Tag: living with cancer


RESULT!

15
November

11/11/11 – is a date that will long be remembered in the Molloy household.  While Michael D. Higgins was being inaugurated the ninth President of Ireland, I would be getting the post-op pathology results and having my catheter removed.  The pathology results were first and the news was good – the surgery got all of the cancer.  Welcome news indeed!  Inasmuch as I can be after a cancer diagnosis, I am in the clear!

Of course, once you have been diagnosed with cancer you can never be completely out of the woods.  There will always be a risk that cancer will rear its ugly head again in the future.  It’s something I will just have to live with – this is as good as it gets.  Considering I had at one point been resigned to dying in the not-too-distant future, the result is pretty damn good!  I will have to return to the Rapid Access Prostate Clinic in the Mater Hotel every three months initially for check-ups, basically monitoring of my PSA levels.  All going well, the frequency of the checkups will reduce to 6-months then annually.

Following all this good news, the next order of business was removal of the catheter.  I had been looking forward to this since Cathy was installed during the surgery.  However, it was not as straightforward as expected.  Normally, removing a catheter is quite simple.  The business end is held in place in the bladder by a balloon filled with water.  The water is removed by means of a valve outside the body and the catheter slides out.  That’s the theory.

In my case, which was rare, the catheter would not budge.  It was perplexing so I was sent for an x-ray and an ultrasound to see if the balloon really was deflated or whether an obstruction could be identified.  The balloon was deflated all right but it was not clear what was preventing the catheters removal.  This was disheartening.  Cathy could not be forced out because, quite apart from the intense pain, there would be a risk of damaging where the two ends of my urethra were joined together, where my prostate gland used to be.

Later in the day, I had been walking around a bit with the balloon deflated.  So another attempt was made to remove the catheter.  By now the tip was outside my bladder and somewhere in my urethra.  The trouble was, it would not go back into my bladder – it was stuck!  While unusual, this situation was not unheard of.  If I went home for the weekend as I was then, with a bit of luck, the catheter might work its own way out of my urethra and penis.  If not, I would have to go to theatre next week to have it removed under anaesthetic.

By now I was very sore and found every movement extremely uncomfortable.  The journey home was littered with speed ramps and potholes to maximise my discomfort, despite TLC’s best efforts to find the least winding and bumpy route.  On getting home, the good news from the pathology results was overshadowed by the prospect of another few days with Cathy and another night in hospital.  I was feeling quite dejected.

I went into the bathroom and closed the door behind me.  I was going to examine this for myself.  Very gingerly, I took hold of the catheter and applied gentle outward pressure.  It came out of my penis, by about half an inch, without too much difficulty.  So I tried another half inch.  It gave way all right but this time it was painful. Crucially, though, I could not discern any increased resistance to Cathys outward passage.  Assuming there was no physical obstruction to the catheter coming out, it could be removed but it would hurt.  The challenge would be to maintain focus on the amount of resistance to the catheters removal while not being distracted from this by pain.  If resistance increased it would indicate a physical obstruction, necessitating a mission abort to avoid doing damage.  This meant I would need to stop pulling immediately if resistance increased which, in turn, meant I’d have to pull the catheter out slowly.

The decision was made. I gritted my teeth and braced myself.  There was about five inches of catheter to remove so without wasting any more time thinking about it, I got on with what had to be done.  It hurt like hell but the desire to get Cathy out without tearing my urethra to pieces prevailed over the pain.  My focus was entirely on how smoothly the catheter emerged from my penis.  Through a kind of out-of-body screaming, I could feel Cathy scraping the inside of my urethra but not hitting any obstacles.  Just as I was beginning to wonder if I was doing the sensible thing, the end of the catheter dropped out of my penis and I threw it into the sink with a vengeance.  Success!

That was one of the hardest things I have ever done but having it behind me now felt great.  I was thoroughly fed up with Cathy and did not want to spend another minute with a bag of piss strapped to my leg.  I would not recommend this approach to anyone else as it is risky and it could have ended in tears.  But in the interest of getting rid of Cathy once and for all, I decided it was worth accepting the risk and the pain.

Within the hour, I had my first normal pee in over two weeks and it felt good!  Well, it felt more strange really but that was to be expected after what my body had been through.  Surprisingly, there was no blood – just some stinging and a slight ache.

