June Sampson charts the third stage of her long journey to the cancer wards.

As described in the first two features in this series, my medical safari began with a jolt in August 2000 when it was found that my haemoglobin levels had sunk to less than half the safe minimum, and I needed four emergency blood transfusions in Kingston Hospital's short-stay unit to restore my flagging heart.

By mid-October this had been followed by an endoscopy at Kingston; innumerable blood tests; an angiogram and assorted heart tests at St Anthony's Hospital, Cheam and a bone scan at St George's Hospital, Tooting.

I was also swallowing prodigious amounts of iron (the recommended daily allowance is 15mg. I was prescribed 300mg). But nothing could explain why my blood levels were in such serious decline.

During an endoscopy, an exploratory tube goes down as far as possible via the mouth. Now it was time for a colonoscopy, where a tube goes up as far as possible through the other end!

But first you need a total clean-out of the nether regions. This is achieved by fasting and Picolax, a mighty substance which, once taken, is never forgotten.

It comes in pre-measured sachets which you mix with water and start drinking two days before for the colonoscopy.

"Picolax works quickly. You will need to stay near a toilet," say the instructions. Need I say more?

My appointment was for 3.30pm in the day surgery unit at Kingston (pictured above).

It was getting on for 6pm before I was called. This, the exhausted-looking consultant explained, was because the previous case had been unexpectedly tricky.

The long wait had done nothing for my nerves as I contemplated the terrors of the unknown. Indeed, I was taut with fear by the time I'd undressed, put on the regulation gown and saw the green-robed consultant approach my bed.

A colonoscopy is an examination of the colon using a flexible tube with a light at the end through which the doctor can look. I'd been informed by a leaflet that an injection would make me drowsy and relaxed.

Then, said the leaflet, "the instrument will be inserted into the back passage and guided through the bowel as far as the appendix. You may feel bloated as air is blown into the bowel to make it easier to see the lining.

If necessary small pieces of tissue (biopsies) will be removed for later examination. If any polyps (small benign growths) are present, these may be removed."

I was taken to the operating room, had an injection in my hand, and lay on my side, gazing fixedly at the bedrail until the ordeal began. I was still staring at it two or three minutes later when a nurse told me the whole thing was over.

It wasn't two or three minutes later, though. It was 40 minutes. Even now I find it hard to credit that the procedure was completed without my even being aware of closing my eyes.

Back in the ward, the consultant said he'd found nothing apart from flecks of blood. But to make triply sure, he'd request a barium follow-through plus a red cell scan.

Both took place in November, the first at Kingston and the second at Queen Mary's Hospital, Roehampton.

The barium-follow through was tedious but painless. You're mustn't eat or drink for six hours beforehand. Then you must sink 600mls of barium, a thick grey liquid.

After that, its voyage through your inner workings is monitored by X-rays taken every 20 minutes for up to four hours.

Everything showed normal.

The red cell scan was administered in the alarmingly named Nuclear Medicine department at Queen Mary's. It began with an injection in my arm, after which I had to lie motionless for an hour while various pictures were taken of my abdomen. More pictures were taken at intervals throughout the day, each session lasting about five minutes.

This, too, showed everything was fine, with no evidence of bleeding.

So it wasn't cancer (which I knew everyone had suspected, though the dread word was never mentioned).

But why did I tire so easily. And why was I starting to get pain, especially in my right side?

The GP felt around my tum, found nothing untoward and, because my welter of tests had proved negative, thought it couldn't be anything dire. We agreed my massive iron intake was probably to blame, and I was prescribed a fail-safe indigestion remedy.

It didn't help, and I wondered if it was all in my mind.

In March 2001 the gastroenterology team announced they had "come to the end of the road" and would "turn me over to haemotology."

I saw a haemotologist at Kingston in May. She did blood tests for colon cancer, which revealed slight abnormalities. I also had an ultra-sound scan in case the pain in my right side was ovarian cancer. It wasn't.

By July, with my anaemia and pain worsening, the haematologist decided I must be referred back to the gastroenterologist consultant as soon as possible.

I saw him on July 30th and, as he told the two trainee doctors sitting in on the consultation, a whole gamut of tests had failed to show what ailed me.

He seemed inclined to dismiss me until I pointed out that the pain had now spread front and back, and eating caused such discomfort that I was living on liquids.

"Oh well, I'd better have a feel," he said. He did, and immediately a found a swelling on my right side. Within 15 minutes I was having a scan, and 15 minutes after that he confirmed there was a tumour.

Two days later I had another colonoscopy, This revealed a large malignant growth ,with blood visible throughout the bowel.

It had taken a year to find that I qualified for entry to the great British cancer club. It wasn't the happiest moment of my life. And worse, much worse, was to come!

March 14, 2002 11:00