Friday, August 25, 2006
There's no way to know when this began, of course. I have had no symptoms that I had not attributed to normal aging, and still really don't -- although I'm now "seeing" symptoms in every bathroom visit, probably in the same way that a college student might see in himself/herself every personality disorder discussed in a course on abnormal psychology.
I turned fifty last August, and, as a part of my annual checkup that October, my physician prescribed a PSA blood test. I promptly lost the lab slip, so his office mailed me another one, which I tucked into my book bag and forgot about. In retrospect, that was damned stupid of me. I found it while getting ready to go to Australia in April of this year (you can read about my Australia trips here), and so figured I'd get that done before going.
The results came back via e-mail while I was at Kings Creek Station, a cattle ranch in the remote Outback. I remember a lot about the moment when I read that message. It was late afternoon when we arrived, so the sun was low in the West, coming in the window to the left of the Internet kiosk. In the distance, the mountains of the Giles range glowed in the rays of the settng sun. The station owners have a pet dingo, who kept sniffing at my hands as though he wanted a pat on the head (which you never do to a dingo unless you're willing to lose a finger or two). For the remainder of the trip, I kept wondering if I'd ever return to Australia.
After I got back to America, my physician referred ne to a urologist, with whom I met in June. Based on my PSA of 5.3, and the DRE during which he detected something on one side, he said I had a 28% chance of having prostate cancer. The protocol is pretty clear: another DRE; a second, more precise PSA; a series of antibiotics to eliminate the possibility of a prostate infection; another PSA to check on the effect of the antibiotics. And if it's still high, a needle biopsy.
I really expected something quite different for the biopsy, and felt pretty stupid when I finally realized that it was not a trans-urethra procedure. The needle is a sharp, hollow tube that pierces the rectal wall and then continues to the prostate, The urologist takes ten samples, five from each side of the prostate. It's not a pleasant process, but it is over pretty quickly. The urologist also obtained an ultrasound image of my prostate -- I'll see whether I can get a copy of that image to post here.
I had that procedure July 31. We had planned a trip to Upper Michigan awhile ago, so we went ahead with it. My parents met us at a quiet resort on Whitefish Bay, the eastern end of Lake Superior. We had a cottage on the lake for a week, went on hikes, skipped stones on the water, built fires. We returned in mid-August, and I met with the urologist again on August 18, when I learned of the condition.
I cannot say that I was overly surprised at the diagnosis -- 28% is a high enough percentage. I had been a little anxious about the lack of urgency that I perceived from the mdical folks in general about this. I would learn later that prostate cancer grows very slowly, giving everyone -- especially me -- time to carefully think about the options.
I turned fifty last August, and, as a part of my annual checkup that October, my physician prescribed a PSA blood test. I promptly lost the lab slip, so his office mailed me another one, which I tucked into my book bag and forgot about. In retrospect, that was damned stupid of me. I found it while getting ready to go to Australia in April of this year (you can read about my Australia trips here), and so figured I'd get that done before going.
The results came back via e-mail while I was at Kings Creek Station, a cattle ranch in the remote Outback. I remember a lot about the moment when I read that message. It was late afternoon when we arrived, so the sun was low in the West, coming in the window to the left of the Internet kiosk. In the distance, the mountains of the Giles range glowed in the rays of the settng sun. The station owners have a pet dingo, who kept sniffing at my hands as though he wanted a pat on the head (which you never do to a dingo unless you're willing to lose a finger or two). For the remainder of the trip, I kept wondering if I'd ever return to Australia.
After I got back to America, my physician referred ne to a urologist, with whom I met in June. Based on my PSA of 5.3, and the DRE during which he detected something on one side, he said I had a 28% chance of having prostate cancer. The protocol is pretty clear: another DRE; a second, more precise PSA; a series of antibiotics to eliminate the possibility of a prostate infection; another PSA to check on the effect of the antibiotics. And if it's still high, a needle biopsy.
I really expected something quite different for the biopsy, and felt pretty stupid when I finally realized that it was not a trans-urethra procedure. The needle is a sharp, hollow tube that pierces the rectal wall and then continues to the prostate, The urologist takes ten samples, five from each side of the prostate. It's not a pleasant process, but it is over pretty quickly. The urologist also obtained an ultrasound image of my prostate -- I'll see whether I can get a copy of that image to post here.
I had that procedure July 31. We had planned a trip to Upper Michigan awhile ago, so we went ahead with it. My parents met us at a quiet resort on Whitefish Bay, the eastern end of Lake Superior. We had a cottage on the lake for a week, went on hikes, skipped stones on the water, built fires. We returned in mid-August, and I met with the urologist again on August 18, when I learned of the condition.
I cannot say that I was overly surprised at the diagnosis -- 28% is a high enough percentage. I had been a little anxious about the lack of urgency that I perceived from the mdical folks in general about this. I would learn later that prostate cancer grows very slowly, giving everyone -- especially me -- time to carefully think about the options.
