Good Morning to all my readers. Apologies for the hiatus. It’s been the festive season, and I’ve been spending some quality family time at home, which was needed and most enjoyable, and, of course, furiously masturbating in my spare time in the name of penile rehabilitation. Feels like trying to kick- start a clapped out moped, with no fuel. I think I’ve completed the longest human trial of most days taking Viagra on the trot. I used my five repeats on my script in a quarter of the designated time. I’ve so much blood flowing to my cock that I’m dizzy as fuck, my vision’s gone blue and my face is red as a tomato. Although i’m not sure if that’s the drugs or the wanking actually. Seriously though, from a medical point of view, there’s not much to say, and so haven’t bothered to say it. Time is ticking down until my appointment on Monday. I have had the blood taken for the PSA and the results will be sitting in the laboratory computers, to which I have no access. We wait. I have it at the back of my mind all the time, lingering like a bad smell. The fetid aroma of cancer in my cerebrum, poisoning happy thoughts with it’s forever presence.
Is the fear of the cancer returning unfounded? Is it a worry just because we have had cancer, we think it’s going to return? The literature suggests the fears are real, but I would suggest the crux of the argument is how we deal with those fears. Here are the facts…
More than 8 in 10 (84%) men diagnosed with prostate cancer in England and Wales survive their disease for ten years or more. So there is a 16% chance of dying within the next 10 years. Good odds I would wager. Especially compared to the 1970s, when a quarter of men diagnosed with prostate cancer survived their disease beyond ten years. However, we could cloud the issue by also mentioning that 60% are alive 15 years after diagnosis. I’ll be 63 by then, and not reached retirement age. Sounds a little worse.
What about recurrence? Will the fucker come back and haunt me? The majority of the research suggests about 30%, maybe more, will suffer recurrence. The fine, medically learned folks throughout the world have worked out the chance based up on differing variables. Here it is…I should add that it is just an odds calculator and the results are not gospel, so don’t go BASE jumping, rhino tipping or create Saudi Arabia’s first Mardi Gras, because you got a bad result on here.
I got 58% chance of success. In other words, a 42% chance of it returning.
A negligible PSA reading on Monday will blow the cancer stench away, ventilate my mind, but, in part, it will linger for ever, like vomit in a car, or a prawn hidden in a curtain pole. The occasional, intermittent waft drifting in. The uninvited guest. The 13th at the table. Of course, a raised PSA will kick-start a very different scenario. The “It’s not come back- It never actually went away” scenario. So life goes on, but on hold. It’s so difficult to plan anything. I don’t know what February will bring. Now this affects me more than most people, because I like to have a plan.
A plan for the day, a plan for the week, the month, and even the year. (Funnily enough, I draw the line at a plan for life, because I still don’t know what I want to do if I grow up.) Ask wifey. She is happy to drift with the current, but I thrive in the knowledge that today I have to wait for the kids school books to be delivered, go to Ikea to collect a table for my sons bedroom, build the table, pick up my two cases of low alcohol beer from the bottle shop, and then take the family out for a curry tonight. On the subject of Ikea desks, I will be forced to swear a lot whilst berating some poor anonymous Swede, who needed to differentiate better between those circular things that go in the holes to tighten the weirdy headed screws that allegedly hold everything in Scandinavia together. Fuckers. If you put the smaller one in the bigger one’s hole, it won’t come out, I can vouch for that. So we resort to good old fashioned screws that work with a screwdriver. A screwdriver that has a comfortable rubberised plastic handle, ergonomically designed to be able to apply significant pressure and torque. Not an oversized bent paper-clip that shreds your knuckles, strips the hexagonal screw heads and then creates it’s own colony of hundreds in your tool box with it’s differing sized kin. Sorry I digress. It’s the not knowing that upsets me deep into my DNA- the tiny allele with a predilection for mildly autistic behaviour tingles and wants to play, but is just about kept in check by the rest of my mind.
How do we change after a cancer diagnosis? We sat and played dice with Death and so our future took a different fork in the road of fate. I’ve entered a society of people who slipped from the bony grasp of the Reaper. Am I the same as before? No. Will I be the same again? No. Has it improved anything? No man wax on the bed sheets, lingerie, body or anywhere else is a definite improvement says wifey. Seriously, though, don’t sweat the small stuff. There’s bigger things to worry about, and there’s always someone worse off than you. I am more thankful for what I have, which I have come to realise, is a hell of a lot. I’m less stressed, more chilled out, and happy to live at an even slower pace than I was before. How I will embrace work, when I go back at the end of the month remains to be seen.
How’s the pissing and shagging going you want to know? 95% on the first 50% on the second. But it’s still less than three months, so hopefully things will stiffen up because at present I have to use the towel rail. The flag of fun flies at half mast- a nod to harder times past.
Anyone starting the trip this year? Around 50,000 British men will, and joining them will be approximately 18,000 Australians. Some will live and some will die of their disease. However, the most important thing is how you live when you can live. Do what makes you happiest, which in my case is writing this drivel for you lot. And wanking, of course. If there are any philanthropic publishers out there who want my blog as a book, step forward now, as my long service leave is coming to an end, and soon I will be forced back on the treadmill of work again.
Here’s a few tunes with a distinctly British flavour on the theme of ED for your pleasure… (Probably NSFW). Let’s have a laugh and hopefully fire up some self reflection. Floppy cock orgasms happen post prostatectomy!
I’ll let you know what Monday brings. Adios!