That was not the end of the good news though!  I had left the hospital armed with a two-week supply of urinary incontinence pads.  I wore them for the first two days but it quickly became apparent that I do not need them.  I cannot believe my luck – no urinary incontinence!  Well, I still leak a drop or two if I try to force a larger than usual fart.  But that’s nothing.  The main thing is, I don’t need to wear pads.  The usual suspects of coughing, sneezing or standing from a seated position do not present any problems at all for me.  I will still do the pelvic floor exercises as that muscle will still have to do more than it is used to, since I lost a sphincter muscle in the surgery and don’t plan to stop farting.  Incontinence was the post-op side effect I was least looking forward to dealing with.  That it is not apparently going to be an issue is a most unexpected bonus and yet more to be grateful for.

Another thing I left the hospital armed with was a prescription for Viagra.  This is, alas, a necessity.  Suffice to say, I do indeed have erectile dysfunction as a side-effect of the surgery.  It is treatable though and, I hope, temporary. I am to take 25mg of Viagra each day for six days and, rather biblically, “on the seventh day” I take 100mg.  All going well, that will enable me to have an erection.  This is not just for the purpose of l’amour though.  The Viagra regime is necessary to increase blood flow to the penis, to prevent scar tissue building up which would eventually make it impossible to achieve an erection.

All things being equal, if I had to choose between being stuck with urinary incontinence or erectile dysfunction, I would have chosen the deal I have now.  So overall I am very pleased with the outcome of my treatment to date.

It behoves me at this point to express my eternal gratitude to the medical and nursing staff in The Mater Hospital, the Irish Cancer Society, the ARC cancer support centre in Eccles Street and, of course, my family and friends (old and new) for all their wonderful support.

With a successful result to the treatment (notwithstanding the ongoing ED issue) it is time now to move on and rebuild my life.  Between sick leave and burning up my annual leave entitlement for the year, I do not expect to be back to work until the NewYear. I will need that time to fully recover.  I am still quite sore and I tire very easily.  There is also the matter of how I spend the rest of my days.  Having stared into the abyss at a relatively tender age, I do not see a resumption of ‘business as usual’ in January as a viable option.  Exactly what form the changes take I do not know yet.  But there will be changes.

Me and my moThe day after I was discharged from hospital was the first of Movember, when men around the world grow moustaches to raise awareness of prostate cancer and to raise funds for it’s treatment and research.  I am, of course, taking part and if you would like to show your support you can do so at http://mobro.co/TomMolloy.

6 comments » | Cancer

Only When I Laugh, Cough, Sneeze

4
November

It’s a week since my radical prostactomy, my fourth day at home and I have settled into a routine of sorts.  What occupies my mind most is pain.  Ironically, it is not so much pain from the surgery as that from a different operation, over four decades ago.

When I was one or two years old I had surgery for a hernia.  I have no recollection of it, just a long scar on my abdomen, to the left of my brand spanking new scar.  My abdomen is still swollen following my prostatectomy but it is very lop-sided, with most swelling on the right.  It seems that 42-year-old scar tissue is not as flexible as ordinary skin and muscle.  There is a pronounced dimple along half the length of the old scar, where tissue is being pulled and stretched, resisting the swelling and causing considerable pain as a result.  If it were not for this, I would actually be relatively comfortable.  It’s just my luck that something which never bothered me before flares up now!  Hopefully, when all the swelling has gone this issue will go with it.  But I have an awful dread of needing further abdominal surgery at a later date.

Pain in around the prostactomy wound is worst when I laugh, cough or sneeze.  The pain hits me in the whole abdominal area on these events but sneezing the worst.  I feel a strange sensation like a burst of heat within the wound when this happens.  It only lasts a second or two but the stinging pain in the old scar area continues for several minutes afterwards.  I have become adept as suppressing sneezes but if there’s one in there it has to come out sooner or later.  The knowledge of this and the anticipation of it is terrible.  I like to think I have a pretty high pain threshold, making a distinction between pain and tolerable discomfort.  This is definitely pain and it knocks me for six every time.  If this is what a caesarean section feels like, I have a renewed respect for TLC and other women who’ve had sections.  It is no joke, I can tell you!

Coughing causes the pain as well but it’s not as severe and I’m getting used to controlling it.  The first thing to cause coughs are phlegm in the lungs.  I’m like a cat bringing up a furball now, coaxing it out gently instead of ejecting it decisively.  I’m sure it’s not a pretty sight or sound and it must be testing TLC’s patience.  It still hurts but not as much.  The second cause of coughing is something hitting the back of my throat.  This is as bad as sneezing and is caused by the most innocuous things like eating toast!  Yesterday, I must have been inhaling as I raised a slice of toast to my mouth and a crumb came off it and hit me where it hurts, causing an involuntary cough I wasn’t ready for.  I nearly went through the roof!

