penetrate, a mask, and rush out to hide in another room while you were being zapped?

It's still like that.

Sometime later I was lying on a table having a CT scan, a needle in my right arm now for the dye to permeate before being wheeled back to hear the conclusions. While waiting, the attending physician gave me a small vial of hospital-strength Zantec to drink and though the vial's contents looked vile, it was not. That's what troubled me.

A short time later, the cramping pain began to subside and I had this awful fear I was putting all these people through this exercise for nothing because now I was getting better. See category 1).

I'd already been given those lovely plastic bracelets with my name and birthdate, which I was asked repeatedly (can't have them amputating my leg mistaking me for some other patient ... "oh, so you weren't Boti McClintock??? Sorry. The good news is we may have someone who might like to buy your shoes.")

I contacted the paper and said I was definitely now going to miss the 36ers-Wildcats game, which, frankly, I was pretty unhappy about. It is the NBL's most enduring rivalry and never fails to produce. Plus with Adelaide coming in off a 30-point loss and Perth off a 33, it was a gut-check game to boot.

Stan the attending physician brought the results of the tests over and told me I had gall stones. (How good is my GP? He can correctly diagnose over the phone!) I could try medication but the quickest solution was the operation. I said: "Let's do it" and soon Dr Ong arrived.

I know. Dr Ong.

So close to Dr Ng.

He took me through the pitfalls and unlikely scenarios, just like the hosties do on a plane - do we still call them hosties?

No? Sorry. He took me through the pitfalls, just like the airline stewards do before take off. I signed the forms and he said he'd see me in the theatre.

A few minutes later I met Lan Lan Zhang, the anaesthetist with whom I exchanged pleasantries about how people always read our names phonetically and to English linguistic rules, therefore mispronouncing them because they are from other languages. 

She now knows "Nagy" is pronounced "Nodge" and I now know "Zhang" is pronounced "Schwarz".

Pitfalls explained, forms signed, it was a short wait to being wheeled off to the operating theatre. There they got about their business, made me breathe deeply from the oxygen mask while slipping another needle into me.

"Count backwards from 100 please."

"Sure thing doc. 100, 99, 98, 97, 93, 81, carrot, lights, Beetlejuice....."

Next thing I know, there are two angels hovering around me, Joy and Kathryn, I am in the recovery room and we are talking about, of all things, my book.

No. Seriously. I am telling them where to get it (http://sbpra.com//BotiNagy - gratuitous and completely shameless plug, but the perfect gift for Christmas if you order now.)

They are asking me what it is about and I am saying it involves a British secret agent who teams with a boy wizard to combat vampires while distributing mummy porn. It's called 50 Shades of Goldfinger in the Chamber of Secrets at Twilight.

They conclude it is just mummy porn. Might have to rethink the title.

Wheeled into the High Dependency Unit, I am becoming more aware of what is around me. I have tight ankle-to-knee socks on now and devices attached to my calves which pulsate to keep my blood circulating. I take an injection - the first of three over the next 24 hours - in the thigh which, I think, is for blood-thinning. Or Karen the nurse just doesn't like me.

I am coming around fairly comfortably, even though my stomach feels like it has been traumatised and I have several machines attached and monitoring me. Otherwise, it's all good. And, finally I can eat something.

Ah. Lime jelly. Everyone's first choice, I am sure. It goes down well enough, as does the glass of water.

"Would you like to watch the cricket?" Karen asks me.

Huh? The cricket?

Sure.

No.

Wait.

"Put it on Channel 10 if you wouldn't mind."

Sure enough, it's 63-63 and I get to sit back and enjoy the amazing 14-2 run to the siren as Adelaide beats Perth 77-65. CJ Massingale is looking good and while I am thrilled, part of me is bummed I won't be able to sing his praises in print in the post-game summary. They've been a while coming since he looked so sharp at the PSST.

But the 36ers have won and all is well. I can lie back and rest.

I call my wife and she asks what I will need. Like an idiot, I say my mobile phone charger and my laptop.

Not toiletries.

Not fresh clothes.

Not a bowl of fruit.

A charger and a laptop. IDIOT. 

At least I can text my sports editor to tell him it turned into something more serious than I thought. Oh happy day.

I sleep through the night, waking intermittently but nothing serious, dozing straight back off. You know how it is in hospital. Plus the second round of lime jelly at dinner was just delicious.

I am still on fluid meals at breakfast and by now, lime jelly is wearing thin. Strawberry anyone? Orange? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

After breakfast, the new nurse shift is in and Melissa suggests I might like a shower. This seems a brilliant idea. I am busting for a pee too, just quietly. The last one I had on Sunday evening required a plastic bottle under the sheets and it felt like I was going forever, with grave concerns I might make an unwanted splash, if you get my meaning.

Melissa unplugs me from the myriad machines and I rise slowly. It is painful under my chest and in my side, even though much of it was keyhole surgery through my belly button, apparently.  

I walk the 30 metres or so to the shower, Melissa brings me a toiletries kit - "Mobile charger and laptop, eh?" ... - and she closes the door as she exits.

It feels amazingly satisfying to stand unaided. Just amazing how 24 hours changes your life.

It is a big psychological boost too to successfully brush my teeth. Disrobing is relatively easy and showering a triumph. I have a new robe to tie behind my back and I head back toward my bed, which has been cleaned, new sheets and looks inviting. Before I get back in, I plug in the laptop and get the internet feed to Oregon, settling back in bed to watch my older daughter playing a college game against Western Oregon.

Her team wins, she plays great and I am ready to sleep again.

Lunch comes - ah, fluid fruits, drink and ... jelly! But it stays down and the nurse suggests I might like a sandwich?

Hell yes. She has one in my hands within a few minutes and I am feeling pretty good now.

Dr Ong comes in and asks me how I feel. I say "sore, but great" which is the truth. He tells me he removed my inflamed gall bladder, there was a lot of "gravel" and for the next four-to-six weeks, until I see him again, I am on a "low fat" diet.

As for when I can be released, it depends on whether I can rest at home and keep down my dinner.

Now his instructions - "no heavy lifting of any kind, rest and more rest, take it easy" - go directly against my life plan. Somehow, I will manage though.

Dinner is soup, a stew with rice and vegetables, and a lime jelly dessert. I eat it with relish and it's all good. I can go home.

I came in at 9am Sunday, I am out - sans gall bladder - at 7pm Monday. Yes, I am in slight discomfort but it's not as if I plan to breakdance (does anyone still do that?) or run a marathon.

I have watched my daughter play a game of basketball on the other side of the world and life is only going to get better.

By Tuesday, I am writing stories for The Advertiser, albeit from home and resting in between. Now I'm not saying that to pat myself on the back or to say wow, look at me. (I did have to cancel going to Perth to see the 12,000 at the opening of Perth Arena, which was a real bummer.)

But I am saying it to reinforce this is Movember, and some of our worst fears as men getting older are nothing more than that - just fears.

But just as we weren't scared to do crazy, reckless crap as kids, we shouldn't be scared to face our foibles as men ... or ... truthfully, as old kids.

That's one thing I learnt on Remembrance Day this year.

There is nothing more important than your health. Don't risk it. Don't ignore the signs. Don't be a category 1) male.

That said, my Movember adventure chronicled, I must admit I still like the late, great Rodney Dangerfield's response to ageing and medicine.

"My doctor told me he wanted a stool sample, a sperm sample and a urine sample," Rodney said. "So I gave him my underpants."

Wish I'd thought of that.