It’s rare you can put your finger on the precise moment your life changed. In my case, it involved an actual finger.
In late July, I had an appointment with my family doctor before she skittered off to Abitibi. Near the end of the exam, she said, “Okay, let’s do it,” so I dropped my pants, lay on my side and took a deep breath.
And then I (uncomfortably) felt that finger hesitate, as if to say, “Wait a sec…”
“You have a bit of hardness on one side of your prostate,” my doctor reported. “It could be nothing, but let’s do a blood test.”
The blood test revealed a high PSA, and for the first time we were saying the word “cancer.” Prostate cancer. Of course I would get the most comedic of all the cancers, perhaps the only comedic one. It’s highly curable, so it’s okay to joke about; men grow goofy moustaches to raise awareness of it; and it involves the big three of physical comedy: incontinence, impotence and rectal probing.
“Well, there goes your sex life,” Deb joked when we got the news. Yeah, I thought and chuckled ruefully. Hang on: what did she mean “your”?
Weeks later, my urologist confirmed (even more uncomfortably) my doctor’s findings, and in early September, I had my biopsy.
A prostate biopsy is essentially a test to see how much indignity and discomfort you’ll be able to manage as a cancer patient. The day began with me drinking a dose of Monurol, “an antibiotic medicine used in adult women to treat urinary tract infection.” Side effects include dizziness, runny nose and vaginal infections. I’m relieved to report I suffered none of those.
We then headed to the hospital, where, as we walked past the helicopter landing pad, I tried not to let the limp windsock get to me.
Inside, I changed into a gown and sat in a hallway with three other men who clearly remembered the Great War. The orderly tried to be reassuring. “Ça va bien aller,” he kept saying as we each took our turn. “Notre sacrifice…” muttered one of the gents.
As for the procedure itself, it was like a nail gun up the rear, and that’s all I’ll say about that.
And then I waited. Once I recovered from the horrors of the biopsy, I went about my life, feeling fine, though every now and then I would think, “Oh yeah: I might have cancer.”
On September 28, I was sitting in a golf cart at Orford. It was a beautiful fall day, made more glorious because I wasn’t actually playing golf. My cell phone rang. It was my doctor. There was cancer all right, a Gleason scale of 8, aggressive, likely to spread rapidly.
Let’s cut to the good news: a bone scan and an abdominal scan revealed agonizingly later that the cancer had not spread. But in the meantime, I had to tell my family about what until then Deb and I had kept to ourselves. Telling the children has by far been the worst part of this whole ordeal. Parents spend their lives trying to protect their children from worry, and here I was being the source of it.
It’s gotten better as we’ve learned more about treatments and prognosis. But it’s still cancer. Even though 1 in 7 Canadian men get prostate cancer, even though it has a high survival rate, even though there are many, many people worse off than me, just the word “cancer” strikes fear. (Cancer has by far the worst PR of any disease. They should try calling it “Krazy Cells!”)
But it’s a tyrant, this cancer. Because of it, I feel I’ve lost control of my narrative. I’m not “fighting cancer”; you can’t fight a plane crash. Nor am I “living with cancer.” That’s like saying I’m “living with cats”: I had no choice in the matter and it’s terrible.
I have cancer. It’s in me. Doctors are getting it out. I’m just along for the ride.
Cancer may be calling the shots but I won’t let it define me. Does this mean I’m living life to the fullest? Hell, some days I’m not even living life to the halfest. But for every bad day, there have been more days when I’ve been overwhelmed by kindness or a piece of music or laughter with friends or the tartness of a tomato, which I’m supposed to eat one of a day, God help me.
This morning, I’m having my prostate removed. I’m writing this a few days prior, not yet having undergone the mortifications of pre-op enemas and extreme manscaping. In the coming weeks (months, years), I’ll deal with the psychological loss of my manhood, although honestly there wasn’t much manhood to lose in the first place. But today, we close the chapter that began with a finger. Hopefully everyone washed their hands.
