Cancer: NHS just gave me the most wonderful Christmas present, a clear scan – Susan Morrison

On the sixth day of Christmas, the NHS gave to me a CT scan of the torso with contrast dye.

Susan Morrison's internal demons were singing Last Hearse to Seafield to the tune of the Monkees' Last Train to Clarksville as she waited for the results of her cancer scan (Picture: Keystone Features/Getty Images)

They send a little bottle of the dye to drink at home, with instructions to mix it with 1.5 litres of water. Well, I thought, that’s what it said, until himself read it and pointed out that, in fact, it's only 0.5 litres of water. This makes a considerable difference when you have a bladder that leaks like a government inquiry.

Naturally, the contrast dye tastes foul. At the CT scanning unit, they mix it with a brand of orange squash which you do not see anywhere else. It doesn’t help with the taste, but the lurid colour distracts you.

We’ve got some pretty high-class orange juice at home, but I thought better of it. The dye’s got a vaguely aniseed flavour, I’m not sure anything can mask it, not even half a litre of gin. Anyway, it’s considered bad form to turn up for a scan reeking like the boozed-up survivor of a Newcastle hen do.

The NHS doesn’t chuck about invites for scans and buckshee contrast drinks for fun. We’re watching to see if our old cancerous friend is on the move.

Two things seem to happen in the aftermath of scans. One, cancer stories will be all over the news. Newsrooms seem to store them up, just waiting for me to emerge from the CT machine to press the big green button on headline tales of discoveries and potential cures, which are always in the early stages and at least five years away.

And two, my anxiety levels will go through the roof, triggering a babbling chorus of screaming voices in my head. I call these the Howler Monkeys of Scanxiety. There are four of them, like The Monkees. They scream about bad outcomes and lethal spread and one of them plays the maracas. I think this is the Davy Jones of the band.

Christmas shopping became a real trial of strength as I battled to concentrate whilst the Howler Monkeys kept up their banshee hooting and everyone knows a lack of concentration in the gift-buying game can be a disaster.

There was a near miss in Boots. The Howler Monkeys were especially noisy that day. They were being particularly malicious and going for full-on grim, screeching ‘Last Hearse to Seafield’ to the tune of ‘Last Train to Clarksville’. No, it doesn’t quite fit, but I never said they were a good band, now, did I?

My eye was caught by something I thought my dear friend Christine might like. Bath salts. Quirky, retro. Carried them for about ten minutes before I glanced down and realised I had been about to present my friend with a box of laxative sachets. In my defence, they looked pretty festive.

My telephone rang. It was my fabulous oncologist. Apparently, I should have been sitting in front of her, but the appointment letter was either never sent, or the NHS has been experimenting with ESP to alert patients to upcoming chats.

On the 14th day of Christmas, my oncologist said to me: “This scan is clear.” The Howler Monkeys slunk away. Now I can get on with worrying about normal stuff. Why did I gift wrap these cheese slices?