Laughing causes pain too but it’s the kind of pain you don’t mind so much.  It’s like trying to suppress a laugh at a funeral and is all the more enjoyable for it, in a perverse way.

Thinking about it now, I’m attending a national prostate cancer seminar tomorrow and the first workshop I’m registered for is ‘Laughter Therapy’.  Maybe that wasn’t such a wise choice, nine days following major surgery.  What the hell!  It’s the one I wanted to go to so I will.  The full day seminar will be my first big excursion from the house since leaving hospital and I’m a little apprehensive about it.  Taking my meds on time and getting to drain Cathy (my new name for my catheter) will play on my mind somewhat I expect.  But I’m sure there will be many like me there, though probably not as soon after surgery.

On my second day home from hospital this week, I received a letter.  It was from the hospital, informing me I have an appointment with a consultant breast surgeon! This was either an admin error or someone was taking the piss!  On phoning the breast clinic, it transpires I do indeed have an appointment for a breast check, of all things.  Apparently, men can get breast cancer as well.  This was news to me and what a way to learn it!  Wouldn’t that just be the cherry on the fucking cake, if it turned out I had breast cancer!

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Going Home

2
November

In my last hour in The Mater Hospital, I had a bit of time to kill before TLC would arrive to bring me home.  So I went for a stroll through the hospital corridors, for much needed, post-op exercise.  I paused at a window overlooking Berkeley Road and saw runners in the Dublin City Marathon passing by, many of them clearly running to raise funds for cancer charities.  This had a sudden and entirely unexpected effect on me as a multitude of feelings came flooding to the front of my mind.  These were feelings I subconsciously felt the need to put on hold while I dealt with the business end of having cancer.

I knew that many of the people running the marathon for cancer charities were doing so because they had recovered from cancer themselves or had lost loved ones to the disease.  They were people like me, who had lost both my parents and came very close to falling victim to cancer myself.

It was only through sheer luck that I was diagnosed when I was.  My combined PSA and Gleason scores were bad, initially indicating I might not survive.  But the long anticipated MRI and bone scans results showed that – against the odds – my cancer had not spread beyond the prostate gland.  Prior to getting those results, I was mentally bracing myself to be told I was going to die from this.  But I had major surgery ahead of me so I still could not unwind.

Now, packed and ready to go home after the surgery, I stood at the window watching people running a marathon on behalf of people like my late parents and me.  For the first time since D-Day, overcome with emotion, I cried.

That window, overlooking the corner of Eccles Street and Berkeley Road, represents to me a turning point in my life from where nothing can ever be the same again.  I am going to die.  That is an absolute certainty.  What is unknown is how or when.  Every minute between now and then is a gift not to be squandered.

4 comments » | Cancer

Is that a bag of piss in your pants or are you just pleased to see me?

30
October

Well, the deed has been done and I am now sans prostate.  The last thing I remember before surgery was the anaesthetic being administered at 1pm and thinking about my late parents.  It was upsetting to think of my mother and father dying from cancer as I was about to be operated on for the same disease.  So I had to make a conscious effort to not think about my parents at the most vulnerable time of my life.  That was hard.

When the welcome oblivion of general anaesthetic lifted, I noticed the time: 10pm.  I was initially troubled about the length of time I was out – it should not have been nine hours.  Apparently there was some issue with my pain management: I vaguely remember regaining consciousness briefly and being in some distress in the recovery room but quickly going back under again.  When I came to at 10pm I felt no pain but I was disorientated.

I had always imagined that coming out of a general anaesthetic must be very disorienting and I was right.  Losing several hours is disconcerting, not that I would want to have gone through them.  After spending a couple of hours under observation in the recovery room, I was brought back to the ward, where I had the best nights sleep in weeks!

On waking the next morning, I was pleased to find I had a patient controlled analgesia attached to my arm – the means by which I would treat myself to frequent doses of morphine for the next day and a half. I had heard great things about morphine and was not disappointed.  As well as being an effective painkiller, it gives you a pleasant ‘high’ – the silver lining of major surgery!

