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| Version | User | Scope of changes |
|---|---|---|
| Feb 20 2006, 8:10 PM EST (current) | wetpaint | 42 words added, 21 words deleted |
| Feb 8 2006, 11:56 AM EST | wetpaint |
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I wear the badge, and so do John Kerry, Colin Powell, Rudy Gulliani, Joe Torre, Louis Farrakhan, Norman Schwarzkopf, and millions of other famous and not-so-famous men. We survived prostate cancer. My grandfather wasn’t so lucky -- he died from it.
The journey starts
Three years ago, my urologist removed my prostate after diagnosing a small cancer hidden far back in the gland away from his prying finger during a digital rectal examination. My Gleason score was six, which meant my cancer, which was confined to the prostate, was “moderately aggressive.”Theaggressive.”
The controversial PSA test saved my life.Twolife.
Two nurses wheeled me out of surgery and into my room, where I broke into song to the tune of "That Old Time Religion" in front of my parents and two of my best friends: “Gimme that old-fashioned morphine, gimme that old-fashioned morphine, gimme that old-fashioned morphine, it’s good enough for me!” I sang. “It was good for my grandpa, and it’s good enough for me!”Maybe,me!”
Maybe, it was the Valium coursing through my veins. Then again, maybe I was delirious with happiness that the cancer was exorcised from my body. I put on The Badge, and I wear it proudly to this day.Ofday.
Of course, I still dribble a tiny bit of urine when I sneeze, cough, or laugh at somebody’s joke and I rely on Cailis for erectile dysfunction. But, unlike prostate cancer, incontinence and impotence cannot kill me.
A doctor's persistence
Nearly two years before the surgeon plucked my prostate from my body, my introduction to the common cancer in men over 40 began with a telephone call from my primary care physician, who had combed his records looking for patients who were delinquent on their annual physicals. I was four years’ delinquent.Whendelinquent.
When he urged me to make an appointment for my physical, I was extremely healthy, having never been inside a hospital as a patient. I couldn’t remember the last time I'd even ran a fever, so I blew him off.Threeoff.
Three months later my doctor called again and urged me for the second time that too much time had passed since the last time he prodded and poked my body, snapped pictures of my lungs, and filled two containers to the brim with my blood.“Okay,blood.“
Okay, okay, I’ll come in just to keep you from calling me again,” I replied. He saved my life.
My first physical in four years
My appointment was on a Monday. By Friday, the blood tests showed my PSA (prostate specific antigen) had nearly tripled since the last time I endured a physical four years hence. It jumped from 2.6 to 3.9. My doctor urged me to see a urologist for further evaluation.Theevaluation.
The urologist wanted to perform a prostate biopsy, the only way to confirm whether I had prostate cancer. I was crushed. A ton of bricks fell on me again when he told me that I had a one-in-four chance of having prostate cancer. Five tons of bricks crushed me when I told him my grandfather had died of prostate cancer. The doctor replied, “Make that two-in-four.”Itwo-in-four.”
I was paralyzed. Thirty-five years before, my mother survived uterine cancer. But I never thought cancer would strike me. At 48? In the prime of my life? When everything was copasetic? When I had the world by the tail? Oh, yes.
Knowledge is power
In the week between my urology appointment and biopsy, I did the following:
On the day of my biopsy and dressed in only a hospital gown, I laid on the urologist’s table, my knees drawn up to my chest and faced a cold, green wall. I had a cold, uncertain future. The doctor inserted the ultrasound probe in my rectum and twisted it a few times until he saw a picture of my prostate on a little TV monitor. Then came the shot to deaden the area. I nearly bashed a hole in the wall from the pain. I cursed.Suddenly,cursed.
Suddenly, with the ultrasound probe still firmly entrenched in my rectum, I felt the doctor insert something else, only this time I felt the barrel of the biopsy gun.“Now,gun.“
Now, you’re going to hear a click,” the doctor said.Yes,said.
Yes, I heard the click -- and I felt the pain. It was almost as if somebody had snapped my skin with a rubber band. I endured the doctor taking 12 samples of my prostate -- 12 snaps of the rubber band, each time the pain increasing. I passed blood the rest of the day.
Anxiety and denial
There should be a law against having to wait an entire week for your biopsy results. During this awful waiting period, I weighed the options, the what-ifs. I went into the small chapel at my United Methodist Church and made deals with God. I made deals with myself. I told my parents I loved them.Ithem.
I concluded that prostate enlargement, which is common with men my age, caused my PSA to elevate. No, it was inflammation. Then again, maybe I have a deep-seated infection. Yeah, that’s it! An infection, surely not prostate cancer! Maybe I road my bicycle too long; after all, my backside did hurt after a long bike ride.Theride.
The call came from the urologist fially came. My biopsy was negative. I screamed with joy! Then, I learned the awful truth -- prostate biopsies miss 30% of the cancers.Duringcancers.
During the next year, my PSA continued to rise, and I underwent two more prostate biopsies for a total of 34 samples of my prostate. On the final biopsy, after my PSA had shot to 7, I told my urologist that I wouldn’t have a prostate left if he took any more samples. Doctors have no sense of humor.
