I had a chat with the surgeon today. It wasn't the all clear I was hoping for, but it's not necessarily bad news either. There is a protein they measure, called a Prostate Specific Antigen (PSA), an elevated level of which is an indicator of cancer. Now I've been dealt to, my level should be zero or pretty close to it, but apparently it's not. It might mean nothing. It might mean some residual PSA left from before the operation or it might be more sinister. The surgeon advised against rushing into any treatment right now. I'll have more blood taken over the next couple of months, he'll see me again in November and we'll make the call then.
I felt a bit flat coming out of his office and went for a walk on the beach to think about things. It was a beautiful day and St. Clair was dotted with people walking dogs. I took some photos and admired the view. I remembered that I'm now at a stage where this thing isn't going to kill me. At worst, my life could get a little restricted. I guess I was sombre because I had, secretly, been hoping to return to the comfortable assumption of bodily immortality which I had enjoyed all my life until the end of this April past, and now I had to face reality: I am fallible and fragile and limited. Get used to it. I strolled until our parish secretary phoned and reminded me that I actually needed to be somewhere else. I forsook my planned coffee and took a picture of the cafe instead. Then I turned and walked purposefully back to meaningful activity.