Tomorrow, a new chapter begins. It turns out I haven’t lost the narrative. It’s simply an unexpected plot twist. I’ve been writing my family’s stories in these pages for years. I won’t let scary old Krazy Cells silence me. I plan to be well. And I plan to tell what happens next.
Warning: it may involve catheters.
You have a story telling gift. Wonderful to read although not the meaning, just the words you chose. I mean, cancer sucks, I know way too many who are (still) fighting this disease. But I love the way you told your story. ❤
Thank you very much.
How are you doing today
Sending a jillion happy, healing, calming thoughts your way.
Thanks, Ruth Ann
It takes a bit of humour to get through these things. I joked and blogged my way through cancer and am happy to say that I finished chemo three years ago . Just think about it this way, you might get to accompany Deb in the hot flash department. It could be a competition of sorts. Seriously though, I am sorry to hear that you are going through this and wish you well. Keep your stick on the ice (as it were).
Hi Joy. Thought of you a few times as this day has neared. Thanks for the message. Deb says often she can’t wait to go through menopause. I think she underestimates.
yes, the phase while we are changing from fertile to infertile is kind of merde (just doing it to be able to say pardon my French) – at least we know we come out the better on the other side.
There are still lasting effects – and some my include vaginal dryness – oh, look – you two have not to worry about that becoming a problem – aren’t you lucky?
More wrinkles, and other body parts moving south.
But the change-phase, the peri-menopause, that is what is gruelling – or can be. Because the good news is: A third of women show no symptoms! Maybe Deb will be among those lucky 33 % where only “the Russian relatives” stop visiting.
“Russian relatives” is a first for me. A very European expression.
Oh, we had “the Russians” when I was young, but I thought “Russian relatives” sounds nicer.
Hello how are you doing today
You are in my thoughts today, Ross, as you and the docs do what you must to beat back that Krazy Cells. You keep writing, I’ll keep reading, promise.
Doing all right at day’s end. Thanks, Mark.
Now I’m giving thanks all over again. That’s great news, Ross.
I’m thinking of you as well and sending good wishes and results.
Some of your best writing, about some of your worst news. What a gift you have. Be well. Keep writing. Ça va bien aller.
Merci. I’ve had months to prepare this, unfortunately. (Always carry a notebook.)
Write through it.
Wishing you the best during the surgery and the days of healing. Krazy cells are hateful things and I’m sending happy thoughts for a very positive recovery.
Thanks so much.
We are thinking of you today and wishing you a very positive outcome to match your very positive outlook on life. My love to Deb and your family too!
Thanks so much, Jen.
You have a great attitude and tell this story as only you could tell it! I’m thinking of you and your family today and sending positive thoughts your way. I plan to read your stories for many years to come!
Have it removed, have it removed I kept on saying to myself as I read on. Then you said it, I am having my prostate removed. Having it removed before it metastasized to the bones is the best move ever. The poking and the prodding, the treatement , born out of need , are acceptable. Having your coffee and reading your newspaper in you favorite armchair with the sun streaming in on you is better than not. Hang in there, take things a day at a time.
All things considered, things have moved quickly. I’m grateful for that. It’s out. Next phase.
Since I’ve started reading your essays and posts, you’ve struck me as a guy who’s thoughtful, positive, and, despite the light tone, tough-minded. And man, apparently you’ll do anything for a good column, no pun intended. My grandfather would have described you as a mensch, and a schtarker (a solid guy), able to write with humor in such a time. I’m just writing to say, I’m sorry for your troubles, and stay tough, I have confidence in you, Robbie.
Thanks Robert or Robbie as it turns out. Here is so much material here it would be a shame for me to hold back. What writer can do that? People have been so kind also. Thanks again.
Surgery, robotic or not, isn’t any laughing party, but sometimes it’s good to live in modern times, putting all sorts of technology to good use. I look at my family – pacemakers, titanium joints, tiny hearing aids, all kinds of tech that’s kept everyone ticking, I’m grateful.
And the weekly blog came out on schedule.
Praying for you. And if you don’t believe in prayer think of it as sending good thoughts your way.
Only you can write a light piece about such a serious matter.
Thankfully it’s not worse. That might have been tougher to write. Thanks, Marguerite.