The next thing to check was my abdomen and, of course, Horace.  Poor Horace!   The catheter was in place as expected.  What I was not ready for was the sight of a 6mm diameter tube sticking out of his one eye!  It looked awful and Horace was horribly bruised and swollen.  Surprisingly, though, the catheter did not feel as intrusive as I had expected (probably due to the painkillers).

The day following surgery was okay, thanks mainly to my new best friend: morphine.  Getting in or out of bed demanded herculean effort but apart from that there was no pain.  I mostly spent the day stoned and drifting in and out of sleep.  The medical team was around early and Dr. Galvin told me the surgery had gone well.  He managed to remove all that he needed to while leaving nerve endings to the right of my prostate largely intact.  It is these nerves I will rely on to achieve an erection, eventually.  I needed a lot of pain medication during surgery so that accounted for my feeling so out of it now.  Dr. Galvin said I would be coming off the intravenous morphine the next day and switching to an oral version.  Apparently the good stuff can cause constipation and the next signs of recovery the team will be looking for are farting and shitting!

Grace was to come in to the hospital to see me the next day so I was happy enough to abandon my NBF in the interest of having a clear head for my daughter’s visit.  I was a little worried that she may be freaked out by seeing me laid up, with tubes sticking out of me and me carrying a bag of my piss around like a macabre handbag.  As always, though, Grace was cool about everything.  There is an old head on her 6-year-old shoulders and she seemed barely even curious about my condition, thankfully.

I started walking around the hospital more, on Dr. Galvin’s advice.  I’m a bit shaky on my feet and get weak and dizzy easily.  So trips are kept short and close to the hand rails that are everywhere in hospitals. I’m also to drink as much water as I can, to flush out the system.  Luckily, I can drink quite a bit so the nurses are kept busy emptying my catheter.  I have to say, I really do not like wearing one!  While it wasn’t particularly uncomfortable at first, it is starting to get so now and I am counting the days to Friday 10th November, when I get it removed.

I said it before and I’ll say it again – you’d be amazed what you can be grateful for.  Even something as routine as taking a piss is a thing of great beauty when you can’t do it!

What seems most unfair about a catheter is, contrary to what I expected, I still fee the need to ‘go’ all the time, even though the urine is constantly draining out of me.  I can spend the day watching my bloody urine filling a bag but I don’t get the sensation of relief from having a normal slash.  At one point, I tried applying a little pressure, to see if I had any control at all.  It hurt like hell so I won’t be trying that again in a hurry!

Another inconvenience of the catheter is the tube gets airlocked.  So I have to keep lifting it up to allow the urine to drain.  A few times, the flow went the wrong way – a very unpleasant sensation!  The catheter I go home with will be different and designed to be mobile.  So hopefully I can have a relatively normal life while I have it.  I don’t think the other diners would thank me for sorting out my airlocks in the restaurant!

Overall, despite considerable discomfort, my sojourn in The Mater is pretty good.  It is a relief to have the first phase of my treatment behind me.  The recovery is next and I’m looking forward to it.

7 comments » | Cancer

Under the Knife

26
October

My radical prostactomy looms as the countdown transitions from days to hours.  I am being admitted to the Mater Hospital at 2pm today, with the surgery to take place about the same time tomorrow.

I still feel very fortunate that I was diagnosed at all.  Were it not for my high blood pressure, I would still have cancer anyway.  However, I would not have been be aware of it and it would still be growing – and probably spreading – inside my body.  This would have had the attendant impact on my chances of survival.  So, all things considered, I am a very lucky man indeed, especially given my family history of cancer.

To any man reading this I say: Get Yourself Checked Out!  I was only 43 when the bombshell dropped.  Since then, I have heard of men as young as 33 being diagnosed with prostate cancer.  The perception that you have to be over 50 before you start thinking about the threat of prostate cancer is a mistaken one.  You have nothing to lose by going to your GP for a blood test and you have everything to gain.  This applies to women too.  You won’t get prostate cancer, obviously.  But cancer can start in any organ of your body, at any age, and it is utterly indiscriminate.

I was lucky to have a good GP who ticked the PSA box in a routine blood test.  But luck is not something to be taken for granted.  So get it checked out: you owe it to yourself and to your family, not least your children.

