I had my annual physical late last summer. My GP is very low key. He phones me two weeks after I’ve seen him. We go over things. My PSA numbers have always been in the high single digits. I’m definitely not worried.
“I’d like you to see the urologist,” he says. Soft spoken, but firm.
“You sure?”
This weak response is the only argument I can muster.
“Make the appointment, Mr. Moulthrop” he says.
Who am I to argue? One month later the urologist pokes and prods.
“There’s something there all right.”
My urologist—equally as low key as my GP—has very sensitive fingers.
“Let’s do a biopsy.”
Easy enough for him to say, he’s the one doing the snipping two weeks later. I’d say the only thing more ignominious and painful is colonoscopy prep.
“See me in three weeks,” he says, “I’ll have the results from the lab by then. They’re always backed up.”
Tell me about it. Are you following the tick-tock here?
“Early stage, very treatable,” says Dr. Urology. “Slow growing, but there’s an aggressive gene.”
Now even diseases have their own genes, it ain’t just us host humans. Where will it all end?
Dr. X at Prestigious Health Hospital has a sleek new treatment, only five sessions. “I can get you an appointment in … three weeks.” Lookin’ good, I think.
Dr. X is very chipper. The answer is Yes. “But I have to review the lab work,” he says. “Make an appointment in … three weeks.” Three weeks later, with a smile, Dr. X of the PHH tells me I don’t need his treatment. Or he says that he’s not going to treat me. “Even with the aggressive gene?” I ask with an ingratiating smile, which he meets with a nod and a snap of his clipboard. The net result is a big “Not for you, Moulthrop.” Age-ist? We’ll never know.
Three weeks later Dr, Urology says “Hmmmn” and suggests another doc: Dr. Youngbeard. In the meantime he’s started treatment—an injection of a testosterone-lowering, cancer inhibiting drug. You can expect hot flashes and mood swings. (Looking forward to those.) Let’s schedule another injection in three months, by which time Dr. Youngbeard will be ready to start you on radiation.”
The lead-in ticktock is fuzzy, but I know my first hormonal jab was January 9; followed by a very long ride on the moodswing roller coaster. The second was April 9, and the full-time job of Zaps For The Cure began almost immediately after Jab Two.
In addition to the usual pre-op testing—scans and vitals, vitals and scans—there’s an op to insert a gel around some innards and put some permanent markers on your body to make it easier for the Zap Machine to focus without nicking your bladder or stomach or some other one of the organs that are nestled together around your mid-section. The op is easy enough for the patient: show up, lights out, lights on, get up and go home. And get ready for the daily ride on the Zap Coaster: 28 days of daily Zaps, Monday through Friday, minus weekends and Memorial Day. Beginning Monday, May 6th and ending Thursday, June 13th.
A noon Zap appointment means getting up at 9:00, forcing breakfast—I dislike eating before noon—getting dressed, walking to the bus stop, then taking the bus several blocks, then walking to the basement Radiation Oncology Department where I sit and drink water for at least an hour. Zapping needs a full bladder to ensure good Zap aim. (Remember those tattoos?) How full is full? Not always the same. You’ll know it when you feel it. And when you think you do, take off your pants, put your shoes back on, and put on the hospital gown with its inadequate closure ties. Wait to be summoned as you sit in a line of chairs with others, mostly men. The chatter, when it happens, is nervous.
To get to the Zap room you pass through a room of screens being attended by very bright, upbeat, young people; someone always asks you to tell them your birthday; extra insurance to assure the correct Zap to the correct person. Then walk down a ramp to a dark-paneled high- ceilinged room housing a huge sci-fi device with many movable arms, all aimed at a table covered with fresh linen. On your back on the table you can look straight up at a glass ceiling adorned with a picture of puffy white clouds in a blue sky fringed by tall redwood trees. As soon as the machine begins to hum and move, I close my eyes, hoping to not pee, to keep a full bladder, to not move, to hold tight to the blue plastic ring that anchors my hands across my chest. Often there is music, often loud rock—which is great; I can get inside the beat.
After the 10-minute Zap it’s off the table, back up the ramp, through the screens room, and finally, the Joy of The Pee. Then dress, bus, walk to home, up the 35 stairs, eat, nap, dinner, fitful sleep. Repeat 28 times, with decreasing energy and an increasing fear of the onset of lightheadedness (a drug-induced side effect), especially when walking on a New York City street. And while there’s plenty of what I would describe as discomfort, there is no pain. Whew!
Now, on the other side—“All good,” says Dr, Youngbeard. “See you in three months. We’re looking to keep that PSA at Zero.”—I’m grateful. Very grateful. Especially for the loving support I received at home from my partner, Richard. Every single day.
End of chapter. Beginning of the rest of the volume.