Privileged to have you as my younger brother
Go to your exams, Andrew – it could run in families, you never know.
Love you back.
Sincere wishes Ross for the best possible outcome. Laughter is good medicine, except sometimes after surgery, when it actually hurts to laugh. Even then, it helps to surround yourself with funny people. Hope you are back to full on guffaws soon. Regards, Ilona
I’ve been overwhelmed by such love and concern even from people I’ve never literally met! What a community!
It is a community. Perhaps because we share our thoughts with one another in ways that sometimes don’t happen in our face to face relationships. Glad you are feeling the love Ross.
Well, well, if this is not a convincing blog post about why you should have your examinations I do not know what is. All the best, Ross.
I nearly didn’t go. How would that have ben for a surprise later on…
You see, you might lose your ability to penetrate your wife – but you already have children, you are very likely to be a grandfather one day – after all you have four of your own, not that unlikely that there is one among them who one day makes you a grandfather – and this procedure you are having now will at least help in keeping you alive to be a grandfather. And as for your wife’s sex life (sorry, you started that) – women are not reliant on penetration to have a good sex life – do I really need to say more?
Congratulations on being the first person to come outright and say “penetrate.” I love it. And, yes, my wife and I have already discussed alternate-thinking intimacy. Brown my on the grandkids!
It is simply a reason of me not being able to choose a softer wording (I am German, English is my second language, sugarcoating is not even part of my first).
I just answered to your jibe about your wife saying “That is the end of your sex-life”- part of your blogpost …
I would not have mentioned anything about your most private life if you had not … But most Canadian and American women will probably be too ladylike to consider making that remark – and I got the vibes you needed a female perspective. It is not the end of the world. Just the end of the world as you know it.
You’re the best. Everyone needs a little Fran in their life.
But only a little, you know we have an old adage here:
It is the dose that makes the poison.
#damnthosekrazycells. they are jerks and you are not. best wishes to you and your prostate and i know that somehow you won’t lose your storytelling superpower. hugs and thoughts.
Thanks so much.
And in sharing your story, so eloquently, Ross, you are touch people in more ways than you know. Thank you!
Thanks, Crystal. See you soon.
Hi Ross, Thank you for sharing. Beautifully written and expressed. (Got a laugh from the “limp windsock” LOL) Sending positive blessings and prayers to you and your family. I am writing from N.S. – CP’s mother.
Hi Bev. Thank you for your kind thoughts. I could use a little NS about now.
Profile in courage. If I weren’t an atheist, I’d offer thoughts and prayers, but I’ll just say you have the right stuff.
PS — I think you’ve inspired me to make a long-delayed appointment …
I like stuff. And do it, Kevin.
I first have to say how much I appreciate and admire your honesty in sharing this experience, Ross, although I’d expect that from you. Along with the appreciation and admiration for your honesty and humor is gratitude. About a year ago during a blood test my doctor flagged my PSA as being suspicious. He wasn’t alarmed but wanted me to have a biopsy, which I have yet to schedule. I’ll do so now because, if a Canadian who is well-within his recommended weight index can get Krazy Cells, a bacon-loving American dealing with Donald Trump on a daily basis certainly can. Thanks for holding up a mirror and sharing this with others. You’re a good man with a good heart, my friend, and those two qualities go a long way in healing the body as well as the spirit.
Thanks, Ned. These are hard things to talk about, even though we all know that it’s so common. Do get checked. Sending you a note off-blog.
Oh, Ross, Ross, Ross. I’ve been wondering how you’ve been. Was going to ping you again but decided you didn’t need the distraction. My heart is so heavy. Dang, brother, hang in there. Wish I had three wishes. I’d use the first one on you.
What did they do with your prostate? You should ask them to return it and fashion a key fob out of it. Just my two cents.
Hey, man, stop that, it hurts to laugh.
I think they actually send it off to be sliced and sampled, like Einstein’s brain.
I’m doing all right. At home and about. Pain meds and bad TV. It’s out now, and that’s the best thing I could wish for. That and maybe they were able to save some nerves…
Laughter is the best medicine unless you have stitches. That could be a problem.