On D-Day, when Prof. FitzPatrick broke the news, my attitude was that I only wanted to live and the side effects of treatment – urinary incontinence and erective dysfunction – would be trivial in comparison.  At the time, I said I would “cheerfully” accept them. While still grateful for a second chance, I’m not sure that I can say I’m still “cheerful” about the side effects.  Resigned or stoical would be more accurate.  Perhaps this is a product of complacency, from learning that my cancer has not apparently spread beyond my prostate gland.

Among the preparations I have had to make for surgery and its aftermath are pelvic floor exercises, to strengthen the muscles pertaining to urinary functions. They mostly involve clenching muscles in the pelvic region and are pretty tedious.  I was never one for exercises, as a small fortune in wasted gym membership fees over the years will testify.  But the emphasis put on them by the medical team and prostate cancer patients I have spoken to makes me think it is actually about more than just going through the motions.

At my yoga session in the ARC Cancer Support Centre on Monday, one of the guys in particular told me how much yoga and the exercises have helped him to recover.  A year after the surgery, he is making good progress, largely thanks to these exercises.  So I am now faced with an inconvenient truth: that physical exercise and real effort reap benefits that I will have to work at to realise. Feck!

One of the main benefits of ARC is meeting other patients.  I am definitely the ‘baby’ of the class and I almost feel like a pretender as a result.  But in conversation with two of the lads, before hitting the mats, one thing that was said, which I hadn’t appreciated before, was that the younger you are, the more aggressive your cancer is likely to be.  Oddly enough, this made me feel better (now that I have my favourable MRI and bone scan results under my belt), enhancing my right to be a member of this exclusive club, so to speak.

At the end of the yoga class, the guys were fantastic, wishing me luck with my surgery and giving me phone numbers to ring for moral support.  There is a sense of community among cancer patients that is beyond compare.  The support from the medical professionals, the Irish Cancer Society and ARC is excellent.  But it is your fellow patients – the people who have gone or are going through what you are – that means the most.  These are the guys who have stared the prospect of imminent death in the face, pulled through and gone on to live life with renewed vigour.

There is an observation that I am bound to make at this juncture of my experience.  In Ireland, we are regularly told about crisis in the health service.  While there are undoubtedly issues, I have to say that my experience so far has been entirely a positive one.  Having been diagnosed on 16th September, I am having curative surgery six weeks later.  That’s not bad, considering a necessary wait between biopsy and MRI/bone scans.

This makes me wonder what I paid VHI for in the years before I quit about six months ago, due to the unsustainable rising cost of private health insurance.  I would not have been seen or treated any sooner had I had VHI cover.  In some countries I would be turned away if I didn’t have private insurance.  So, with all the problems we have in Ireland, including the health service itself, it is reassuring to realise that there actually are some things that do work in spite of all the bad press.

My main point-of-contact with the HSE is my prostate nurse, Mary.  She has been absolutely fantastic.  Talking to anyone – never mind a woman – about urinary incontinence and erectile dysfunction is difficult.  But Mary has a professionalism and sensitivity that makes it easier.  In fact, she was way ahead of the curve than I was, foreseeing the emotional issues I’m only beginning to come to terms with now.  I was blasé about ED in particular, in the beginning.  But Mary, due to her training and experience, was good enough to know that the impact at my relatively tender age would be yet to hit me.  The cavalier attitude I have admittedly had up to now is ebbing somewhat.  The good news is that my prospects of a full recovery are good, though it will probably take months rather than weeks.

Mary assured me that the plan is to:

  1. Cure the cancer
  2. Get me “dry”
  3. Recover my “erectile function”

I am all for this order of priorities so no problem there.  The difficulty I have is that I am only now beginning to realise that the issues of urinary incontinence and ED are going to affect me more than I had at first chosen to believe.  It is not that TLC and I have a particularly rampant sex live.  It is probably average, at best.   But even going from average to zero is disappointing.  So there is a body of work ahead of me over the next several months (image of Sylvester Stallone in training as Rocky Balboa, complete with background music!).

The 24 hours between admission and going to surgery will be long.  I was given the option of a sedative at my pre-operative assessment yesterday but I declined.  I reckon I’m going to have enough pharmaceuticals in my blood as it is and a bit of anxiety won’t kill me.  I have plenty of reading material to keep me occupied and if I don’t sleep, it might zonk me out for longer during the day when I will need it more.

I hope to duck out of the hospital in the morning to vote in the presidential election and get back in time for surgery.  Hopefully I will be sufficiently recovered on Friday to follow the results online.  Election counts are my Cheltenham (sad, I know) so I’d be disappointed if I don’t get to watch the results coming in for my preferred candidate.  Thank God for the single transferrable vote – you can’t buy entertainment like that!

