Drink of choice: NOT dry Martini. 4 parts Plymouth Gin, One part Dolin Dry. Orange bitters. Three unstuffed manzanilla olives. The Gold Standard, as far as I am concerned.

Friends, it has been too long. Much to discuss and so little time to do it.

I am tired of talking about my cancer. I am interested in talking about yours. Feel free to reach out.

As was well reported in these pages, my reproductive system has been forcibly removed in its entirety. Good news is there are replacement parts available. My most recent surgery was an “AUS.” Artificial Urinary Sphincter.” Look up Boston Scientific 800. Pretty cool. If it takes I won’t have to live in my own urine 24/7. Fingers crossed. For those that are curious, walking, talking and sleeping in your own piss sucks. Just to clarify.

A friend reached out to me- and the world. Fellow traveller. Laid his soul to bear. Implored you to get a colonoscopy- at the least. Follow his good lead. Do it. I would add, get your PSA’s checked. Both apply to fellow biological men aged 50+. and Breast cancer screening for my women friends. Those born with vaginas at the very least (It is so hard to keep track these days).

Not wanting to talk about cancer- it has become boring- let’s discuss life. What is it all about? Is it worth living? Will there be prizes?

“What’s it all about?” Douglas Adams proposed the answer is, in fact, “42.” Could be. Not so sure. I would suggest the meaning of life is reproduction. Every species, viruses- all are hard wired to replicate themselves. It plays into my unified theory of science. 1: Everything is physics. 2: Chemistry is just Physics slowed down a bit. Quite a bit, really 3: Biology is self replicating chemistry. It is the self replicating part that is key. All life- or in the case of viruses- genetic material- is hard wired to replicate. If you haven’t done it, I highly recommend it. Or at least try. Nature is not always cruel.

“Is it worth it?” Absolutely. No biological life form-from single cell organisms on up would disagree. Being alive is the coolest thing ever. Ever. It is Binary. Exist or not to exist? To be or not to be, that is the question. To be is the answer you Danish fuck. Suicide is still for losers. Life is good.

“Will there be prizes?” Gets tricky here. The seventy-two virgins thing is right out so go unstrap the incendiary device from your chest right now. St. Paul and pearly gates aren’t happening either and despite Albert Brooks vision (a jew contemplating a heaven with Meryl Streep? Really?) the food likely won’t be that great. But life has its rewards. A life well lived is worth contemplating. That is a can of worms. Thoreau had his ideas. Brilat Savarin had his. I have tended to agree more of the latter while appreciating the former. I recently drank a Chateau Figeac “69 that proved there are prizes. My daughters growing to be strong women is a badge of honor. You decide.

So what’s it all about, Alfie? Was life so simple then? Maybe. When was then? I do not know, but it feels like some time ago.

I leave you with what I know to be true. Love each other. The history of humans is convoluted and fucked up but there is one constant- if we love each other life is better. Always and forever. There is nothing else.

With love and an everlasting but misguided hope for peace,

Jay

Drink of Choice: A not so proper Cuppa. I’m an American, I’m lazy, so I use Tea Bags. Loose leaf is better and such a mess.

Word of the Day: oligometastatic (more on this later). I’ll give you a dollar if you can pronounce it.

Dear Reader:

The last chapter was a bit violent and gory, what with the tale of being drugged and dismembered and being left for near dead. I apologize if it did upset but fear not; our story does not end there. If I can encourage you to read on, I think you will find- as certainly I have upon reading this- that like a Rembrandt, darkness in one part of our story will accentuate the light on another.

First, a primer. Do bear with me as a general understanding of my disease is needed.

PSA’s- Prostrate Specific Antigens- These are proteins that are generated by the male prostrate gland. Healthy men will have PSA’s in a range from 0-4 (That’s nano grams per milliliter for those of you scoring at home). If, like me, your prostrate gland went rogue and you’ve had the treacherous little bastard removed, any and all ensuing PSA’s are generated by prostrate cancer cells. It is the measurement by which we can judge if the disease is progressing or regressing. What you hope for is that through quasi medieval forms of therapy you can the levels to “Undetectable.” The limit of detection of the assay is .03 ng/ml, so you can never quite be sure that it is all gone. Your PSA’s could be .0275 and you might think that you’d been cured. You would be wrong.

