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I finally made the call.
I’m on hold right now, waiting to make an appointment with my urologist for my six-month PSA exam. I’m listening to a soothing female voice telling me that at the Urology Clinics of North Texas, I can get treatment for everything from erectile dysfunction to persnickety prostates. Finally, Debbie—a real, live woman—comes on the phone. We make arrangements for the vampire nurse to draw my blood at 9:20 a.m. Sept. 13. On the following Monday, my urologist, Dr. Matthew Wilner at Dallas Presbyterian Hospital, will tell me whether my cancer has returned.
Five years ago, the good doctor removed my prostate after I, at 48, was diagnosed with early prostate cancer. Since then, I’ve returned to his seventh-floor office every six months to give blood and undergo the somewhat humiliating digital rectal exam. The PSA blood test is the big way urologists check to see if cancer has possibly returned. Since my surgery, my PSA has been 0. Anything above that would raise a red flag, since cancer pumps plenty of “prostate specific antigen”—PSA—into the blood. Of course, other things can pump the antigen into your blood, such as an enlarged, inflamed or infected prostate. But since I don’t have a prostate, it’s a safe bet to say if my PSA goes up, it’s likely a recurrence of my cancer. No guarantees Since I caught my cancer while the little b------ was confined to the gland, my cure rate is 90% over my lifetime. So I’m rejoicing in the 90%, not dwelling on the 10%. Still, there are no guarantees, which is why I return to the doc every six months. It’s also about that time that my “wimp factor” runs on overdrive. For the past few days, I simply found calling my doctor very hard. In fact, I would promise every morning that I would call that day—and then I forgot. I wonder why? This morning, I remembered my blog entry from last week about how many men are wimps about their health and will put off going to the doctor because they’re scared of what may happen or hate to think of doctors feeling of their, well, privates. As I sat at my desk this morning and scanned over my daily “to-do” list, I saw the words scrawled and circled in red ink: CALL WILNER. Several seconds passed as I fixed my eyes on those words. “You’re such a sniveling wimp,” I told myself. So I made the call. Now, the feeling of freedom from wimpiness is wonderful!
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