It’s remarkable how one’s whole life can suddenly and unalterably be changed by a short, simple phone conversation. And by one simple word used in that conversation. That’s precisely what happened to me recently, when my doctor called with results from a recent biopsy. Cancer. A word that can—and does!—instantly strike fear and dread in the hearts of the strongest, least fearful, most resilient of us, when it is used in reference to ourselves or one of our loved ones.
In conjunction with my annual physical examination, my primary physician conducted one of the usual diagnostic tests for a man of my age (nearly sixty-seven), a so-called prostate specific antigen (PSA) test. It was of course a test that I’ve had many times during the last nearly twenty or so years. Nothing abnormal had ever been revealed by previous PSA test results and I had absolutely no reason to think the results would be otherwise with the latest one. Wrong!
My doctor called several days later with results from the PSA test. The reading was “slightly elevated,” he told me. Still, I thought it was probably just some sort of anomaly. Absolutely nothing to lose any sleep over. Nonetheless, the doctor advised me to make an appointment with a urologist and determine if a prostate biopsy might be appropriate. No sweat, I told myself.
The urologist did in fact strongly recommend a prostate biopsy, a test that I assure you is something the average man would walk at least fifteen miles around to avoid having to have it performed on himself. (I won’t go into all the “bloody details” of how the procedure is performed, but suffice it to say, instruments are inserted into a bodily orifice that was only intended for egress!)
Even at this point I still remained largely unconcerned. OK, so I had to go through a very distasteful, painful test, but surely nothing would be found. I was disavowed of this attitude and opinion several days later when I received the phone call from the urologist.
“I am sorry to inform you that there is evidence of cancer in your prostate,” he told me on the phone. “I strongly recommend that you undergo a series of additional tests, in order to determine if the cancer has metastasized (a ten-dollar term for “spread throughout your body”).”
Now, I was alarmed! Now, I felt fear, the kind of icy, all-consuming fear I hadn't felt since I was a Marine in Vietnam, over forty years ago. Where did all of this come from?! I felt absolutely fine! How could this have happened? To me?! Am I going to die, and if so, how much longer do I have left? What will happen to my family? My disabled wife who depends almost entirely upon me for her care? Our little five-year-old granddaughter, of whom we have custody? Crazy thoughts, yes, but certainly understandable to most of us mere mortals.
I wish I could tell you I quickly learned if the cancer was still isolated to my prostate, but unfortunately, I can’t. It took six weeks and several additional tests longer before I learned that fact! Let me tell you, that was the longest six weeks in my life!
The good news was that the cancer had not spread to other parts of my body. The silent killer remained where it was found. Thank God! The not-so-good news was that I was given essentially three choices for treatment, none of which is all that thrilling to contemplate.
The first choice I have is to do absolutely nothing, since prostate cancer grows slowly and something else may kill me before the cancer, assuming it doesn’t spread, can do the job. Second, I can have my prostate surgically removed, thereby “curing” the cancer, but posing the threat of all kinds of very undesirable side effects—impotency, urinary incontinency, bowel leakage, to name but just a few. And finally, I can have radioactive “seeds” implanted in my prostate and receive radiation for the next 18 months.
As this is being written, I am awaiting a second opinion regarding my current condition and apparent treatment choices.
Believe me, I know that, in comparison to so many, many other people who have been diagnosed with “The Big C,” I am extremely fortunate. Still, I now know how thoroughly just hearing the word used in relation to yourself can absolutely paralyze one with fear and dreading.
I’ll keep you posted as developments occur.
Senior Moments
The Power of a Single Word.
by
Michael Garee
CANCER
