I recently did what will probably be the scariest thing I’ll do this year: I posted on Facebook as a person living with cancer. To recap, on April 5, 2023 I was told I had prostate cancer. I must admit that this news did not disappoint me. It came after months of appointments with my urologist, multiple PSA tests and, finally, a very embarrassing biopsy.
In my entire adult life I have never felt so vulnerable as lying in the fetal position waiting to be injected 12 times with a terrifying looking needle. My urologist and his assistant tried to distract me from the physical and emotional discomfort of the procedure with gibberish, but it is the darkest hour of this journey so far.
I can’t say I was completely devastated when I received the bad news a week later (months of preparation definitely softened the blow, even though my urologist assured me the “level of suspicion was low”), but my heart sank a little. It went down a bit when I started sharing the news: first I told my husband, then the rest of my family, and then my best friend. I slowly opened up to a close circle of friends and colleagues, including my boss, who was incredibly supportive, as well as four other co-workers whom I confided in. One of them told me about his own experience with cancer, which gave me one of the biggest boosts during those first six months. He made me feel less alone at work.
I told a few of my good friends who I knew had gone through their own experiences with cancer. One of them said it was “a crappy club to be a part of”, and while I agreed then, I’m not so sure I agree now. If I had the choice, I probably would have joined a book club instead (and if you know me, you know that’s something I’d never happily do), but I’ve had time to accept that I’m on a lifelong journey that will hopefully change me forever for the better.
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Jeremy Helligar.
Jayden Malady
The months after the diagnosis were followed by multiple doctor visits and second and third opinions. My regular urologist, who said my cancer was low-grade and slow-growing—so much so that they called it “not cancer”—recommended an MRI to determine if there was a higher-grade cancer cell in my prostate or if it had metastasized to other parts. my body.
The MRI revealed that my cancer had not spread, but it did reveal two “suspicious” spots on my prostate. Only 12 tissue samples were tested by biopsy, which is why an MRI was recommended after the prostate had healed from the invasive procedure. For the first time since my diagnosis six weeks ago, I was freaking out.
My doctor stayed calm and told me not to think too much. Did he not realize that he was dealing with an extreme, hopeless hypochondriac? Of course, I was going to overthink it. I overthink everything from punctuation to a cancer diagnosis.
A second opinion was necessary. My appointment with another urologist was probably my worst doctor’s appointment ever. He sounded like I was a walking time bomb. If I didn’t have a life-changing prostatectomy as soon as possible, he insisted, I would be putting my life at risk. He delivered this terrifying recommendation as if we were on a football field with 10 seconds left on the clock. Suddenly I was 9 years old again, and my PE teacher was yelling at me to go over the wall on the obstacle course.
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Jeremy Helligar.
Jayden Malady
Instead of breaking down in tears like I did in fourth grade, I told Dr. Feelbad. It was a real confrontation, during which he had the courage to tell me to “educate myself”. (Later, when I went back to my regular urologist, he told me he got a call from Dr. Feelbad, who said I “scared him”.) I felt like Dorothy Zbornak in Golden girls two-parter called “Sick and Tired”. As I stormed out of Dr. Feelbad’s office, I wondered if he would speak to me in such a condescending and belittling manner, telling me to educate myself, to be white. Completely confused by two wildly different opinions, I made an appointment with a urologist in Queens for a third opinion. It was recommended to me by a support group I joined. He was wonderful, and his attitude was similar to that of my primary urologist, although he refrained from using words and phrases like “it’s not cancer” and “don’t overthink it.” I would switch to him forever if his office wasn’t all the way in Queens. He said that as much as he would be happy to honor me, to spare me the long commute from Manhattan to his office, he could refer me to a trusted colleague closer to where I live.
In the end, I decided to go back to my regular urologist. Despite his overly casual attitude when he offered my initial diagnosis, over the previous two years I had developed a good doctor-patient relationship with him and had confidence in his skill. He told me that with prostate cancer, many old-school doctors opt to overtreat, but he prefers a more conservative approach. Together we decided to start with what they call “active surveillance”. I will see him every three months and continue to monitor my PSA levels and go for another MRI in about six months. As long as my PSA levels are stable and my MRI results are clear (my low-grade prostate cancer — Gleason score: 6 — can’t be detected by MRI, and those suspicious spots on my first MRI were thought to be unrelated to cancer after further examination), no treatment will be required.
It’s a bold approach, but it works for me. At some point, I may need treatment, but it’s also possible that I’ll live another 40 years without needing a prostatectomy, radiation, or any other type of treatment. At first, when I was first diagnosed, I didn’t think I could live my life knowing my body was hiding cancer, but after I had a few months to gather information, the alternative was a prostatectomy with side effects that could include incontinence and erectile dysfunction and would prevent me from ever ejaculating again—it seemed a lot scarier than rolling the dice as long as I could. (My dad is 92 years old and has been living with prostate cancer for 25 years, he was treated with radiation and hormone therapy.)
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I’m still processing my cancer diagnosis, and although I hadn’t planned to go public with it, the other day while walking our Yorkie, Chip, I started to change my mind. As is often the case on sunny, beautiful days, my future seemed so bright and I wanted to share my positivity with other people. I’ve witnessed friends and loved ones suffer from cancer on Facebook, but what I don’t see as often are positive stories that might actually help others going through the same thing or encourage others to listen to their bodies and take care of their health.
Maybe going public will make me less employable in the future. Maybe people will feel uncomfortable around me or won’t know what to say to me other than platitudes like “You’ve got this.” I hope not so. I already feel relief. I feel lighter than I have been since April 5th. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter how the world sees me right now with regards to my health. I relinquished control of it. I may be part of a shitty club, but at least I don’t have to read Where the Crawdads Sing, unless I want to.
Some of us in this particularly shitty club live longer, beautiful lives. Some of us don’t. But isn’t that how life works anyway?
Editor’s note: After skin cancer, prostate cancer is the second most common form of cancer among American men. More than 3.1 million American men are living with prostate cancer, and according to the American Cancer Society, 1 in 8 men will be diagnosed with the disease in their lifetime. Doctors recommend annual PSA tests for men over 40 and men at high risk of developing prostate cancer. If detected early, the five-year survival rate is 97 percent.
Categories: Trends
Source: HIS Education