I was feeling a bit rough before Christmas. A complex tooth extraction, ongoing tinnitus, and a general sense of fragility conspired to make me feel vulnerable, weak and for the first time, properly my age. Someone said to me that the real problem with getting ailments and taking longer to recover as we get older is that we’re not used to it, so we don’t know how to cope. Nailed it. For those of us from the “just get on with it” generation, that hits hard.

Right in the middle of this mid-December wobble, a letter dropped through the door informing me it was time for bowel cancer screening. The first words that popped into my head were: “Merry Shitmas, Bob.” I may even have said it out loud.

Part of me wanted to chuck it straight in the bin. I didn’t want to poke around in one of my turds for a sample, and I definitely didn’t want to be one of the unfortunate 2 in 100 invited to have a camera sent on a guided tour of my anus. I hid the kit in my office and decided that if anyone was going to tell me I needed a camera up my arse, it could wait until January.

Avoidance, Romance and the Post Box Sprint

January, of course, is too depressing a month to be rummaging in your own poo, especially if it might end with a follow-up invitation involving latex gloves and medical lighting. It could wait. Or so I thought.

Enter Jennifer. Proof that romance isn’t dead, she gently but persistently reminded me that I hadn’t sent off the kit. Every day I walked into my office and pretended the test wasn’t there. I even hid it under a book of British birds. Every day she remembered. Love, it turns out, sometimes looks like nagging someone to post their stool sample.

I briefly considered throwing it away and pretending I’d done it, but in a rare burst of male bravery, I did the deed. I poked about in my turd, popped the little jar into its envelope, and headed to the post box. When I pushed it through the slot, I nearly ran off. A proper fight-or-flight moment, where running seemed an option, albeit a pointless one.

A few days later, another letter arrived…marked NHS!. As is my way, I catastrophised and ripped it open like I do with anything from HMRC. I’ve never done anything wrong with my taxes, but HMRC letters always make me feel like I’ve committed a crime so heinous that prison transport and more anus concerns are already en route.

It turned out to be a reminder that my sample hadn’t been received. My delayed turd and the reminder letter had simply crossed paths. Bureaucracy, but make it brown. I felt bad as the reminder would have cost the NHS money.

Luck, Laughter and Getting On With It (Properly)

Fast forward a few more days and the results arrived. Ironically, I nearly shat myself opening them. Once again, full catastrophising mode. But thank God, no camera required. Relief. I could get back to worrying about my blocked Eustachian tube and the joys of tinnitus instead.

What’s struck me since is how many old mates I’ve spoken to about this, and how similar we all feel. We’re struggling with the fact that life isn’t as straightforward as it once was. We were lucky: good health through childhood, into adulthood, through raising kids, and even into that phase where the kids build their own lives and we start new hobbies. That uninterrupted run was a gift.

We all know people who drew a far worse hand far too early. That’s the bit that really puts things into perspective. It’s horrible and it’s humbling.

A Growing List

Talking with old friends, laughing about our growing list of ailments, and quietly appreciating how lucky we’ve been is the way forward. We all share the same or similar worries that can result in cowardice when turd kits turn up. And if telling this story convinces even one mate to do the test I was so keen to avoid, I’ll be happy.

After all, if we’d been born in the early 1900s, disease and war would have played a starring role in the lottery of life. We’d have faced our maker more than once, and if we’d survived, we’d have lived with the absence of friends who never came home, lost before life had really begun. No first love, no kids, no spending later life taking photos of viaducts and clouds.

So yes, getting older is a bit of a shot across the bowels. But we’re still here. We’re still laughing. And sometimes, getting on with it means doing the test, posting the envelope, and having a chuckle about it afterwards.