The call
Finally, The Call came. I was now a member of an exclusive club that counted among its members a US senator and presidential candidate, a former New York City mayor, a retired Army general, and my grandfather. On my third biopsy, the cancer showed up on only two of the 14 sample -- 50% on one needle and 3% on the other.Theother.
The next day, I sat with my urologist in his office and poured over the treatment options. He handed me a book on prostate cancer, which I devoured that night. I talked with a radiation oncologist just to make sure I wasn’t short-shifting radiation therapy.Because.
Because I had done so much research six months prior to my diagnosis, I knew exactly what to do: have surgery. After two more days in the hospital, I finally went home with my new buddy -- a catheter snaking through my penis and into my bladder to allow urine to drain.
Life after surgery
Ten days later, my urologist yanked -- yes, yanked -- out the catheter as he tried to take my mind off the procedure by getting me to talk Dallas Mavericks basketball. He thought Dirk Nowinski was a helluva center. I still cringe today when I hear Dirk’s name. He yanked the catheter out between my saying, “Dirk” and “Nowinski.”
Three weeks after my surgery, I went back to work, but conked out at 1 pm. I was so exhausted, I didn’t think I would make it home. By week four, I was able to work a 40-hour week again, but gingerly. Three months later, I quit wearing “Ooops! I peed in my pants” undergarments.Aundergarments.
A year later, my urologist handed me samples of Viagra and suggested time had arrived to get blood back in my penis.“Doctor, got any good-looking nurses who’ll help me get blood back in my penis?” I replied. Doctors have no sense of humor.
Keeping on top of it
Do I worry about my cancer coming back? No. Really, I don't worry about it. Because the cancer was confined to my gland, the cure rate is 90% over my lifetime. I have a choice -- worry about the 10% or rejoice in the 90%.Yet,90%.
Yet, if my cancer does return, I know exactly what I'll do -- fling the stone between the giant's eyes again and kick him in the gonads for good measure.Imeasure.
I rely on the PSA test to keep tabs on whether my cancer has returned. Every six months, my urologist fills up two vials to the rim with my blood. Each time, I score a zero, meaning that the cancer has not returned.Thisreturned.
This kind of zero is good -- unlike the one I got on my SAT!
See also
The journey starts
Three years ago, my urologist removed my prostate after diagnosing a small cancer hidden far back in the gland away from his prying finger during a digital rectal examination. My Gleason score was six, which meant my cancer, which was confined to the prostate, was “moderately aggressive.”Theaggressive.”
The controversial PSA test saved my life.Twolife.
Two nurses wheeled me out of surgery and into my room, where I broke into song to the tune of "That Old Time Religion" in front of my parents and two of my best friends: “Gimme that old-fashioned morphine, gimme that old-fashioned morphine, gimme that old-fashioned morphine, it’s good enough for me!” I sang. “It was good for my grandpa, and it’s good enough for me!”Maybe,me!”
Maybe, it was the Valium coursing through my veins. Then again, maybe I was delirious with happiness that the cancer was exorcised from my body. I put on The Badge, and I wear it proudly to this day.Ofday.
Of course, I still dribble a tiny bit of urine when I sneeze, cough, or laugh at somebody’s joke and I rely on Cailis for erectile dysfunction. But, unlike prostate cancer, incontinence and impotence cannot kill me.
A doctor's persistence
Nearly two years before the surgeon plucked my prostate from my body, my introduction to the common cancer in men over 40 began with a telephone call from my primary care physician, who had combed his records looking for patients who were delinquent on their annual physicals. I was four years’ delinquent.Whendelinquent.
When he urged me to make an appointment for my physical, I was extremely healthy, having never been inside a hospital as a patient. I couldn’t remember the last time I'd even ran a fever, so I blew him off.Threeoff.
Three months later my doctor called again and urged me for the second time that too much time had passed since the last time he prodded and poked my body, snapped pictures of my lungs, and filled two containers to the brim with my blood.“Okay,blood.“
Okay, okay, I’ll come in just to keep you from calling me again,” I replied. He saved my life.
My first physical in four years
My appointment was on a Monday. By Friday, the blood tests showed my PSA (prostate specific antigen) had nearly tripled since the last time I endured a physical four years hence. It jumped from 2.6 to 3.9. My doctor urged me to see a urologist for further evaluation.Theevaluation.
The urologist wanted to perform a prostate biopsy, the only way to confirm whether I had prostate cancer. I was crushed. A ton of bricks fell on me again when he told me that I had a one-in-four chance of having prostate cancer. Five tons of bricks crushed me when I told him my grandfather had died of prostate cancer. The doctor replied, “Make that two-in-four.”Itwo-in-four.”
I was paralyzed. Thirty-five years before, my mother survived uterine cancer. But I never thought cancer would strike me. At 48? In the prime of my life? When everything was copasetic? When I had the world by the tail? Oh, yes.