Thank you for sharing this with us. I’m thinking of you and your family and wishing you nothing but a fast recovery. Oh, and damn those krazy cells! So many people I know have been diagnosed with cancer this year. Sigh. I find a heavy dose of humor will help heal even the harshest trials in life, so you should have no problem getting through this ordeal.
This hit home for me. My husband has had several abnormal PSA tests recently over the years and his own father was just diagnosed with prostate cancer this year. So we’re keeping a close watch on things.
Take care of yourself and keep us posted on how things are going when you get a chance.
Do take care. My lifestyle is pretty clean, so it’s a real crapshoot. Thanks for the kind thoughts.
I’ll be praying for you and your doctors! As a nurse we see cancer and these operations daily, but when it’s you or your loved ones it’s a whole other ordeal.
Thank you. And I am truly grateful for my compassionate health care team.
I am praying for you!
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Welcome to the “club.” My membership is on the female reproductive side and the reason I haven’t bligged in 20 months. Aren’t you grateful that you live in Canada? I hope your treatments go well, and you have a long prostate-free survival. And accept all the offers of help you get.
I truly am grateful. My care has been excellent. I’ve had to advocate for myself, as they say, on a couple of occasions, but I’ve never had to worry about taking out a 3rd mortgage. Sorry to hear you’re a member. I hope you at least get good seats.
Reblogged this on richwrapper and commented:
A touching, sometimes hilarious, tale of prostate cancer by someone I “follow.” A cautionary tale (tail?). Well worth The Read. And more comes.
nice article,i love this
Although cancer isn’t funny, you at least brought some humor to what is a scary word. Cancer.
My ex-husband (father to my 2 kids) had prostate cancer and had his prostate removed within the last year & 1/2. He and I are still pretty close, so we’ve talked about a lot of his fears, woes, etc. He’s also had a few funny-ish stories to go with this journey, so I’ve had a few laughs at his expense.
Anyway, prayers and good juju for you from me here in ST. Louis, MO (you know, murder capital of the US!).
Thanks. Laughter is a way of regaining control when everything is out of control. Good health to you.
Having earned my MuchLeader status at Luddite U, I have been trying to get this posting to my wordpress blog richwrapper and via that avenue to my facebook and twitter accounts…so now I hafta go lie and ambush both. Don’t ask me “why?” But this Ross Murray guy and his twin-barrel approach to life with Prostate Cancer is just too hilarious and too scary and too too not to expend the efforts to make technology see it my way (again) for a change. Besides, my own bastardized versions of haiku, tanka, American Marine humor or dishumor if you must (and, I’ll even spell it with a ‘u’ to please my northern brethren in this half-continental condition – why is North and South affixed afore America when the isthmus attaches both and thus one continent, surely is beyond me? A plot by geographers who really should have written perhaps Lief EricsonLand instead. But I digress. Thanks, Ross, for surviving and for choosing to writeaboutdit! I may soon, real soon now, laugh my way before mine own friendly oncologist. We graduate Luddites owe you. Just what I will assess later.
I think my story is pretty common, which makes it that more unlikely that men will talk about it. So let’s talk about it, right?
As for North/South, how come only Americans get to call themselves Americans?
