Drink of Choice: a Negroni- never a more perfect cocktail. Never.
Word of the day: Orchiectomy. Took me a while to wrap my tongue around that one.
When I started this journey five years ago, I started this blog thinking one year of chemical castration and I would be cured of stage II prostrate cancer. I was a silly, naive boy of 55.
Stage II became Stage III and we marshaled on- Eight weeks of radiation and 30 more months of chemical castration. Once again, thought we had it licked, but by now I was a silly naive boy of 60.
We did not.
I have a form of the disease known as “Castrate Resistant.” Nasty bit of business this. Prostrate Cancer feeds on testosterone. It is its food of choice. Usually you turn off the testosterone and the cancer starves. Not so in my case. The little buggers figured out how to make their own. It is rare but it happens. Just lucky, I guess.
Sadly, this form of the disease is always terminal. At least for now. An aggressive approach os required.
To this end I had an Orchiectomy on Friday, 15 July, Anno Deo 2022. When I was in Pre-Op a nice gentleman, name of Mike (fairly sure he was a south sider) came in and introduced himself as part of the surgical team. As a bit of protocol he asked me to tell him, in my own words, what surgery I expected. This is a nice feature as I was not there to, for example, get my left leg amputated. I answered him south sider to south sider- “Mike- I’m here to get my nuts cut off.” “Fair enough” was his reply. And off we went. Some lovely drugs were administered (really lovely I might add) . Before I faded from view I had everyone in the OR laughing their asses off. Makes their job easier I think.
What happens next I won’t describe in great detail. I woke up, went home, and began the recovery process. It was not pretty.
No heterosexual male wakes up and says, “I think I’ll get an Orchiectomy today!” Ever. For good reason. It is painful and it is ugly. At this point my entire reproductive system has been removed. Not that I needed it, but still. I have, however, gained some modicum of respect for men who transition. I cannot image what forces would drive someone to this shit voluntarily. It is brutal, it is painful. Respect. For the record I am still He/ Him.
Why get castrated when the cancer is castrate resistant? Good question Obiwan. The easiest explanation I have is this. I can and have made my own wine. In a cooler. On my back porch. It was wine. It worked. But. I can and have gone to Sotheby’s and bought a 1962 Lafitte. It is better. Much better. Same with testosterone. The shit I used to make is better. Let the little buggers make their own home brew and suck on it.
What’s next? No fucking idea. Not entirely true, but the immediate future is not entirely clear. I had an enhanced PET scan last week. I find out the result tomorrow. Big day that. Hopefully it has not metastasized but it well could have. 50/50, my guess. Then we take it from there.
In any event, it will eventually. Then what, I do not know. I prefer to ignore it for now. I am coming to grips with certain realities: I will not see 65. I hope to see 63. I might not.
In the interim I will live my life. I will drink the Negroni, I will have the cream sauce, I will eat oysters, clams, and nasty bits that sadly few enjoy. I will live until I die, I will suck the marrow out of life. I will be me. Until I am not.
Thank you for reading.
Peace,
Jay
My Year as a Eunuch 