Knowledge is power
In the week between my urology appointment and biopsy, I did the following:
All of this research eliminated a great deal of anxiety because:
- Researched prostate cancer on legitimate healthcare Web sites. Now I knew the monster I faced, and I was determined to sling the stone right between its eyes and kill it instantly, with a kick to the groin for good measure.
- Researched the treatment options for prostate cancer. With a life expectancy of 40 years, I weighed carefully the cure rates of surgery, external radiation and internal radiation. I found that while cure rates are basically the same ten years down the road, surgery wins out in the long run. I also researched side effects for each treatment.
- Researched my urologist. I attended prostate cancer support groups at the hospital where he practiced. I called the state certification agency. I called the urology department at a major research institute in my city and talked with the head doctor. My research revealed that doctors go to my urologist for treatment of prostate cancer—including the senior partner in his firm of about a dozen other urologists. I knew I was in good hands.
Donning the gown
- I knew what I faced
- I knew what I would do if I had prostate cancer
- I trusted my doctor.
On the day of my biopsy and dressed in only a hospital gown, I laid on the urologist’s table, my knees drawn up to my chest and faced a cold, green wall. I had a cold, uncertain future. The doctor inserted the ultrasound probe in my rectum and twisted it a few times until he saw a picture of my prostate on a little TV monitor. Then came the shot to deaden the area. I nearly bashed a hole in the wall from the pain. I cursed.Suddenly,cursed.
Suddenly, with the ultrasound probe still firmly entrenched in my rectum, I felt the doctor insert something else, only this time I felt the barrel of the biopsy gun.“Now,gun.“
Now, you’re going to hear a click,” the doctor said.Yes,said.
Yes, I heard the click -- and I felt the pain. It was almost as if somebody had snapped my skin with a rubber band. I endured the doctor taking 12 samples of my prostate -- 12 snaps of the rubber band, each time the pain increasing. I passed blood the rest of the day.
Anxiety and denial
There should be a law against having to wait an entire week for your biopsy results. During this awful waiting period, I weighed the options, the what-ifs. I went into the small chapel at my United Methodist Church and made deals with God. I made deals with myself. I told my parents I loved them.Ithem.
I concluded that prostate enlargement, which is common with men my age, caused my PSA to elevate. No, it was inflammation. Then again, maybe I have a deep-seated infection. Yeah, that’s it! An infection, surely not prostate cancer! Maybe I road my bicycle too long; after all, my backside did hurt after a long bike ride.Theride.
The call came from the urologist fially came. My biopsy was negative. I screamed with joy! Then, I learned the awful truth -- prostate biopsies miss 30% of the cancers.Duringcancers.
During the next year, my PSA continued to rise, and I underwent two more prostate biopsies for a total of 34 samples of my prostate. On the final biopsy, after my PSA had shot to 7, I told my urologist that I wouldn’t have a prostate left if he took any more samples. Doctors have no sense of humor.
The call
Finally, The Call came. I was now a member of an exclusive club that counted among its members a US senator and presidential candidate, a former New York City mayor, a retired Army general, and my grandfather. On my third biopsy, the cancer showed up on only two of the 14 sample -- 50% on one needle and 3% on the other.Theother.
The next day, I sat with my urologist in his office and poured over the treatment options. He handed me a book on prostate cancer, which I devoured that night. I talked with a radiation oncologist just to make sure I wasn’t short-shifting radiation therapy.Because.
Because I had done so much research six months prior to my diagnosis, I knew exactly what to do: have surgery. After two more days in the hospital, I finally went home with my new buddy -- a catheter snaking through my penis and into my bladder to allow urine to drain.
Life after surgery
Ten days later, my urologist yanked -- yes, yanked -- out the catheter as he tried to take my mind off the procedure by getting me to talk Dallas Mavericks basketball. He thought Dirk Nowinski was a helluva center. I still cringe today when I hear Dirk’s name. He yanked the catheter out between my saying, “Dirk” and “Nowinski.”
Three weeks after my surgery, I went back to work, but conked out at 1 pm. I was so exhausted, I didn’t think I would make it home. By week four, I was able to work a 40-hour week again, but gingerly. Three months later, I quit wearing “Ooops! I peed in my pants” undergarments.Aundergarments.
A year later, my urologist handed me samples of Viagra and suggested time had arrived to get blood back in my penis.“Doctor, got any good-looking nurses who’ll help me get blood back in my penis?” I replied. Doctors have no sense of humor.
Keeping on top of it
Do I worry about my cancer coming back? No. Really, I don't worry about it. Because the cancer was confined to my gland, the cure rate is 90% over my lifetime. I have a choice -- worry about the 10% or rejoice in the 90%.Yet,90%.
Yet, if my cancer does return, I know exactly what I'll do -- fling the stone between the giant's eyes again and kick him in the gonads for good measure.Imeasure.
I rely on the PSA test to keep tabs on whether my cancer has returned. Every six months, my urologist fills up two vials to the rim with my blood. Each time, I score a zero, meaning that the cancer has not returned.Thisreturned.
This kind of zero is good -- unlike the one I got on my SAT!
See also