That is what happened to me. After four years of therapy, my PSA’s were undetectable for the entirety of 2021. My Oncologist decided that we would take a “Drug Holiday” starting October 1, 2021. It is the only way to know if the cancer was or was not still present.

January of 2022 they came back with a great and furious anger. They started doubling every four weeks. This is cause for concern; any doubling of less than six months is considered highly aggressive. We re- started hormone therapy- to no avail. PSA’s continued to double every four weeks like clockwork. My diagnosis changed to Non- Metastatic Castrate Resistant Prostrate Cancer or nmCRPC. This an incurable, always terminal form of the disease. There are, however, treatments, specifically physical castration and gonadal blockers. These are like Offensive Linemen in football. They block the hormone receptors in the cancer cells so that even though they are generating testosterone they can’t uptake it. These have been shown to slow the progression of the disease by 30-40 months- real numbers.

Except it didn’t work. I took Apalutamide for two months and the PSA’s continued to double every four weeks. This, dear reader, was the darkness I spoke of earlier. I had about 12-18 months left and they would not be pretty. At some point it would be nothing but Radiation, Chemo, etc… I would spend most of what was left getting treatment.

Two weeks ago my PSA’s hit 2.9. This is very high and very scary. A PET scan was ordered and as you may remember from the last chapter, the last offending body parts were removed. I also changed drugs. I started taking darolutamide. This is a cousin drug to what I had been taking. My oncologist was not optimistic. It is like the difference between taking aspirin or tylenol after you’ve managed to cut off your arm in an event involving too much alcohol and too many power tools. But what the hell. Why not.

If you have managed to stay awake through this you are a better man than I Gunga Din. But, in a bit of foreshadowing, you will soon see that it will have been worth it- so far. So on to the light.

I had my my appointment with my oncologist yesterday to check my PSA’s and discuss the result of the PET scan. I was, as you might imagine, a bit anxious. In a cruel twist of fate, something got screwed up and I ended up waiting two hours past my appointment time. Other patients were coming and going until I was the only one left. Excruciating.

But as cruel as the gods are, they can, rarely to be sure, be gracious. When my Oncologist finally got to my room he started with, “I have good news.” He has said this never. In five years I do not go to Oncology for “Good News” as it is not usually forthcoming.

My PSA levels, in two short weeks, dropped from 2.9 to 2.0. A 33% decline- in two weeks! Not only did we stem the tide, but we turned it around. The little fuckers were dying off! Incroyable!

The PET scan did reveal a teeny tiny tumor on my 5th rib, left side. A very brief- three to five day- course of radiation should zap it back to where it came from. It is called oligometastatic cancer- a treatable form of metastatic cancer. I am still avoiding the dreaded Stage IV designation which is when things get all pear shaped.

I woke up yesterday thinking I had 12-18 months left to live. I went to bed knowing that I have 30-40 months and perhaps more. What is so critical is that 30-40 months is enough time for new treatments to emerge and get FDA approval. 12- 18 months is not unless they are already on the FDA’s desk. I got a reprieve from the Governor.

My oncologist still thinks that this might- I emphasize might- be curable. I told him that no one has ever been cured of this before. He said, “I know,” but maintained his belief. Not enough to hang my hat on, but still.

I have lived some 22,000 days. Like most humans, most of those days were a Joyce novel- wake up, work, eat, sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. Some days are different. Meeting your spouse. Marrying your spouse. The birth of your children. Watching said children grow up to be healthy, strong, intelligent adults. A few others, but you get my drift. Yesterday was such a day. By the end of it I was emotionally spent. Believe it or not, I did not even have a drink. Didn’t need it.

If you have come this far, I know that you have been keeping me in your thoughts, praying and general hoping for the best. I cannot tell you how much this means to me. Dealing with cancer can, per force, be a lonely experience. Thirty- nine days of radiation where you are literally the only human in the room, disconnected from other humans by a twelve inch thick wall, alone with a huge machine that while trying to save you is also killing some of your favorite bits and bobs. Scans, too numerous to count, where again you are alone with a machine that makes strange noises and you don’t really understand what it is doing. Yet even in your loneliness you know that you are not alone. Thank you for that. Really. You have no idea how incredibly much to helps.

What now? I am taking a month off. Spending all of August at Lake Kabetogama in Minnesota. I’ll catch a few fish, eat them, read a book or two. Reflect. I have been granted a gift. I can still write one more chapter before we get to the epilogue. Which is more than I had yesterday.

