Dearest readers, accidental clickers, and people who just like a bit of British medical mayhem, brace yourselves. It’s Results Day, aka “The Grand Reveal”, aka “Will I Cry in the Hospital Car Park Again

It’s been six weeks of living in a soap opera written by someone on too much NHS prescription cough syrup. The emotional roller coaster? More like the waltzers at Scarborough fair, spinning, screaming, and with someone always threatening to throw up (usually me).

How am I feeling? Like a contestant on Hell’s Kitchen who’s just realised her oven isn’t plugged in and has to tell  Gordan Ramsey his beef wellington is raw (Cue idiot sandwich moment). Basically, my nerves shredded, hopes marinated in dread, but still clinging to the British tradition of pretending everything’s perfectly fine.

So, we rock up to Scarborough Hospital, where the new emergency department has seen more slanging matches than EastEnders and the waiting room chairs were designed by someone who wants to give you future back problems. We’re greeted by a lovely doctor, a nurse, and, drumroll, a brand new character: Matthew’s Bladder. Yes, folks, the bladder is now sentient and has more drama than a Big Brother contestant.

Matthew’s Bladder (we’ll call him Blad for short) has decided he’s not just an organ; he’s an artiste. Post-cancer, he’s been working on his latest avant-garde installation: The Spontaneous Hole. Because why store urine like a normal bladder when you can spray it around like a frigging water fountain? Blad is now holding auditions for the West End musical: Leak Me If You Can.

This, of course, leads to the usual symptoms: pain, infections, and the persistent feeling that your internal plumbing was installed by a cowboy builder from Leeds. The NHS, always keen for a challenge, is now on the case with a crack squad of medics, a CT scan, and possibly a plumber called Jim.

Next up: Tumour Grading, now with extra confusion! There’s a new system, because why not? Grade 1: No roots, nothing to see here. Grade 2: Roots could sprout; choose between six weeks of chemo or living with the suspense, like a British summer barbecue. Grade 3: Tumour’s got roots like an overambitious houseplant and things get terminal. But wait, Matthew’s was root-free! Blad did something right for once! Go on, Blad!

Matthew’s fate? Six weeks of chemotherapy, but only after Blad’s little leak is found and plugged. So, for the next eight weeks, our lives will revolve around CT scans, hospital visits, and Blad’s ongoing performance art.

Expect more blog posts, more swearing, and new supporting characters (like the radiographer who moonlights as a magician and the tea lady who dispenses life advice and digestive biscuits in equal measure). I’ll be handing out Issue 1 to cancer wards, turning Issue 2 into a publishable masterpiece, and documenting Blad’s antics for Issue 3, now with 30% more medical absurdity.

Thank you, truly, for your endless support, love, and prayers. Without you, I’d have gone full Bridget Jones and started drinking wine from a mug. Let’s get Matthew (and his bladder, now an Equity cardholder) through this. Let’s unleash Issues 1 & 2 and keep finding the funny, even if it’s hiding in a hospital toilet.

Much love, silliness, and questionable medical metaphors,

Kate xx

P.S. Next time: Blad and the Mystery of the Missing Bedpan full of poop. Don’t miss it!