So, we are nearly up to date. By that I mean, the story’s live. Just one more visit to good, but hot, doc to chronicle, and you know as much as me. It didn’t really take too long to weigh up the options. Radiotherapy, only for my particular set of circumstances, I hasten to add, didn’t appeal for a variety of differing reasons. My own personal experience with radiotherapy had not gone too well. Both mum and dad had it to treat their cancers, and both were dead within 5 years. Now this is just speculation, and my belief, there may be no basis in fact because it’s pretty difficult to measure, but being zapped within an inch of your life with radiation, must have some long term effect on a persons health. We are told to watch our exposure, don’t have too many CT scans and X-rays, because we may store up trouble for later on. So how does going in 5 days a week to be speared in the same point by some radioactive gamma ray, for a couple of months sound from a safety perspective? I’m sure you know how radiotherapy and chemotherapy works, but I’ll fill you in with my understanding, just in case.
Cells are constantly multiplying in our bodies. That’s how we heal ourselves, and grow. They kind of use a map, our genes, made of DNA, to see what to do. Sometimes the map has a bit missing, or a misprint- inherited genetic cancers (me). Sometimes it’s just faded and worn out from the sun, chemicals, smokey air, and occasionally bugs/viruses (known as carcinogens), and every now and then it’s just old and crapped out. Because they can’t follow the map, the cells are unsure what to do and so they make it up as they go along. A bit like one of CockHead’s school assemblies. This off map excursion results in a dodgy copy of cells which then continue to grow in a random way- a cancer.
If you zap the cancer with radiation or chemotherapy, it kills everything, but the good stuff, in theory, should grow back, and you are cured. Radiotherapy is a bit like a laser gun, zapping the tumour direct like JFK, chemo is more like carpet bombing the Taliban. Surgery just chops it out and it disappears a la Lord Lucan. They might offer you some of the other two to mop up whatever’s left after surgery. Everyone with me so far?
Radiotherapy would involve driving 40kms there and back, to arrive at a predetermined time, for 40 days. Finding and then purchasing parking. How long you would have to wait at the hospital is anyone’s guess, but I would have thought they had it fairly streamlined. All up, from a purely pragmatic perspective, we would be looking at at least and hour there, another one back, and say an hour to travel the campus and get radiated. Dad, I remember, was fine throughout his radiotherapy, a bit jaded by the end. Mum, on the other hand, had radiation sickness akin to having a weeks holiday on the Costa del Chernobyl. By the end of her 8 weeks she was so fatigued that she was spending 24 hours in bed, whilst feeling pretty nauseous, vomiting and was fairly cachexic looking by the end of it. A hangover to end all hangovers. They were getting virtually the same parts zapped, so who knows which way I’ll swing? That would mean gorgeous, but sarcastic, wife having to take, at least, the second month off, to drag my diseased carcass out of bed, jolly me along into the car. Not my comfy car with all the trimmings, because it’s too high tech for her to drive, but probably her Yaris, that looks like Stig was the previous owner.
Not the Stig. Stig of the Dump. Because it is an absolute shit tip. If my house proud mother ever saw that car, she would come back from the dead, and die again in shame, having been related to the owner of that mobile cesspit.
For those scratching their heads, Stig of the Dump, was a school text that pretty much everyone round our way read, and was even made into some sort of cartoon or tv show, about… the clue’s in the name, a boy called Stig, who lived in a dump
If not wifeys car, then the equally malodorous four wheel drive wherein the back lies a cushion manufactured from dog hair, held together with whatever the dog last rolled in, flavoured with the vomit that is regularly emitted by the car sick hound. Moving forwards from the rear, offers no respite, as that is where the three children usually reside. Seats stained with god knows what, seat back pockets bulging with partially complete travel games, pencils, and models of McDonald’s fries. Hang on, they are McDonalds fries. Fries that have become perfectly preserved copies of themselves and are now destined to spend the rest of existence wedged down the hole that the seatbelt should go in, harder than the Rock. There was once a particularly grim cocktail left in there by my youngest, who decided he knew best when he skipped the designated toilet stop once. That’ll teach him, I thought. Turns out, that taught me, as I am the only one who, irregularly, cleans the inside of the cars, and found out the hard way, when I unscrewed the top of a bottle of Coke Zero to obtain an olfactory opinion of the yellow green contents- the month old kid piss that I assumed was Mountain Dew.