Thank for reading.

Peace, Love,

Jay

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

Drink of Choice: Boulevardier (Sub Montenegro, Rittenhouse)

Word of the day:  orchidectomy

My friends, it has come to this. What started, lo these many years ago as a one year experiment in chemical castration, is about to turn into a permanent state.

It is a simple procedure: a small incision; the testicles are removed. A few stitches and Bob, Fanny, enz. Uncles and Aunts are a precarious lot.

So much of a man’s life revolves around his: nuts, huevos, balls, jewels (More euphemisms than I can count). It is, in fact, silly.

I remember growing up on a farm. Animals were routinely castrated. I am familiar with the process. Straight forward and simple. A young 10 year old farm boy can do it. I will have a trained surgeon. Waste of an MD degree, really. Bottle of bourbon, sharp knife, bottle of bourbon. You could do it. Hell, I could do it myself. Maybe extra bourbon. Needle and thread. Bob and Fanny thing.

Testicles are interesting things. They have, in fact, caused many of humanity’s problems. Testosterone in particular is traceable to most evils in the world. I know this, having lived without for these past five years. A little less would make the world a better place.

Prior to surgery, I think to have a party where I serve nothing but testicles. Lamb, Pork, turkey and hog. They are in fact delicious. Most recipes are fried; I am thinking grilled and poached with a variety of sauces. Thank goodness I own Escoffier, “Ma Cuisine.”

As we age we start saying good bye to many things. The list is long; you have your own. Never thought my testicles would be on mine, but here we are.

Many more things to discuss in the coming months. One thing I will bring clarity to. When I was diagnosed with Prostrate Cancer five years ago, many people said “It’s just prostrate Cancer.” “Easily curable, blah, blah, blah.” You were wrong, It is a serious disease. It needs must should be treated as such.

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.

Drink of Choice: Champagne

This post has nothing to do with Cancer. Or may have everything to do with Cancer.

Today is Western Easter. Next week Eastern. Whatever. Not going to start counting angels dancing on the head of a pin. I am many things; theologian is not one of them.

What I do know is that now, more than anytime in my life, The World needs Easter. Regardless of your beliefs, or lack thereof- I’m probably in the latter camp, full disclosure- we need to embrace the meaning of the holy day. Or holiday. You pick. I’m not fussy. See paragraph two. Or is it three? Not sure if the drink thing counts as a paragraph. It’s the part where I’m not a theologian.

Easter is thick with meaning. I intentionally avoid most of them. What it does bring, to every human on the planet: Christian, Buddhist, Atheist, Muslim, Jew, Janine, Zoroaster, animist or whatever – a sense of hope. That there will be life renewed. In the darkest of times, there is a light. Hope. Promise of a better day, a better life ahead. There is. Really.

It also brings a message of love. Love thyself, love thy brother, your fellow man. Man do we need that now. We can go back to being pissed at each other when this is over. But not now. Not now.

Brevity is the key, so I shall obey. Be well. Stay safe. But don’t forget to drink the champagne, eat the lamb, have a warm fresh roll you baked for yourself but shared with as many as you could. A life worth living is worth living well. Happy Easter. Happy promise of another day, a resurrection of life. It a message worth sharing and grabbing hold of. We ALL need it now. More than ever.

 

Drink of choice: “I’ll have the usual” I said to my virtual bartender.

Weed of Choice: More on that later.

When I last posted I was convinced we had overcome Advanced Stage III Prostate Cancer. We were wrong. After thirteen months of the cancer being undetectable, treatment ceased end of September 2018. Then the long wait began. In January, 2019, my testosterone started to elevate. And the cancer came back. With a “Strong and furious Anger.”

I proceeded to have every scan know; Bone Scan, PET Scan, MRI with “Endo rectal Coil.” Look it up. If you live your life without one of these you will be more fortunate than I. I’ve had two.

The cancer was angry with me. This time it formed a small tumor but fortunately it was confined to  the pelvic bed. The PET scan  revealed “suspicious activity” on my spine. This resulted in two phone calls from the “Tumor Board” (yes, it is a thing) and an additional scan- a Lumbar MRI. I hate MRI’s. I probably have had more than you have and I hate them. In my youth I dabbled in psychedelics. MRI’s are a bad trip. Thankfully they only last an hour. When I get done its straight to Jimmy’s Woodlawn Tap for a shot and a beer. Or two. Hate MRI’s.

