You're Going to Put That Thing WHERE???!!

Surviving the Procedures is Part of the Game

It’s been over a week since I was diagnosed with cancer.  So how am I doing you ask? It’s really an emotional roller coaster.  Some days I wake up ready to conquer the freakin’ world and beat this cancer.  Other days I don’t want to get out of bed.  But I do anyways.  Stepping up each day and living my life the way I want to live it is important to me.

Two things that I refuse to change with this is my spiritual life and my sarcastic sense of humor.  I still try to connect with my God every morning first thing.  Sometimes we connect and sometimes I just get pissed at Him.  Either way, at least there is a relationship there and I am heard by Him.  That is good.

And for those who have heard and even became offended at my death jokes, you should just laugh more.  It’s good for you.  If you are bewildered as to how I can joke around about cancer, well, it is MY cancer.  I own it.  And I’ll joke around about it all I want.

For example.  We have decided that since the medical community has literally no clue how to cure cancer, that we just need to do it ourselves.  I’m not a scientist and I hated science class, every science class, but I think we have what they call a hypothesis.  Then the experiment.  Then the solution.  (Give me a D-, I don’t care).  Here it is:

Hypothesis:  If I ingest enough junk into my system, the cancer cells will revolt and either leave or die themselves.

Experiment:  I consumed somewhere between 6,000 and 8,000 calories of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts and Hot Cocoa the other night.  Junk into my system (although incredibly tasty)?  Check.  Nothing can be more “junky” than blobs of gluten-filled dough fried in grease and dunked in sugar.

Solution:  That would require yet another biopsy and I ain’t going there.  I’ll let you know when we get word on the cancer’s latest.  I’m sure it’s gone now though.  Nothing could survive that many doughnuts.  Death by doughnuts!

Also, I possibly have a new theme song.  One of the options for treatment is radiation.  Not just any radiation, but radioactive beads somehow (I really don’t want to know how at this point) inserted into my prostate.  Anyway, that cool song “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons came up on my Pandora this morning while we were getting ready for work.  I quipped “Hey!  My song!!”  Hanna had the punchline within a second and, yes, we had a good laugh.  Laughing is good.

Today’s blog is going to be about the medical side of things.  How I got diagnosed and why.

I am not a medical professional.  If you are a medical professional, feel free to laugh at my medical vocabulary and how poor my knowledge of this stuff is.  It doesn’t matter.  This is my experience and it is what I know.

Before I diss on the medical community, let me say how much I love my specific doctors.  Dr. Jamison is my personal physician.  Not only that, but a personal friend who has been at my side (and me at his) during several intense personal trials we each went through.  And Dr. Nelson, my new Urologist.  And also Dr. Keith, my Chiropractor.  All three have the best bedside manners ever, take time to answer all my questions, no matter how minor they are, and I truly feel cared about each time I visit one of them.  Dr. Nelson has a great sense of humor.  He must have one to survive.  Can you imagine examining people’s privates for a living?  And then probably daily informing folks that they have cancer?  And I thought it was bad to tell clients they owed taxes…….

Now for that diss.

There is apparently an episode of Star Trek where Scotty is absolutely flipping out because he is about to watch people of Earth try to fix someone who is sick by “cutting into them.”  “They’re going to cut him!!!” he yells.  And they then embark on their plan to save the poor victim before the primitive humans do their thing.

Medical procedures, especially those concerning the prostate, are just like that.  If something is wrong, the doc immediately wants to shove a tube up your butt or urethra (google it) and poke around with a sharp pick to see if he can fix it or at least find out what is going on with it. Somehow, we need to invent a different way.  Just saying.

Maybe the humor and passive venting is out now.  On to the medical stuff.

The prostate is a walnut-sized (when it is not inflamed with cancer) organ situated conveniently between the bladder and the rectum.  So, any discussion of the prostate will include discussions of the function of the bladder and rectum.  If that grosses you out, you have been warned and can leave now.  (My next blog will be on spiritual stuff, like God and Cancer.  You’ll want to come back for that.)

The Boys Scouts of America has been a huge part of my life since age eleven.  I can in many ways say that it saved my life.  It taught me how to make tough decisions, have some ethics, be tough and survive, lead others to greatness, and many other things.  All survival skills.  But now I can say it saved my life.  I was invited to be on Wood Badge Staff where I would join others in training Scout Leaders how to be great Scout Leaders.  One of the requirements to be on staff is an annual physical.  That requirement resulted in the cancer being diagnosed in its early stages.  My BSA physical literally saved my life.

Dutifully in Spring of 2017, I went to my doc to get my physical.  Since I was 56 years old, he felt that some standard blood tests were needed to get a full picture.  Included in that was a PSA test.  PSAs are an antigen (I have no idea what an antigen is, but I feel smart typing that word) that are released into the blood stream by the prostate.  If the prostate is in a state of trauma, like for example it has CANCER, then it will shoot out more antigens.  The PSA level will go up. 

A normal PSA is 4 or below.  You go above 4, the doctors start taking it really seriously.  High is not necessarily bad, but an “increase” is what is bad.

Spring of 2017, my PSA was 5.47.  The doc was concerned.  We had a long talk about prostate cancer, PSAs, etc.  He educated me well.  And since it is a slow cancer, he decided to wait six months, test again, and see if it is going up.  If it goes up, more tests will be needed.

October of 2017, another PSA was taken.  5.7.  It had gone up.  He ordered a transrectal ultrasound of the prostate.  Yes, it is just like an ultrasound for a baby, except it is via the rectum.  It was a bit uncomfortable, but not painful.  I got to see my own prostate on the screen as the technician took pictures and measured it.  Lucky me.  Not twins.  Gender not specified.  The ultrasound showed “no abnormalities.”  Good news.  And the doc signed my “mission physical” allowing me to serve a six-month mission for my church, but only with the stipulation that I have another PSA in May, just before I leave on such mission, and again as soon as I get back the next December.