Anyway, it’s time to sign off and go under the knife.  Wish me luck!

11 comments » | Cancer

Lucky, Lucky Bastard

14
October

It really is amazing what you can be grateful for, when you have the right perspective.  I was diagnosed with prostate cancer four weeks ago today.  But the disease has not spread beyond the gland itself.  That’s the wonderful news I got this morning, after four long, anguished weeks of waiting.  And gloriously grateful am I to receive it!

With a PSA level of 9.5 and a high Gleason score of 9, I had pretty much convinced myself that my cancer was bound to have spread throughout my body, with the attendant impact on my chances of recovery.

The nurses had given me an unofficial heads up that the MRI and bone scan results looked good.  But the results had yet to be reviewed by the medical team and there was always the risk that they would spot something untoward.

This morning my mind was put at ease in the Rapid Access Prostate Clinic.  If I won the Lottery it couldn’t top the feeling I have now and my prospect for a full recovery is now far better than I dared hope when I was diagnosed four weeks ago.

Of course, once you are diagnosed with cancer, you are never completely out of the woods and there is always a chance that it could rear its ugly head elsewhere in my body, at any time in the future.  But I could also be hit by a bus before that happens.  So life goes on regardless and the spring in my step that eluded me on D-Day has finally materialised.  In a peculiar way, being diagnosed with cancer has given me a new lease of life.

I also, finally, have a date for the surgery to remove my cancerous prostate gland (and a few other bits and pieces) – I go under the knife on Thursday 27th October.  The tumour in my prostate measures 1cm x 1.9cm.  Given that a prostate gland is about the size of a walnut, that seems quite large, not that it will bother me after the 27th.  While the surgeon is in there, he’s going to remove lymph nodes in the pelvic area, as there is a chance that cancer can spread to these.  So the surgeon’s instructions on the day will be “if in doubt, whip it out”!

Apparently, the consequences of losing my prostate gland may not be as severe or as long lasting as I had feared.  I will certainly have to cope with some urinary incontinence and erectile dysfunction following surgery.  But the extent of these side effects varies greatly from one patient to another.  I could be back to my old self within weeks or it could take a year or more.  There is no way of knowing at this point.

Urinary incontinence may not be quite as bad as I’d feared.  I had thought I would have no control whatsoever, pissing myself all the time – not cool!  However it is, apparently, likely to be only when there is pressure on the bladder, such as when standing up from a seated position or bending over, stuff like that.  The silver lining is that it gets me out of many of the household chores I hate.

Urinary control is based on two sphincter muscles: one behind the prostate and one in front.  I will lose the rear one in the surgery but it’s the front sphincter that matters most.  I can prepare for this over the next couple of weeks by stopping a slash in mid-stream.  It’s not the most edifying of exercises but hardly the most arduous either.  So I can live with it (“live” being the operative word).

I’ll be wearing a catheter for two or three weeks after surgery and it is when this is removed that I’ll know what I have to deal with.  I’ll be wearing ‘pads’ (an awful word) to soak up the (hopefully) odd dribble for a while.  I have only discussed this with one other prostate cancer patient so far and he was still having problems since his surgery in January.  I’ll be talking to many more before my date with the scalpel.  So hopefully I’ll learn of others who have had a better experience.  Either way, it’s inconvenient but not the end of the world, all things considered.

Of course, the second major side effect of radical prostatectomy is erectile dysfunction (ED).  Similarly, this may not be as long lasting as I’d first feared.  There is no real pattern in the experiences of previous patients.  So, again, it’s a case of ‘wait and see’ (the traditional ‘suck it and see’ seems hardly appropriate, under the circumstances).  The Lovely Colette (TLC) can be assured of undisturbed nights sleep for quite some time following the surgery.  It can take weeks, months or years before normal service is resumed, if at all.  There is hope though.

One option is to take a quarter of a Viagra tablet six out of seven days.  This does not mean I’ll be walking around with a stiffy all the time (sorry ladies!).  To achieve the desired state, a full tablet at the weekend should do the trick.

Funnily enough, it is important to achieve erections in the first year following surgery, if only chemically induced.  If this doesn’t happen, the tissues involved effectively form a kind of scar tissue that reduces the probability of being able to get it up naturally.