Once we ruled out spread beyond the pelvic bed, treatment was Chemical Castration (lupron three month) Zytiga daily and an eight week course of radiation.  Zytiga is a med that shuts down testosterone from sources other than the testes; adrenal glands and the cancer cells themselves.

A brief discussion of Radiation Oncology. Radiation Oncologists are defensive of their machine. Don’t listen to them. It fucks you up. End of story.

Post radiation things got weird. If you know me, then you know it got really weird. Cause weird is where I live.

I couldn’t function as a homo sapien. Couldn’t find my way around our 1200 sq foot condo. Couldn’t drive. Could barely talk. Couldn’t cook. No function. Lost in an abyss.

Fortunately, I have excellent care. I reached out to my oncology social worker who got me to an Oncology Psychologist who quickly referred me to an Oncology Psychiatrist. The Calvary was called in. Ritalin was the answer. That and vigorous exercise. Which I did. I got ripped. I felt better. I was functional.

Treatment started to work. Cancer declining. Then COVID-19 became a new word. Treatments delayed, but received. Life upended. New behaviors learned.

Why update this now? Well, several reasons. I’ve had a life threatening disease for over three years. In this regard I have a leg up on most of you. You are likely bored, so new content, even in this rough form might be appreciated. Lastly, if you are reading this, you and I are loved. In the immediate, in the abstract, Love is all around. I believe in the power of love. Feel it, it share it. However we can. Be well. Stay Safe. I love you.

 

Drink of Choice: La Guita Manzanilla Sherry. Quite lovely. Dry; crisp apple and almonds up front with  lovely citrus notes. Good, dry sherry is worth seeking out. Too often in this country, when we think sherry we think sweet. Not necessarily so.

Flower of Choice: Dutchberry. One of my favorite strains. A Sativa first hybrid (60/40), about 27%THC, 8% CBD for a nice uplifting effect. Great for relaxation, depression, fatigue. I’ll be sad to see this one go.

Well, I just took the last four Appelutamide pills I will ever take. For those of you who don’t remember, Appelutamide is the trial androgen blocker I have been taking for 365 days now in conjunction with 13 injections of Degeralix, a form of chemical castration, every 28 days.  My last injections were on 30 August. I’m only an eight- ball away from being a character in a piece by the late Hunter S. Thompson.

And now it is over. Or at least that part is over. The part where I get castrated every four weeks and take, in the words of my Oncologist, “Very Powerful Drugs” every day. Over.

The other part that is over is Prostrate Cancer. Or at least to the best of everyone’s thinking. My PSA’s have been undetectable since December. No PSA’s means no prostrate cells means no prostate cancer cells. That should not change now that treatment is over. This is not to be understated. 20 years ago, the form of cancer I had was almost always fatal. Two, maybe three years from onset. My gratitude cannot be communicated. Only I feel and know it. It is, however, real. I’m a lucky human.

What is not over is dealing with the side effects of the blessed drugs. According to my Urologist, that will take another 12-18 months. Hopefully. And I have some side effects to overcome. They have proven to be cumulative. This past 28 days have been brutal. Nausea, depression, fatigue, anxiety, aching at the extremities, disorientation- the list goes on. Many days they were absolutely debilitating. As in I couldn’t leave the house debilitating. And I have no testicles. Literally. A Nutless Wonder, I have a Change purse in my nethers. Although technically a physical side effect, any male identifying human I know will tell you this takes a toll on one’s psyche. They assure me they will grow back. So the saying, “Grow a pair,” takes on a whole new meaning.

I still am incapable of performing sexually, although there are some encouraging signs. Notably some increased blood flow to the penis. I lost one of the two nerves that make an erection possible to the cancer, so signs of life are welcome. Of course, desire is a different thing and I currently have none. 13 castrations in 12 months will do that. I am also apprehensive about what sex will be like when it does come around (assuming it does- seems like a big If at the moment).

Obviously, I will never ejaculate again. So there’s that. The few times this year I have self- stimulated, in the interest of science, climax is strange. It happens, but it will take some getting used to. I think it is much more akin to a female orgasm. Which makes sense. My plumbing is much more female than male- I piss like a woman and now I cum like one. Still the problem with piss everywhere, although it is improving. Whereas a certain segment of the population might find this a positive, neither Phyllis nor I fall into that camp. If I was 66 or 76 I might not be as worried. I am not. I am 56. Was/ am hoping to have a few more miles in the tank. We’ll see.