May 2018.  PSA had not changed from 5.7.  I was good to go serve.

Now, for a couple of years, some urological symptoms had come up.  They were minor and I wrote them off as typical stuff that happens with old age.  Frequent urination.  Sometimes an urgent need to urinate.  Difficulty getting anything to come out at times.  And sometimes leakage after urinating.  I dealt with those symptoms with patience and I don’t think I told the doc about them at all.

But, during my six-month stay in California, the symptoms worsened.  One of the pieces of advice I was given several times while serving down there was to never, ever go to the local hospital.  “People die there.”  I was told it would be better to drive several hours to a different hospital just to be on the safe side.  Only go there if you need to be helivacked to somewhere else.  Before Adventist Health bought that hospital, it was named “Red Bud Hospital.”  The locals, however, called it “Dead Bud Hospital.”  Anyway, a couple of times I thought I would have to go there to get a catheter to relieve my bladder.  I pictured myself dying there as they tried to insert it.  Death by catheter.  There could be nothing worse.  Gratefully it never came to that.

Once home in December, I valiantly went to see my doc and have the PSA checked.  It came back as 7.  He immediately referred me to a urologist.

The urologist took a urine sample and did a rectal exam.  And we talked at length about my urinary problems.  He prescribed Flow Max to fix those.  It worked immediately and awesomely!  I can now pee like a kid.  There was blood in the urine, and he was concerned about that plus the elevated PSA.  He ordered three tests:

1.      CT Scan.  This involved being injected with some sort of dye via an IV, then being scanned from about the chest down.  The goal was to find any abnormalities in that part of the body.  This was kind of fun and felt high-tech.  Scotty would be proud!

2.      Cystoscopy.  This involved inserting a tube with a camera through the urethra up into the bladder and looking around.  It was uncomfortable and a bit painful as he moved it around.  My mistake was, while seeing what he was seeing on the screen, saying “I have no idea what I’m looking at” at which the doc proceeded to give me a tour of my own bladder, thus prolonging the process and the pain.  I can now, however, say that I have seen the inside of my own bladder.  Definite bragging rights!  Scotty would be rolling his eyeballs though.

3.      Prostate Biopsy.  This procedure is not fun.  The prostate is accessed through the rectum.  A tube is inserted, some sort of needle jabs through the lining of your bowel and into the next-door neighbor, the prostate, and then some sort of needle digs out samples of the prostate.  Twelve samples.  The fear of anticipating the procedure is worse than the pain of the procedure, which felt like a slight poke and then a rubber band slapping you.  The whole thing lasted three to five minutes. They did the Cystoscopy and Biopsy back to back on the same day.  The nurse called it the “Dr. Nelson Special.”  I spent the rest of the day at home watching replays of old football games.  I was sore everywhere down there and blood was coming out of both front and back.  Painkillers worked well as did just staying down and resting.  “Wait?!”, you holler.  “They poke through your bowel to get to the prostate?  Couldn’t that put you at risk of all sorts of nasty bugs and infections?”  No worries, they start you on strong anti-biotics before the procedure and continue afterwards.  Scotty would be mortified.

Ten days later, we met with the doc for the “follow up”.  He matter-of-factly announced to us that I have cancer.  (How else would you do it?).  The CT scan showed no abnormalities.  The bladder is being traumatized by the enlarged prostate and thus the urinary problems and blood in the urine stream.  The cancer was a 6 on the Gleason scale, which is the lowest it can be.  That means it is growing very slow and is not yet much of a threat.  He went over our options which are to 1, wait and see.  Monitor it and see if it starts to grow more.  This would require regular biopsies.  2, surgery to remove the prostate, which could or will have an impact on every organ in the area.  3, radiation, which he pointed out, does kill cancer, but can also cause cancer.  He also noted that at some point the prostate may be causing enough problems for the bladder that it will have to be removed either way.  But it would not be able to be removed if we have had radiation because of the scar tissue radiation causes.  He appeared to be leaning towards option 1 as his recommendation.

He gave us a book to read “100 Ways to Die from Prostate Cancer.”  Whoops. That should read “100 Questions About Prostate Cancer”.  We were assigned to read it, stay off Google lest it scare us to death, and come back in three weeks to discuss the options.

Since announcing my cancer, many folks have reached out to me.  There are two camps.  First, those who have a magical cure.  This includes everything from Hemp Oil to Fish Diets to a secret in-house cancer curing place in Montana, and everything in between.  The second camp is other guys saying “welcome to the club.  I survived it just fine.  Call me and we’ll talk.”

At this point I’ll look at all solutions, even the hemp oil.  (My several friends in CA who have approached me about it are now excited, my more conservative friends near my home town are thinking I just sold my soul to the devil by even saying such a thing, and my non-LDS friends just got the giggles.  “I’ll be by with some brownies in a bit……”) What have I got to lose?  And what if it works?

But our conclusion is that there really is not a cure for cancer that works every time on everyone.  Other than the invasive medical procedures mentioned above, all of which are wracked with possible side effects and complications.

Before the upcoming “decide on an option” meeting with the doc on March 6^th, we will call each “welcome to the club” guy and learn about their experience, their chosen treatment option, complications, and if they have any regrets.  Their personal experiences will be helpful.

The one thing the doc said that was hopeful, somewhat, is that my life expectancy at this point, with worse case scenario, meaning that I choose no treatment whatsoever, is twenty years.  Two decades.  So, either way, I have a lot of time to make fun of this cancer predicament I am in. 

Maybe we can all laugh the cancer to death.