Wifey will force me to listen to endless Take That and Robbie Williams, whilst driving at 85kph down the freeway, staying in the same lane for 35 kms, all because I was too weak to resist. Furthermore, you can have radiation after surgery, but not the other way round, as when they open you up they can’t make head nor tail of what’s left in there after your dalliance with the big radioactive machine. The fallout fandango.
It’s looking like surgery is the favoured, perhaps only, option. This brings a plethora of problems in itself. Parts, that until now, I had been fairly proud of in terms of performance and helping size, butchered by a robot. A robot! It better not be this fucker.
Apparently, the robot can counter the wobbly hand of the surgeon, and thus protect the vital nerves around those parts. Super- Hospital recently were part of a study that analysed robot v doctor and apparently there was no significant difference in outcomes.
So regardless if Metal Mickey or good, but hot, doc are let loose on my ‘tate the outcome is the same- I should be cured of cancer. There’s is always a small chance that when they get in there it could have spread a little, and I may need further treatment, a touch of radiotherapy if things go a bit wrong.
Wifey and I trot back to the hospital to inform them of my decision. We get the opportunity to ask a few questions. The bad news is that good, but hot doc, can’t use the robot, so she flicks me over to another surgeon. I’ve not met him yet, but he’s the head of his field, with a particular interest in nerve sparing surgery, which will help with making things rise to the occasion, post op. I’m going to see him a week on Monday, and have a chat, but they book me for surgery anyway, and I wait for a date……
The problem with having what is called a radical prostatectomy, is that the prostate is an intrinsic component of a blokes waterworks and fun factory. What does it do? I can hear you all shout. We know that it does stuff down below, but do we know what? Well it does this…..
Hang on, no no no, that’s PROSTRATE.
And while I’m splitting hairs, this …….
is not specific…..so say it right please (Pet hate).
Back to the prostate. Here’s a picture. It’s not mine if anyone was getting excited.
So, what does it do? Not much really, secretes fluids that nourish and protect sperm. Sperm are made in your testicles, sometimes known as your balls, jewels, nads, or my particular favourite, your bollocks. They swim up your pipe, known as the vas deferens, and the seminal vesicles add a bit of juice, and the prostate adds a bit more. When you’re good to go, weapon loaded, finger on the trigger, your prostate provides the explosive charge to, ahem, shoot. You can also see that your piss-pipe drains from your bladder through your prostate, where the prostate acts like a kind of valve.
So whichever way you get zapped, be it surgery or radiotherapy, they take the prostate and the seminal vesicles. The problem is that intertwined between these areas are nerves. Nerves that make little things like having an erection, a piss, and to a lesser extent a shit, work. That’s right any of these things could stop working. Permanently. The medics told me 1 in 8 chance of permanent incontinence. And 100% chance of erectile dysfunction, which would, in some people, also be permanent, but MAY return somewhat with time. Plus the obvious sterility, and the two bits that people never talk about….
JIZZ FREE ORGASM! WTF! How does that work? Apparently it does, if you are one of the lucky ones who can actually get it to work post op. I haven’t looked into it yet in great detail. But I promise, you, stay tuned, and I will cover that nearer the time.
COCK SHRINKAGE! WTF! Adding insult to injury. FFS, that is just not on. Mine is pretty good. When the call to action goes out, I’ve been lucky to have an inch or two over the mean. I’m a grower, not a show-er. So post op, if the nerves sort themselves out, I might just be able to carry on. However, changing rooms and toilets, we are thinking more acorn than cacciatore salami, so I’ll be off to a private cubicle for evermore. Now I’m thinking of the naked Hippy again, and his blasted baby elephants trunk.
What did we work out in the last entry? If I do nothing, I had 100% of being dead in 20 years, or about a 60% of being dead in 10. Now that is a difficult choice. Sex then death, or life, no sex? It’s that giant spider eating it’s mate again, has a shag then dies. Having a young family, I don’t really have much option than to pursue a cure, and we will just have to simply put up with whatever arises. Or doesn’t….
That’s it for a little while. But I think to keep up the interest a little game is in order, and as we talked about words earlier, lets play a word game. Every one post a word that sounds rude, but isn’t, in the comments section. Childish, I know, but come on, life’s too short, and I’ve got cancer so indulge me. I have to talk erections with a hot doctor. I’ll start with…………
I thank you.