There is also the option of using an injection into the base of the penis, which would definitely perk Horace up (‘Horace’ is how TLC and I affectionately address my cock).  The thought of sticking a needle into Horace seems kind of cruel.  But if tough love is what he needs that’s what he’ll get – and he’ll bloody well like it!

Overall, today has been one of the best days of my life.  The cliché that “today is the first day of the rest of your life” takes on renewed meaning after you’ve been diagnosed with cancer.  So many clichés like “life’s too short” and “don’t sweat the small stuff” assume new meaning that you had previously taken for grated.

When you are faced with the cold, up close and personal prospect of imminent death you undergo a life-changing transformation that is utterly irreversible.  Having being diagnosed with a life-threatening condition is not necessarily the end.

Blessed as I am with the beautiful family, friends and colleagues I have, I now realise what a lucky lucky bastard I am!

10 comments » | Cancer

Fight Club

26
September

It has been a week of baby steps and milestones for me since D (for ‘diagnosis’) Day.  I have made no further progress into the Understanding Prostate Cancer booklet I was presented with, having swiftly come to appreciate that holiday reading it ain’t.  The sterile descriptions, while important to know, need to be tempered with good news stories of successful recoveries and reassembled lives.  If you try to digest the raw clinical data undiluted, you risk sliding into a world of corrosive self pity you can ill afford.

Good news anecdotes about prostate cancer are certainly plentiful and encouraging.  But details about the pertinent PSA and Gleason scores, which right now are of most concern to me, are usually missing.  I take after my apostolic namesake and tend to believe what I can see with my own eyes or understand through the application of logic and reason.  So I have to make a decision to take comfort from the anecdotes and to believe, despite misgivings, that the future looks bright.  This is not an easy thing for a doubting Thomas to do.  But when you have cancer you learn a lot of new stuff about yourself that you didn’t know before D-Day.

A recurring theme of the past week is telling people with expertise or experience of cancer about my respective PSA and Gleason scores of 9.5 and 9.  The reaction is always the same – either awkward silence or gentle agreement that it is “not good”.  I can almost hear Corporal Jones of Dad’s Army inside their heads: “Don’t Panic! Don’t Panic!” he screams, as they maintain a straight face.  So I don’t put them in the uncomfortable position of pursuing what they really think about it or whether they know anyone who has recovered from such apparently unfavourable odds.

To be fair, one friend did know someone who made a full recovery from prostate cancer with very similar PSA/Gleason scores.  As well as that, Eileen on the Irish Cancer Society helpline speculated that my scores could indicate that the cancer is “locally advanced” but confined to the prostate.  It may be a long shot but there is really no point trying to second guess the bone and MRI scans, of which I have still heard nothing official.

Catherine, the prostate nurse in the Mater, told me that hopefully I’ll have the scans in the next two or three weeks.  Bruising from the biopsy, three weeks ago, would show up on scans and would be difficult to distinguish from the cancer itself.  It didn’t occur to me at the time to ask how this affects a bone scan.  But I waited long enough to get the biopsy and then, again, its result.  As much as I dislike waiting, patience is a skill I am learning and I reckon it will take me another couple of weeks to clear the decks mentally for the approaching fight.

Picking up the phone to the cancer helpline was a hard call to make, being my first practical, external acknowledgement of my condition.  I could have been put straight through to a man who has been through what I have just started.  But I was not ready for that yet, telling myself I should read up more first.  Another early milestone was reaching out to the ARC Cancer Support Centre, in Eccles Street.

Both Catherine and Eileen had advised me to contact ARC as they offer good support services to cancer patients and their families.  On checking their website, I found that ARC is an excellent facility, providing practical and emotional supports like counselling, relaxation therapies and a drop-in centre, all conveniently located on the same street as the Mater Hospital.  So, following an initial phone call, I visited ARC to check it out, introduce myself in person and cross the threshold into the cancer support community.

Waiting for the door to be answered, I found myself feeling the role of cancer patient beginning to fit, acceptance settling.  Mary opened the door and invited me in to the interior of comfortable seating and shelves of books about living with cancer.  Of equal value were newspapers and other reading material, because cancer subject matter gets tiresome after a while.  The centre immediately struck me as an ideal place of respite for Colette during the difficult days approaching when I will be in the Mater across the street.

