Excerpt from Chapter 3 – How little is little?

     Many men I’ve spoken with about the prostate cancer diagnosis routine wonder about the biopsy.

 

  For one thing, they figure it means they have cancer. This, of course, is nonsense. It no more means you have cancer than having your car brakes checked means you need to replace them.

   For another, men ask how one biopsies the annoying gland. Is it just another DRE but with a needle glued to the end of the digit? Is the needle poked through the lower abdomen right into the prostate? Or, in the worst pain scenario, is a long thin foreign object passed through the penis? The very thought makes me shudder.

    I suggest they think of it this way. Pretend you lie on your side on a hockey rink in the fetal position. You have a pillow under your head. You are not wearing underwear nor an athletic supporter or cup. Not far away and facing your posterior, a doctor with a better-than-average slapshot lines up ten pucks. To ensure an antiseptic environment, he wears a surgical mask.

Excerpt from Chapter 9 – Highway toilets

        I twice visited a Toronto hospital known for its prostate treatments. The first trip was to see a prominent brachytherapy specialist whom, I was told, slightly resembled actress Faye Dunaway. If this was meant to settle me down, it didn’t. The thought of Bonnie Parker waving a radioactive tommy-gun at my privates was less than motivating. I didn’t care what the doctor looked like, although I admit to being curious about a woman in the prostate field.

      The appointment was quickly arranged, only three weeks after the September meeting with my urologist. It was frustrating to be able to smoothly set this up in another city, yet next to impossible to contact my own doctor’s office across town. There was also a catch. I was ordered not to urinate for as long as possible beforehand so they could accurately measure my stream or somesuch. The nurse said it would add detail to the pathology report. It didn’t seem like a terribly unreasonable request.

           I had a one pm appointment. I gave myself five hours from Ottawa and added a bit in case of traffic, so I left home at about 7:15 am, after breakfast and coffee. Did I mention that coffee promotes urination?

        The hospital was west of downtown Toronto and I hadn’t been in the area before. Even with printed online directions, I still managed to miss the exit off the 401. You see, I had to pee so badly, my eyeballs were rolling back in my head. It was now 12:15 pm.

          I was rocking to and fro in the car, singing over – OVER! – my Bee Gees CD and cursing the lack of porta-potties along the highway. I resisted using my windshield washer because the sight of the squirt might trigger my plumbing. I considered pulling onto the shoulder to drain myself on the retaining wall. I even opened the glove compartment – yes, while driving – searching for a container to pee into, though a big enough one couldn’t possibly be in there. If a cop were to pull me over, I’d have had to first bolt to the side of my car and pee on my tire. Or his.