My
husband has always been what you’d think of as a tough guy,
strong, manly, well he’s always been my rock. I’ve
come to depend on his quiet strength to lift me up in times of need
and to keep me grounded when my body feels like it’s flying
apart. Then came the day we found out he had the “C” word
and that was the day his strength was truly tested.
He
had been complaining of pain in his lower abdomen forever. We had
gone to several different doctors trying to locate the origin, to no
avail. He had been to his family physician, a gastroenterologist, and
finally, a urologist. This last doctor performed the usual battery of
tests, did a biopsy on his prostate and the whole time I was
thinking, ‘he’s going to be ok. PSA readings can be high
for many different reasons.’ Never mind his dad had prostate
cancer. Or that cancer just seems to run in his family. Along with
Alzheimer’s disease. I was forever the optimist however and
felt like this was some other issue. Maybe he had H-Pylori or some
other stomach problem causing his pain. Maybe he had a hernia or
somehow pulled a muscle deep in his belly. I would not even consider
that it was cancer, that would never happen to us. We were somehow
immune to this I reasoned.
This
was supposed to be a good year, we had both had experienced our share
of family grief, first, my mother passed away after a battle with
PKD, then his dad died the same year, in the fall. He had beat cancer
but succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease after a four-year fight.
His mom was still dealing with all of that when the following month,
her oldest son Charlie became ill and died suddenly. Dave lost his
oldest brother and it just crushed him. It was out of nowhere
evidently, he had been walking around with a tumor on his kidney for
several years and didn’t know it, nor was it ever caught by his
doctor. His mother went into a deep depression that we aren’t
too sure she ever came out of. She is currently dealing with her own
cancer and must fight her demons every day. At any rate, this news he
got was not welcomed in any way, shape, or form. So much for our good
year. Again, this should have set off a red flag for me, but I
refused to believe it could be.
As
we showed up to the doctor’s office that day, I was full of
hope, yet I think Dave already sensed that this meeting was not going
to produce the news he wanted to hear. The doctor took us to an
office that was different than the ones we had been to before, there
was a chair for him and what he referred to as the crying couch for
us. No, he didn’t, but I had a gut feeling due to the sparse
decoration, and the box of Kleenex sitting on the coffee table. Dave
and I sat waiting for him to share his awful news, holding hands and
praying he would not say the “C” word. My history of
working in the medical field had prepared me in a way, especially the
fact that I had worked at a cancer treatment facility for fifteen
years. You hope against hope that the news will be different for you
though. I had enough confidence and optimism for both of us that we
would be getting good news. We were due after the hard year we’d
had, right?
It
was not good news, however. He showed him his scans which pictured
cancer in four lobes of his prostate, two of them being of
significant size. His PSA had increased again, and his prognosis was
that he should consult with a surgeon who then suggested a
prostatectomy. Just cut the whole thing out, then there would be no
need for chemo or radiation and his PSA would be zero forever.
Radiation had some nasty side effects that would show up in later
years and chemo was not even suggested as an option. So, we made the
decision to have the surgery, that was the best way to ensure he got
to live, even if it meant he would have some “issues” to
deal with later. I could not believe it, this was my tough guy, my
rock, he was invincible, wasn’t he? Dave put his fingers to his
forehead in that classic position of his that signaled he was working
through all this information he just got. I sat by his side, trying
not to cry and wishing I had heard him wrong. “No matter,”
I thought, “We will get through this as we get through
everything.”
First,
though, we had the dreaded task of sharing the news with his mother,
who of course knew we were to find out that day what his diagnosis
was. We knew this was not phone call news and as we headed to her
house to tell her in person, we discussed how best to say it.
Ultimately, we went to his brother Robert’s house first and
tried out the news on him. That gave Dave an ice breaker and a bit of
practice before cluing his mom in. (I also forgot to mention that I
had recently been through something similar with my dad, only his
procedure was called TURP surgery, and his prostate was not
cancerous, thank God. So, it had been a rough two-year period for the
entire family). His mom took it better than we expected. I guess she
was kind of expecting more bad news, unfortunately, that had become
the norm lately. It was like we were under some dark cloud. Robert
took the news worse than their mother did. Maybe she felt like Dave
would ultimately be ok, we did explain that the surgery was the best
decision, that all cancer would be removed, and he would be alive to
face another day. That may have been why she remained so calm, yet
who knows, maybe she was being strong for him and secretly cried
after we left.
I’m
a fixer. I have always been that way and when I get too bossy, Dave
tells me my long toe is showing. (My second toe is longer than my
first) We laugh, and then he usually does as I ask, even if there is
some grumbling about it. Well, I wanted this fixed in the fastest,
most efficient way and the surgery was it. Let’s not talk about
it long, let’s just get it over with. That was my take on it, I
was sure that I was right. Luckily, this time Dave agreed. He did not
want to have to endure chemo or radiation, even though he had some
trepidation about lingering “issues” down the road. We
both felt like they would be manageable. After discussing the options
one more time, the decision was made.
