Gonna Have to Re-name this

Drink of Choice: Manhattan. Half Rye, Half Bourbon, Antica vermouth, Angostura. Electric Chair Choice.

When I started this blog, this journey, this…thing, I fully expected it would be a year of, ahem, therapy, in the form of chemical castration, and I would be done. I started this blog, named it “My Year as a Eunuch” and thought I would record what it was like to be that. For one year. Yet once again, naïveté made itself known. No matter how old we get, how wise we think we’ve become, there is always room to be stupidly erroneous. Is it hubris? optimism? Or maybe just head in the sand bullshit. We do tend to believe what we want to believe and ignore The Truth which is rarely our friend. In the end, can’t really blame us. It does explain many things. Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, crystals, CBD etc.

A year turned into four years which will now tun into a lifetime. Gents, your women are safe with me. Always. The proof of this was recent. The cancer was in remission all of 2021. A good thing by any standards, even mine, which, as is well noted, are minimal. In October I took a treatment “Holiday.” The hope was that it was cured. Hope is not a strategy. On my return visit 90 days later it was back, growing, basking in the glow of that famous epicurean delight (if you are prostrate cancer) testosterone. Precious little of it I might add, but still a feast for a starving disease.

HERE’S WHERE YOU NEED TO PAY ATTENTION. Okay. Enough with the CAPS already. As we get older, shit is going to happen. Bad shit. Shit that may or will kill us if attention is not paid. Pay Attention. First: Medicine is a numbers game. Survey says 95% of patients respond like this. You are not 95% of patients. You are 100% of the patients that matter at the moment, thank you very much. Which leads to; Second: Take control of your health data. You will remember your test results. Your Doctor will not. They see hundreds of patients. You are the only that matters to you. Here’s why this is important.

When I presented in early January and the cancer had come back, the Doctor said we’ll see you in 3 months. He failed to recognize that I had gone through this before in 2019 and that in the time frame he suggested the cancer had gown significantly and formed a tumor. I asked for a four week return and we settled on six week which was today.

In those six weeks the amount of cancer had trebled. This time I brought print outs of my past results. Good thing. Even after the trebling they still wanted to wait six more weeks. I showed them my past results. They huddled in a corner. I’m back in four weeks for a PET scan and a resumption of treatment. You have to be your own Doctor. You have to learn about your disease and become a subject matter expert. You have to advocate for yourself. Take an active role in your treatment or you might die. Unnecessarily. The life you save might be your own.

Many people have it worse than I do. I am reminded of this every time I go to Oncology. It has, however, been harder than I thought it would be. Ceasing to be a sexual being at 55 was, I thought, going to be the worst of it. It wasn’t. But one adapts and things once burdensome become the mundane. The odds are still good that I will die with it and not from it. Not as good as they were six months ago, but still good enough. There’s that “Hope” thing again. No apologies, it is what I have.

If you read this, my thanks. I mostly do it for the cathartic relief. Stay strong, be well. Drink what your pocketbook will handle. Life is, in fact, short.

Peace.