YaGotMe, Ross. When my youngest (of 2: hence, Nieces-2-Pieces suggested she’d rather be ‘White’ like dad and me after I almost slapped her and took her face between my hands and kneeled down to her at face level and said: “Honey: you are American and white is not a color but the inclusion of all colors and I prefer Pink instead and her eyes got real big and she laughed. Ross, you have my permission – and it’s the only one that counts in my universe – to call yourself any thing you choose: American comes in about fifteenth on my list but haveatit, pal. You are absolutely correct, sir, when you note too many men avoid not just the fickle finger but also The Talk about that. I came home from my job as a newspaper editor decades ago to go fishing with my pop and do some chores for my mom the day before when she blurted out that she was watching late-nite teevee and saw a breast cancer info-mercial (why at 1 a.m. is beyond me when it should be at 10 a.m. disturbing “ladies’ talk TV) and so she did the self-exam feel-up and found a lump and she asked me what she should do. I got on the phone, called her GP’s office and told the receptionist who I was – Sally Richards’ son – and I that I wanted to speak with The Doctor as soon as possible. Minutes after hanging up he called for me. Minutes later I had her in my car en route to the doctor for an exam. A couple hours later I was back at home waiting for dad to come home from work – and Disney World, a delightful non se=iquitir, no? – and told him to hop in: we’re going to the hospital for mom’s mastectomy. Ross, it was that quick. But that was 1981. I’m not sure its replicable now. No more doctors who know the whole family. No more insurance…no: let’s go on to better stuff. I msut confess my last interaction with medicine – and its practitioners was about 1997 and before than more like 1988. Mea Culpa. You might think your story is pretty common, Ross, but it is uncommonly well-written. I now flee to Twitter to see if my Jerry-Built, Jury-Rigged, Jerry-Built (why always do we seem to demean Germans and Jurisprudence when we make our metaphors?)
Sorry: still editing…and I used to know how to spell non-sequitur.
I’m half-scure it’s a Mafia thing, calling ourselves after an Italian cartographer employed by was it the Spanish like that Chris Colon guy? And I loved the irony of you asking why only Americans get to call themselves Americans. When ever I get a form asking for Race I answer “Slow.” When ever I’m asked orally what race: I answer quite often Human. And, provably, now at last, we have found in almost all the first-peoples to leave Africa on our outward treks elements of Neandertal genetics in our bloodwork. ‘Splains my hairy back and scarred knuckles, I guess. I love my country; hate my – hell, anyone’s – gubbmint. I guess that qualifies: American. You gotta make your own rules. But I do recall fondly the book and the movie: The Devil’s Brigade…a WWII combined Canadian-American infantry experiment which conclusively proved we are separated by a common language. I doubt just how common “Eh” is. In Florida where I live we have about seven distinct countries and perhaps 15 distinct peoples – and no one yet has enumerated the numbers nationwide. You? And your brethren forever doomed to let a Florida hockey team win a Stanley Cup?
Disasters are part off concence off life. Not just LIVING. LIKE I’M BELIEVE IN LOVE. =/WRONG. THERE FROM GOD GREATER LOVE THAN HIS =T R U T H.
📱 Call me 📱
* * *
🚶🎄 🏡 ⛪🏫🎄
Happy New Year
Go for a picnic
I loved reading this, even though I’m sure you loved nothing about going through it. And you are a brave man to make light of it. Heal well. Stay well.
Doing fine. Hoping for continuing good news. Thanks for reading.
Hilarious in the most healing of ways! Thanks for writing through your recovery, too, despite pain while laughing.
Thanks for reading.
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Great telling of the tale of bad news… I used to be the guy who performed the ultrasounds, so I understand very well. Best of luck!
That must be tough, seeing what you see and knowing what they maybe don’t know yet. Anyway, thanks for reading.
Especially when family friends were patients…
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Hiya, I am 5 months ahead of you with the PC. There will be good and bad days but for me humour was the key. Looks like you have it too so you will do just fine 🙂
We shall see how much it immunizes me. Curious to read about your experience; bookmarking for later.
Reblogged this on EL CAPIGRINGO and commented:
Some people make life difficult for others and others make life better, easier, and more interesting. I appreciae this brave man’s post about his experience with ‘Krazy Cells’ … he made my life better today.
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Sending my support love and thanks. For telling your crazy cell story with humour and strength. You got this. Xxx😗
Thank you. Doing my best.
No i am doing my Best 🤣😂boom boom!
Ahhhhh!!!! Didn’t see that. Well done, Coincidence!
Pun’s are easy with my name xx get better quick smart *stamps foot* ☺
I hardly can imagine how tragedy coul be written in a comic style, you done this! With all the agony you went through, you ensured to put a smile on people’s face! Superb post! Hope you have faster recovery!
Thank you. It’s mostly going well. Hoping for good reports.
I pray too the same! fingers crossed!
