The Shadow

I did not ask for cancer. Who does? My cancer diagnosis made me think I can no longer live as I wanted or expected. It made me alert to what I can and can’t control. This is the my prostate cancer story.

Last week, I humped hefty packs of planks around our garden during a downpour of rain. The storm interrupted my attempt to re-roof our leaky log store, but made me think about issues of control, managing expectations and uncertainty. It is an illusion to think we control life’s lightning bolts. We can only control how we respond to accidents, bad weather, earthquakes, flood or disease. Prostate cancer, I decided, is like the uninvited arrival of a difficult, destructive relative.

Uncle Gilbert, as I’ll call him, is that noisy, annoying, distant relative who turns up unannounced, bumps into the furniture, breaks treasured items, stains the decorations, empties your fridge, makes a mess, wrecks your plumbing and walls, trips you down the stairs, and as you get up bruised and in pain, says ‘I will never leave’.

Two days before our marriage celebration last May, Caro and I sat in the small office of an NHS consultant urologist. The fresh-faced young guy was far from my previous experience with surgeons. His direct, empathetic manner reassured me, although the news was not good.

He was certain from the MRI scan I had grade 3A advanced local cancer — it had spread outside the prostate. Bloody Uncle Gilbert had moved in.

However, the consultant said I needed a biopsy operation to confirm the diagnosis and provide cancer samples for analysis. This would help decide the best treatment. The uncertainty had begun.

The news shocked but did not surprise me. When I asked for a precautionary PSA test in February, I had none of the standard quoted symptoms — difficulty peeing, rushing to the loo, blood in the urine or semen. In March, pain began north of my nuts. It told me something was wrong.

The PSA result was much higher than the previous one in 2019. February’s result prompted another PSA test in April. The pain continued. It was uncomfortable and sporadic and typically occurred on the left side. My GP dismissed it as unrelated to cancer. The April test showed a sharp elevation in prostate-specific antigen (PSA). This triggered me getting an MRI scan.

The consultant explained the MRI showed a shadow on the left. I mentioned my pain. He dismissed cancer as the cause. The news of shadowy Uncle Gilbert overwhelmed me, and I didn’t ask more about why I had the pain. Gilbert had moved into the guest room without permission, filled it with his junk, and was stomping on the floor.

The consultant emphasised what I had was treatable. Prostate cancer outcomes are excellent when the diagnosis is at an early stage. He answered our direct and awkward questions calmly, kindly, and with no defensiveness. His approach impressed me. It can’t be easy to tell men they have this disease.

After weeks of Uncle Gilbert denigrating your home, you make a choice. You either encourage him to leave, evict him, using violence if necessary, or adapt to living with him.

Caro and I went home and worked out how we would deal with our marriage celebration and beyond it. ‘We’ll get through this together,’ she said. I felt very fortunate.

Rainy weather has delayed fixing the log store over the last two weeks. Electric power tools and downpours do not mix well. An attempt a few decades ago to fix my then house’s leaky roof 40 feet up during rainfall nearly ended badly. I fell to the pavement and was lucky to be alive and uninjured. I resolved to be more careful and in future do risk assessments.

The log store repair is to prepare for winter and avoid ruining our supply of carefully dried logs. The rotten roof of clapboards needed replacing. It requires heavy lifting and me scrambling to remove the decayed planks and supports and install new ones. The roof height is much lower than at my old house, but there is a sheer drop onto steep stone steps. Do the repair and take care. After my surgery later this month, I will have to at least pause demanding physical activity. I am under pressure to finish the roof.

‘You can’t lift more than a kettle for a month or two’, the surgeon warned me two weeks ago. The robotic keyhole surgery still involves making six holes in my body.

Last week it poured again, and I waited. As soon as the sun shone, I was out. I stripped off the old rotten roof planks. Finally, I could see all the problems underneath and the full scale of repairs. I adjusted my plan to include replacing some struts and battens. It was the same getting a biopsy done, analysed, and interpreted by the doctors. The roof repair was not straightforward and nor was the path to treatment. Control what you can, accept what you can’t, and wait for more information.

In the days after May’s diagnosis, I had a growing sense of uncertainty. What would future tests find — had the cancer spread wider? Different treatments have various side effects, some worse than others. Was life as I knew it over? Don’t be silly, I told myself. The outcomes are better for this than for many cancers.

However, with Uncle Gilbert still squatting downstairs, more change was coming. Change I could not control.

In the next post: Why a man might ask me ‘Can you still get it up?’ and Uncle Gilbert reveals more nasty habits.

If you have questions about my prostate cancer story, please ask them.

 

Read more here: https://northofmynuts.co.uk/take-action-to-i…ove-your-chances/

 

For more information on the condition you can look at https://prostatecanceruk.org/