My cancer journey took a hard turn last summer when I
learned I had prostate cancer. Less than two years after being diagnosed with a
rare cancer, a gastrointestinal stromal tumor also known as GIST, I get
diagnosed with the most common and prevalent cancer among men in America. And this
prostate cancer was the type that required prompt treatment, either surgery or
radiation. After comparing the pros and cons of the different treatment options
we decided on surgery, a robotic radical prostatectomy. “Robotic” and “radical”
are both strong words. Adding to the dramatic nature of prostate cancer
treatment, the name of the robot is “Da Vinci.” Fortunately, Da Vinci is only
the assistant. A highly trained human surgeon controls the Da Vinci robot as it
removes the prostate gland with the cancer inside it and surrounding lymph
nodes.
My surgery went smoothly and after a one-night hospital stay
I went home to recuperate. With the support of my family, especially my wife
Jan who just happens to be a great and highly skilled nurse, recovery was
uneventful though not much fun. Nine days later we returned to the doctor’s
office to have the urinary catheter removed and get the full post-operative pathology
report.
Having spent considerable time in different doctors’ offices,
I’ve observed interesting—many obvious—characteristics about myself and fellow
patients in the waiting room. The social experience of observing others and
being observed in these settings fascinates me. Maybe it is one of the reasons
I worked in news for so long. And the anxiety of sitting in a medical waiting
room, perhaps about to receive potentially life changing test results, presents
itself in ways both subtle and dramatic.
On this particular morning, in a large urology practice’s
modern, minimalist waiting area there are several men in their 60s and 70s
wearing loose fitting comfortable clothing accompanied by their wives or mostly female
companions. I am one of them. While the sex and age range of these men are homogeneous the racial and ethnic make-up of the group is diverse. We are blacks,
whites, Asians and Hispanics all here because something in our bodies needs
the attention of a urologist.
After a brief wait, they call my name. The medical assistant greets me and she measures my height, weight, and blood
pressure (running a little high his morning). After a short walk to an exam room we wait for the nurse practitioner—not
the doctor today--who will appear shortly. When he enters the room, I am
reassured; I am in good hands. The NP is someone who is a specialist in male
urological cancers with a friendly, reassuring bedside manner. After the
business of removing the catheter—oh what a relief it is—we get the results of
the pathology of my cancer. And the news is good. The cancer was all within
the prostate, no spread detected outside the gland itself. Ninety percent of
the cancer was classified as low grade, the least aggressive form. The remaining
ten percent of the cancer was in the moderate range. In the parlance of those
who understand Gleason scores it was a (3+4) 7, generally considered to have a
good prognosis.
Relieved by the favorable pathology and catheter removal, we
head home. The cancer journey is a relentless marathon. More tests and follow-up
in the weeks, months, and years ahead. We are grateful for love and support and
a manageable prognosis.
With two different cancer diagnoses in under two years, my
first reaction to the prostate diagnosis was “I’m tired.” That passed quickly
and determination to get treated and healthy took over. I am one of the lucky
ones. So much pain and sadness for those whose illness, be it cancer or
something else, has harsher consequences. With that in mind this holiday
season, I hope and pray for the health and healing of those who need it. I
thank those of you following my journey for your love and support.
To be continued.
