Reeling in some prostate cancer

I received great news this week. I have prostate cancer. I know you're confused, but I'm genuinely happy. I had drinks with a buddy to celebrate. The past three months have been a journey, and by prostate cancer standards, that's quick. But here I am, and I have cancer. Wrap your mind around that word becoming part of your life. Cancer. There's a demon in your body. Deal with it.

Lord, I am trying to do so.

There are two sides to prostate cancer. It's either contained in your prostate and it's treatable, or it's out of your prostate and in all likelihood your life is on the clock. There's an in between, but for the most part, it’s live or die.

Quote me odds on prostate cancer survivability. They’re favorable, but go ahead because it would not have mattered. You go from a questionable PSA score, to a firm prostate, to a notably uncomfortable biopsy, to results, to CT and bone scans, to more results. That entire time the odds don't matter. Not one bit. That same part of you that hopes you win the state lottery believes you have lost the cancer lottery.

Sure, only a small percentage of men my age with prostate cancer have it metastasize, which means it spreads. Prostate cancer is indeed treatable ... in the prostate. The odds are in your favor, but as you stumble through the steps, you're numb. That demon inside of you is growing, and you're not certain where it is residing.

On Wednesday my wife, Becky, and I received the good news. The results of my pelvic CT and bone scans showed the cancer was contained in my prostate, and they also showed that despite being 54 years of age and overweight, I’m actually somewhat healthy. (I danced for joy, but quickly stopped to catch my breath.)

Still, that cancer is real. It’s in there and we would have never known it if not for the grace of God, or the spiritual intervention of my father, who worked in the insurance business my entire life after being a teacher and football coach before I arrived on the scene.

This spring, my wife and I felt compelled to apply for some additional life insurance, and on March 1 a representative from a lab showed up at our house to give me a physical and draw blood. As I expected, I was rejected based on weight, so we moved on to a more accepting company and two weeks later, the same lab sent someone else out to do an entirely new exam.

This time the results were different. The insurance agent called me while I was in Atlanta covering the NCAA basketball tournament and told me to get to the doctor. I wasn’t being rejected for weight. My PSA score (Prostate-Specific Antigen) had crossed into the red zone.

For men my age, a PSA under 4 is considered passable. A score from 4-6 means keep an eye on things. Above 6 means it’s time to get to the doctor. In two weeks, my PSA had gone from 5.5 to 6.4. My primary doctor and I agreed that a month of antibiotics would be a good idea to rule out infection, which can spike a PSA score. After that, I took another PSA test.

In two months, my PSA rose from 5.5 to 9.9. A PSA of 10 is not itself alarming, but one rising this quickly was attention-grabbing. My prostate biopsy — a procedure that is every bit as uncomfortable as it sounds — showed that the left side of my prostate contains about 85 percent cancerous cells. The right side remained clear, at least in the six biopsies taken from that side.

I would never have known of my cancer without these unplanned blood tests, but I am here to ask all men 50 and older (or even younger to be safe) to get your PSA scored. It’s an easy blood test. In all likelihood you’re healthy, but at least you will have a baseline score recorded in case your date with prostate cancer arrives.

Meetings with a local urologist and his partner who excels in robot surgery quickly brought us to the conclusion that at my age — I'm told most men, if they live long enough, will get prostate cancer, but it’s usually later in life than 54 — and based on the aggression being shown by my cancer, robotic surgery was the best course and doing so promptly was advised.

So, on July 3, I will have a prostatectomy, which is the removal of the prostate. I’ll let you read up on the wonderful possibilities of that procedure, but I will say that I cannot think of a better way to celebrate America’s birthday than by having a surgeon direct a robot to remove your prostate. It’s like expelling the British from your loins. Go America.

I’m exceedingly comfortable with this decision. In fact, my main concern is that on the morning of July 3, 2018, robots will decide to rise up against mankind right as one of their minions is poised with a scalpel at my, well, naughty bits.

I can laugh now, but the last three months have been a whirlwind. I’ve learned a lot about prostate cancer, its treatment and recovery. One of the things I have discovered from the photos on the covers of books and pamphlets about prostate cancer is that those who have PC apparently go fishing. I’m sure there is a subliminal “functioning rod” reference being offered by the images, but since cancer is most often found in older men and older men like to fish, I think it’s clear that prostate cancer is the leading cause of fishing in the United States.

My dear friend Tad, who for once proved to be an overachiever by getting prostate cancer before he turned 50 (a rarity), has been a great resource. Tad, who I would guess also enjoys fishing, lives Atlanta and has lived through everything I am currently experiencing. Now recall where I was when I found out that my blood work indicated a possibility of cancer. I guess there was a reason I was covering the Sweet 16 in the ATL. Within 24 hours of the news, Tad and I sat in an Atlanta restaurant having drinks and sharing our first of many discussions about prostate cancer.

I had many sleepless nights. I have suffered from ongoing back pain, which some believe is referred pain from the prostate. And I went into a very, very dark place thinking the worst. Tad showed great wisdom — again, another shocking development — by telling me that the bleakest path of the cancer journey takes place in your mind. He was right.

Well, I have emerged from my darkness and am feeling optimistic. Prostate cancer is abundantly curable, and I have a skilled doctor and a robot hopefully not named Crusher on my side.

I am looking forward to life after my recovery. I have much I want to accomplish, and now it appears I have time to do those things. I will probably have time to go fishing, too, but it’s not like I will have a choice about fishing now that I’ve reeled in some prostate cancer.

I promise that not all future blog entries will deal with depression and possible death. Wait until you read about Hurricane Daphne, our 16-month old Standard Poodle.