Chrissie joined us as I briefly outlined my case, including my PSA/Gleason scores, which drew the by-now predictable response.  I described how I felt I was braced for my cancer by seeing my parents dying of it and my concerns for Colette, as she had not experienced the disease this closely before.  I knew what she was about to be faced with and that she would need more support than I could provide.  But Mary and Chrissie said she is welcome to drop into the centre any time, if only to get a break from the hospital ward to have a cup of tea and to read a paper in the conservatory, or to talk to somebody in an informal environment.  There may be things she needs to get off her chest that she cannot talk to me about and these are the invaluable supports that ARC is there to offer.

Catherine, the prostate nurse, had recommended an ARC yoga class for men with prostate cancer, to help prepare physically for surgery and mentally for the time leading up to and following it.  I have always wanted to try yoga but I never did anything about it.  Classes in the community are almost entirely made up of women.  I like the company of women but being a token male in a room full of leotards and leg warmers would make me feel like a bit of a girl’s blouse.  Now that I belong to an exclusive club I might as well avail of whatever silver lining it makes available and I start yoga classes today.

The yoga class will also be my first time to meet other prostate cancer victims – another milestone.  I can’t help thinking of Meat Loaf in the movie Fight Club, where he attended a support group for men with testicular cancer.  Yoga won’t be as spectacular as a group of alienated, stripped-to-the-wait men beating the shite out of each other in a basement.  But the tenuous association with one of my favourite films of all time is still pretty cool!

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Day 2: Tick Tock

17
September

My second day as a cancer patient started, as I dare say it does for many of us, with a hangover.  Having said that, the rest of the day after leaving the hospital yesterday wasn’t as bad as I would have imagined.  Sure, there were some tears but only in brief bursts.  Starting a blog was cathartic and it gives me an outlet to get stuff off my chest instead of wallowing in self pity.

With the experience of both my parents’ cancers under my belt, I was under no illusions about life being ‘fair’.  So when I was diagnosed I did not have to struggle with the feelings of outrageous injustice that might otherwise have been the case.

It was like that when my father was diagnosed and I did not deal with it well at the time.  The poor man had quit smoking five years before.  But after 60 a day for most of his adult life, the damage had already been done.  He was given three months to live but only got half that.  It was very traumatic for all of us to see him being taken so quickly and unceremoniously.

When my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer it, of course, came as a terrible blow.  But she responded well to the treatment and got a year of remission.  However, despite appearing to be in good health, the cancer returned and took her away from us last year.

So by the time it came to my turn for a diagnosis, I was as prepared for it as I could be.  Prof. FitzPatrick was at pains yesterday to stress that the plan is to cure my cancer.  So that is the plan and life has to go on in the meantime.  There is also my six-year-old daughter, Grace, to consider.

Naturally, we’re not telling her there is anything wrong.  When the time comes, we’ll have to explain Daddy being in hospital for a week, when I go in for the surgery.  But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

In truth, the absolute worst thing about having cancer is the thought of your young child at your funeral and your not being around to see her grow up afterwards.  I’m a long way from that scenario being borne out and hopefully Grace will be a grown woman by the time my time comes, hopefully at a ripe old age.

I have never been one to fear death in itself.  I like to think I have a healthy, philosophical attitude to the great inevitability that every one of us faces sooner or later.  I’ve never really understood the social taboo about discussing death except in a religious context (which I don’t subscribe to) or in the most superficial, clichéd terms.  Life is only a ‘temporary little arrangement’ (to paraphrase Albert Reynolds’ famous description of a past coalition government) so there is no reason why anyone should feel cheated by or morbid about dying.  We are all going to die.  It’s just a question of when and how and, not least, how we live our lives in the meantime.

I don’t know what the statistics are for recovery from prostate cancer but I’m hearing a lot of anecdotes about men who have survived it.  By all accounts, if you’re going to get cancer, prostate is the one you want!  Suffice to say, I will be looking into this further so I hope my research bears it out.

It would be a mistake to take from the above that I’m fatalistic about my cancer.  I’m actually feeling generally positive about it all.  I’ve always liked the saying ‘that which does not kill me makes me stronger’.  What will be will be and if I survive this I’ll be a better person for it.

What worries me now is what the bone and MRI scans will reveal.  I’m actually looking forward to the surgery to have this troublesome gland whipped out and good riddance to it!  But if the scans show that the cancer has spread from my prostate I’ll be in trouble.

I really, really hope the scans will tell me what I want to hear.  I had hoped the biopsy would do that but it didn’t.

So it’s a waiting game. Tick tock, tick tock……

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