Hey Ross! Hope doing fine. You told it so well, couldn’t imagine is prostate in you, you are narrating! You got an incredible way of adding life into your days. Long live Ross! Write Ross write! I need the humour, courage and laughter from your end. Be blessed.
I’m 36 so I know I’m getting up there in age and need to do a prostate exam.
From my understanding, you shouldn’t need to worry until you’re 40. However, the better you treat your body now (reduce animal fat, etc.), the better off you’ll be. Stay well.
Hoping that all has gone well for you with your surgery. My father in law has prostrate cancer and we both went through the menopause at the same time when he started hormone therapy. We both laughed at the hot flushes. Empathy and laughter always gets us through these challenges in life. All the best with your treatment.
Thank you very much. No talk of therapy yet for me. We’ll see. Best to you.
You have written it very well. It is beautiful. I smiled. I pray the cancer goes away quickly. Wishing you well.
Thanks for your prayers.
I wish you my very best. Love your humour and the ability to make light of something as scary as cancer. Hope love and laughter will get you through this.
So far so good. Thanks for your wishes.
I am sending you this application that you may be interested.
Have a nice day..😉 always smile 😊
I am so glad that I chose to read this story … for many reasons. I love the way you write and will read more to learn, but I will also keep you in my prayers. I am so sorry for your pain, but writings like these bring awareness and it is a wonderful thing that you are doing. God Bless!
Thank you. I’m glad this piece has reached a lot of people, especially if that means they will not take their health for granted.
Perfect writing and perfect post.
Well, I don’t know about “perfect.” Stupendous maybe, but perfect? Thanks.
Hello friend, it’s funny I don’t know who are you but your cancer story came to me and I read it even though I’m Chilean and my language it’s Spanish so I understood only the 70 % of it
But we have some things in common, I also love writing and also have a Blog with almost no public … anyway Um wiring to you to tell you this because also I’m a therapists
I had 3 times cancer and never felt afraid and I’m over them but I believe very much in god and in evolution, Sinai accept everything that happens to me us a lesión to grow in my way of evolution… do you believe in those 2 things ? If you do you will never be afraid friend but if you don’t you Belice in yourself and that also would be enough to be over scary couse your soul it’s divine
Hope you are ok naw, and I’m sure you haven’t lost your manhood couse a man it’s the one who stands up in any situation and you did that so my friend I salud you for good writing and god person! Regards
Thank you, Yoya. These are lovely words.
Reading about someone’s cancer story is very interesting. I myself have not gone through life just yet but hearing about this feels very real. I wish you the very best!
Thank you. Long life to you.
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Wow — this is too flight writing and prime inspiration! Subscribing now & reblogging to my sister site “Timeless Wisdoms”
Glad you appreciated it.
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Man, you’re so cool. Wish you the best going through..❤️
Best wishes .get well soon woth steadfast recovery👍🏻
Thank you for your honest yet very funny story. As a RN I sometimes have a twisted sense of humor. I‘m looking forward to your next story, even though it might include catheters 😉 Wish you all the best and a good recovery. Greetings from Austria, Lana
So great to hear from an actual health professional. Can I talk to you about my swelling?
sure…if you like you can send me an email to firstname.lastname@example.org (in case you’d like to discuss this matter more privately)
What a funny, fascinating tale from a vulnerable storyteller. You certainly left this reader wanting more, and interested in following your blog.
Thanks. If all goes well, there will be more and more. But it ain’t all like this, my friend. Life’s rich tapestry, and all that.
Thank you for using humour to tell your story; a great read. Wishing you all the best!
Thank you very much. On the mend.