(Switching gears to a Nolet Silver Martini. This gin did not fare well in my Martini Challenge of 2017 but is none the less delicious. Key here is no vermouth. It has a very floral, rose petal character that gets run over by the vermouth. Just chilled gin, up, with a twist of lemon).

The psychological side effects- mentioned above- will not go quietly in that good night. They will improve and hopefully fade to black. But not tomorrow. On this front I hang two hopes. My Medical Marijuana Card and a renewed focus on exercise and nutrition.

On the first front, let me say this. Marijuana has been a real life saver for me. There has been a learning curve- still is- but it has made a real, positive difference. My basic routine is Sativas during the day, Hybrids in the evening and Indicas to get me through the night. Sometimes, if the aching at the extremities is intense, I’ll go to an Indica around 13:00 and a nap. If you or a loved one are struck with one of many afflictions, please do not be culture shamed into exploring this as a remedy. It is a blessing. And I hate the word “blessing” but it really is.

On the second front. Play time is over. Stairs. Weights. Fasting. Two days a week.  Two days a week alcohol. Low fat, huge fresh vegetable diet, lean protein as well. No carbs, None. Ever. Ever. Not even at Christmas. One of the sources of depression has been my body change through this.I will get it back. I will win this. I. Will.

Friends, thank you so much for reading. It is my hope that you have a better understanding of what it means to have Stage III Prostrate Cancer. It is so much better than recent history would have- treatable, curable, but still with a slew of downsides. It is my hope that I have a better understanding. I think that I do, thanks to this blog.

At the outset of this blog I acknowledged a human tendency to forget that which was hard. I am glad I  kept the moment real and alive and, largely, in real time. Cousin Diana promised me a year ago that the ensuing year would go by in a heartbeat. Gladly and sadly, she was right. Gladly because, yes, here we are. Sadly because, yes, there we go.

With much love, gratitude and thanks,

Jay

 

Drink of Choice: World’s Finest Sloe Gin Fizz- more on that later. Its not what you think

Flower of Choice: Mamacita, a 100% Sativa from Fifty Fold Growers, Spokane. More on that later.

Dear readers it has been far too long, much to catch up on, much to discuss.

All had been going along okay. As reported in these pages, the side effects weren’t great- lack of sleep, loss  of mental control, anxiety, etc… With each passing month they worsened as the effects accumulated.

Phyllis and I had a lovely trip out west in March- Santa Fe, Palm Desert, LA, Napa. Great trip. However, Phyllis noted the side effect episodes were more intense than she realized.  (Drink change- 2:1 Sapphire Martini, Up, Twist.).

At her suggestion, at my next appointment with Oncology, I asker about the dugs they had been offering that might allay the side effects. This was my first mistake. Throwing one pharmaceutical at another just can’t be a good idea. It wasn’t.

She prescribed me Effexor. I took it. This was my second and crucial error. Briefly, it wrecked me. It is the cause for radio silence these many months. I mean wrecked me. In theory, it is an anti- depressant. It had the opposite effect on me. My whole life I wondered about depression: what was it, did I have it, I’m not sure. I am now sure. I can absolutely empathize with folks who suffer from depression. Day after day I would be curled up on the floor, sobbing, for no particular reason. Real, live , depression. Not Good.

So it  was determined I should stop taking Effexor. Brilliant that. But. You can’t just stop taking it. Apparently if you do it gets really weird. That is a level of weird that I could not fathom, but patience, while may be a virtue, is not my strength. So though I titrated down, I went a bit too quickly. I discovered a new level of weird. Hunter S. would be jealous. He could have it. Skin crawling, lizards- the full monty. Bad ass shit right there.

Happily, it passed. One day I woke and was like- holy shit. What was that. By now it was well into May. I had made it so far, but then the side effects to treat the side effects proved too much. I decided that I would simply try and enjoy the summer and get through the treatments as best I could.

Then in early June, Phyllis and I went to visit our dear friend Gene in Kirkland, WA. Gene was diagnosed with a terminal illness- Lewy Body Dementia- several years ago. He has outlived his diagnosis, but still…

We were there to provide emotional and some economic support. One of his treatments for years has been Medical Marijuana. Now that Recreational is legal, we took him to a dispensary to stock up. And when in Rome…

I didn’t notice it immediately, but we got home and weren’t smoking I did. The side effects had abated while in Washington, but came on with vengeance when we got home. They were shorter in duration and less intense when I smoked. But most importantly, I slept. All night. Faithful readers will remember that this has been the worst side effect throughout- the sleepless nights.

