FUCK CANCER!

Well. Got that off my chest, anyway.

Last spring I received a diagnosis perhaps best expressed as a good news/bad news joke.

THE BAD NEWS: You have cancer.

THE GOOD NEWS: It’s in your prostate! Yay!

Yay?

Well yes. Prostate cancer is the only cancer that can be detected with a blood test, which means it can be found early. A test a couple years ago confirmed that my PSA was high, and so I was kept under “observation” —meaning I saw a urologist once a year— till this year, when the PSA kept climbing, and a biopsy was found desirable. The biopsy— which was no fun— confirmed that I had cancer, and then the question was what— if anything— should be done.

There was a case to be made for doing nothing. Prostate cancer is very slow growing, and it was possible I’d die of something else before the cancer got me.

I decided to seek treatment. I was already tired of having to think about it, I just wanted the situation resolved ASAP, and resolved before the cancer had a chance to spread.

There was a recent NY Times article that suggested people should stop using the word “cancer” for the prostate thing, because the very word causes people to panic, overreact, and do stupid things, when there really isn’t much to get excited over.

I’m a little embarrassed to use the word myself, because my problem is so fixable. Some of my friends are even now battling far more virulent forms of the disease, and I don’t want to put myself in their category— I’d feel like an imposter. I’m playing the Game of Cancer on the easiest possible setting.

Anyway, there are a number of treatments available, basically either surgery or radiation, each of which as close to 100% success rate. (“Success” means staying cancer-free for five years, though in the case of the prostate, the chance of a recurrence is basically the same chance of getting the disease in the first place)

I haven’t had a lot of luck with surgery— there is always some unforeseeable consequence that leaves me limping or in pain— so I opted for radiation. Which basically involves putting me at the business end of a linear accelerator for 26 consecutive weekdays. I lie down in the machine while it rotates around me and delivers the x-rays or protons, I don’t know which. Each treatment takes about 15 minutes, from me walking into the treatment center to leaving. It’s not even a big hole in my day.

(Also, choosing radiation gives me a better chance of not having to wear adult diapers for the rest of my life. Something to be considered.)

I start treatment next week. The fact that the diagnosis was made in April while the treatment begins in November should be a clue that nobody sees any special urgency here.

So far I’ve told only a very few people about this, largely because I wanted all the responses to come in at once rather than trickling in over months.

I am happy to accept any good wishes you wish to send. I’m a little less happy to receive advice, particularly if it involves the Pomegranate Cure. (“Just drink 24 ounces of pomegranate juice twice a day, and you’ll be cancer-free in six months! Guaranteed!”) I lost a friend and mentor due to his believing in the Pomegranate Cure (or something like it), and I have little patience with it.

Thoughts and prayers are also gladly accepted, though with the proviso that I think they are better directed toward people in far worse situations than I.

Also, please don’t praise my courage. I’m not being brave at all, I’m just doing a lot of reading, talking to a lot of medical personnel, and trying to make rational choices when presented with items on a list.

It’s something every male goes through, provided he lives long enough. Apparently I’ve lived long enough.

It won’t be fun. It won’t be exciting. It’s just a thing.