Ross. Humour is the main thing you need, so you should be ok. I’m 20 months on from your situation. I had roughly the same results as you and thankfully manned up and had it out. We Aussies do black humour pretty well and it kept me out of the black hole most of the time. The incontinence goes away and keeps going away slowly over time. Catheters suck, but I did quite enjoy wearing the pee bag on my leg with shorts on, sitting at the front bar and never missing a thing by having to go to the bathroom! The slack wind sock (nice one!] is the new me. It’s been extremely disappointing as I was led to believe (ok,I heard what I wanted to hear) that I should be all ok. Not so. Thing is, my wife says that she is happy that sex is no more. That’s a bit confronting too! It seems that a lot of woman at 60 have just about had enough, but never say it. That is a complete new subject worth fully understanding by men. Big babies do lasting damage and then there is all the other stuff to do with ageing. I think that the lack of intimacy is something we still need to work on and we will. Love is the key. We have two grown up boys and very close families, so it’s obvious what’s important for me now. Of course, we don’t have to look very far to find a friend in much worse circumstances than us. With my PSA undetectable, I feel lucky. I hope you are going to feel the same as me or better very soon. Good luck mate, Tim.
Thanks, Tim. I know I have a lot to (perhaps not literally) look forward to, and I’m hoping I’m emotionally strong enough to handle it. Can I ask how old you were when you had the procedure?
Ross. I was just turning 60. My wife is a few months older than me.
You look of an age that this would hit hard if you have nerve damage with the usual results. Mine was bi lateral and getting a margin even with the robot was apparently very difficult, so I have significant nerve damage on one side and slight damage on the other. But importantly, we got the margin I needed! So, I have SD but I’m mentally getting over it now. I still use Cialis at a low dose and occasional higher doses. It’s not working. We even tried various penile injections but I had significant pain and scaring from these with only moderate success, so stopped using them. My urologist has been suggesting penile implants but I emphatically declined. I put the white flag up instead!! I still might eventually get back to somewhere near normal function over the passing of time but I am realising that it’s not that important. What I’ve discovered is that my wife and all of my female friends are not really into sex at 60 plus. I’m sure that they’re not just making it up to cheer me up. They are into good male companionship and I’m delighted to be able to help them with that. I hope I’m not scaring people with what I’ve written above. I just feel that these things aren’t discussed enough to help men negotiate through the maze.
You’re right, it isn’t discussed much. As I’ve suggested in this post, I’m game to write about my life. However, seeing as this aspect also involves my partner, this might not be the venue. That said, I’ve had several offers from friends of friends to talk about their experience. But, yes, I turned 53 just two days after surgery, so I’m somewhat younger than most of those gents. I’m resigned to a flaccid future, even if the doctor said he tried to save the nerves on one side. If I return to my glory days, I’ll count that as a bonus. What’s important is that I’m at least still here to worry about it. Thanks, Tim, for your insight. Good luck.
Positive thoughts sent your way. You have a very great gift for writing. I will be reading your past posts. Remember, one day at a time. Focus on the positive. Find diversions of thought. Old TV Westerns, comedy movies, and nature’s wonders are all helpful for the soul, I think. Best wishes.
Thanks. I have up days and downs. Trying to stay up. It’s a hard time of year to be feeling somewhat useless.
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I’m sorry about your diagnosis. That said, this gave me a laugh – you have a great sense of humor.
Very nice one
Awesome read….admittedly, as a 55 year old I kinda fear the same initial exam. I hope the best for you. Remember Red Greens famous line, “Remember, I’m pulling for you. We’re all in this together.”
It’s really not so bad. 55: you’re past due.
Sending so much good luck and positivity. I love your story telling.
Thank you. I’m on the mend and things are looking good so far.
https://livetheslip.wordpress.com/2019/01/03/antiprincess/ please review my post. And help me learn.
I love the way you wrote this…. Krazy cells suck! I hate it. I hate when people come and tell me “oh you are so stong”…. I don’t feel strong. I’m just, like you said, dealing with it. There’s no fighting or living with cancer, you just desl with all that’s thrown at you. I like the way you put it. Been trying to think of how to word that because I feel the same way. Praying your surgery goes well – take the drugs they give you! Lol
Hi Bri. If this helps you articulate it, then mission accomplished. I am 7 weeks out now and feeling mostly fine. Waiting on blood work and the A-OK that will hopefully follow. I wish you good health.
Glad you are feeling better. I had my entire colon removed in October so I know your pain! Do you know if you will have any other treatments yet?
Not yet. If everything went well, they got the cancer with the surgery. That’s what the blood test will indicate.
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