We
dove in as soon as the appointments were set, met our team of
specialists and paid the money to get the ball rolling. I thank God
we have insurance every day, yet, even so, the cost was exorbitant,
to me anyway. (that was before I had my neck surgery, now THAT was
expensive!!) David steeled himself for what was to come and just went
for it, trusting his well being to this man that was basically about
to remove most of his manhood. Once the prostate is gone you see,
things must be done differently, and that has been a learning
experience for both of us. Forgive my bluntness, but the man cannot
ejaculate anymore, and getting hard comes with the help of
medication. That would be an adjustment for any couple I’m
sure. In time they say these issues will resolve and we will get our
old sex life back, the jury is still out on that.
Fast
forward fifteen months and he is still dealing with residual issues
like leakage and sexual dysfunction, but at least he is alive and
cancer-free. I’ll take it. He is disappointed, yet I try to
encourage him and tell him everything is okay. It’s hard
because he no longer feels virile and the fact that he must wear pads
like a woman is embarrassing to him, it is all part of the deal
though. All of this was explained in detail, he is just impatient for
his life to return to normal. However, this may be
his new
normal and we must deal with that. I hope not, for his sake and
self-esteem but the important thing is that he is here
to feel that way. I have no problem with the way things are going in
the bedroom, yet women have different ideas about sex and truth be
known, we don’t need it that often as the years go by. (Or is
it just me?) Another truth is that his drive is not what it used to
be, he is tired more often, or maybe again, it is just stress. Stress
from his job, family problems, not sleeping at night…whatever.
He
could go to therapy they said, learn to control those muscles that
allow him to leak, yet he just can’t seem to find the time.
Kind of like when he is asked to perform a dreaded honey-do or take a
dose of medicine. Yet if it was me and my health, he would act like a
drill sergeant to make sure I did my exercises or therapy. Men are
just different I’ve noticed. They think they must tough
everything out, yet if I didn’t want to wear pads like a woman,
it seems logical that the next step would be to go to therapy. His
dad had diabetes, yet he would not stop drinking beer or eating
sweets. Eventually, he drank non-alcoholic beer, but by then it was
too late. And who's to say that didn’t cause his Alzheimer’s?
But he wanted to do what he wanted to do; consequences be damned. His
mother had diabetes and Alzheimer’s, yet he never considered
the connection, I guess. The whole family (and mine too) seems to
have that “just rub some dirt on it” mentality, like they
aren’t supposed to get sick or have accidents and if they do,
well they will just power through it. One time, since my mother has
been gone and my dad is mostly on his own, something he left on the
stove blew up in his face. He didn’t call anyone, did not drive
himself to the ER, just splashed some water on his face and went on
about his business. I was shocked and hurt when I found out three
days later. That is just how they are though.
I
guess it comes down to what we each deem the most important as
individuals. I’m not perfect either, yet I usually try to do
what I know is best for my health and I wish I could get my family to
do the same. I want to be around long enough to enjoy my retirement
with my husband. That is why we decided on him having the surgery, to
make sure the cancer was gone and that he was here to live long
enough to someday get to retire. Not having chemo meant he would not
ever have to feel miserable and sick, and not having radiation meant
that he did not do irreversible damage to his personal area, like
burn his sexual organs or sensitive areas. The surgery was a
one-and-done option that we both agreed was the perfect solution.
I
had previously worked as a phlebotomist in a cancer center on and off
for fifteen years. I saw what chemo and radiation did to people and I
realize that many times it is necessary. My mother-in-law recently
got diagnosed with a rare type of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma that
the doctor plainly stated he has no idea how to cure. She had to
endure a year of mild chemotherapy which was
really very easy
on her, she didn’t get sick or lose her hair. Now, however, it
is not working anymore, and she is going through a very harsh type of
chemo called CHOP. Knowing he had a family history should have made
me more vigilant about him getting tested more frequently and I have
some guilt about that. The doctor did tell him, however, that if you
are a man and you live long enough, you will eventually get prostate
cancer. I have no idea if that’s true, yet it made me feel like
I hadn’t failed him anyway. I remember thinking that he was
wrong, there must be some mistake, how could he be delivering this
kind of news when I had prayed so hard, been so positive he was going
to be fine?
I
think back to the day we were led to that couch in the doctor’s
office and it feels so long ago. I think about the look on the
doctor’s face as he delivered the news and the way my heart
sunk when I heard it. He was not unkind, just no-nonsense. I think
about not being able to hold back the tears even as I steeled my
resolve to do whatever it took to save my husband’s life. I
personally feel that Dave has faced everything thrown at him with his
usual strength and bravery, that he is due the little bit of whining
he has done, and that he will bounce back, straighten up, and fly
right eventually.
I
also believe that the doctor that delivered the awful news to us
should consider some new office décor.
(Update
on this essay, things are MUCH better now.)