On my next Oncology visit, with the Oncologist, not the nurse practitioner  this time, I asked for and received my Medical Marijuana Card. Or at least was approval for it. This being Illinois, I still don’t have it, although my application was complete on June 6. I expect it around end of September. The Oncologist was apologetic that it hadn’t been offered earlier. I wish it had.

In the mean time our friend Gene wanted to summer in Chicago. However, owing to his condition, he cannot fly. So I flew out and drove back with him. And stocked the larders. So, bureaucrats be damned, its all good. Just a bit in the evenings. I sleep. Oh, to sleep, perchance to dream…

I only wish I had discovered this earlier.

Last chemical castration ever received yesterday. A happy occasion, to be sure, but a bitch. I was worthless today. The effects are cumulative. I can’t explain it to you. There is no common experience. If I said, “I have a cold and can’t breathe through my nose and am miserable,” you could relate. But if I said, “I have that feeling in the pit of my stomach  like you get when you get castrated,” you probably have no idea what I mean. It blows. And good for you.

Still 26 days of taking the pills and then the slow slog back. It will be 12- 18 months more before testosterone levels start to get back to normal. In the meantime, thanks be for legal weed.

I am still a very lucky and grateful human. My cancer- an aggressive form that would have been fatal 25 years ago- has been cured. I have, at last, found relief from the side effects. Life is good.

Now, that Sloe Gin Fizz Recipe:

In a Shaker: Ice, 2 oz of Plymouth Sloe Gin- Do not substitute. 1 oz of your favorite Gin; 3/4 ounce of Luxardo Liqueur; 1 1/2 ounce of fresh squeezed lemon juice. Shake the above. Strain into a collins glass, filled with ice, top with your favorite sparkling water, enjoy.

The end is near. Thanks for coming this far with me.

Drink of Choice: The usual. I’m buying. Stop by. Anytime. Music of Choice: The Cranberries. Sad news there recently.

Got Chemically Castrated today. Number seven. Of thirteen. Seventh time in six months. But. Only six more to go. Over the hump.  Another month of the pills (Apalutamide) after my last injection and then Bob’s your Uncle. Two weeks from today is day 183- half way.

As this blog and indeed this year is one of discovery and research into treatment for Stage III Prostate Cancer, I have some discoveries to share.

Last few blogs have been borderline depressing and for good reason- I was borderline depressed. As of today I say, “Fuck That.” I have taken back control of this. And here’s how.

But first, let’s look at what took me down.

1. The Drugs. Oft discussed in these pages and on the airwaves- “Men. Do you suffer from Low ‘T?’ Why yes, I do. Pray tell, what are the symptoms Mr. Radio Announcer Man. “Can’t seem to get out of bed? Avoiding the gym? Low energy? Afternoon Tee Times? Feeling ‘Low?’ Maybe you, like many men, suffer from Low testosterone. Call 888-GETNUTS (888-438-6887). We can help.” Well, no you can’t, but thanks for playing.
2. Circadian Issues. This started before all this. January and half February have been increasingly difficult to deal with as I have gotten older. I need sun. All Hail Ra! Combined with The Drugs, this winter was near unbearable. I have to start getting away a bit from here on out.
3. The two items above combined for a one- two punch that, frankly, laid me out like Sonny Liston afta Cassius Clay got angry wit him.

But no more. That part of the program is over, please turn to page three.

When I started treatment I said, and somehow knew, that exercise would be the key to survival. And it is . I am back, in full earnest. Doubles, M-F, singles on Saturday, long walks/ hikes on Sunday. And it works. I feel SO MUCH BETTER. My theory- and my Oncologist doesn’t disagree- is that the exercise released endorphins offset the testosterone loss to some degree. Its all hormones and the human body is a miracle at adaptation.

So from here on out- Fuck Side effects. Hot flashes, lethargy, I don’t care. Exercise will win the day.

Its all downhill from here. Come September I will be officially cured. I will not die from or with prostate cancer. The Good Lord will have to look for different ways. Many are available. I’m wary of Buses.

In the meantime, I don’t get here without the support of friends and family- you. My heartfelt thanks. Much Love,

Jay