A photo I took when walking into the hospital on my first day of treatment.
I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in April 2008, more than 11 years ago. After a radical prostatectomy and a lengthy period of radiotherapy we found that the cancer hadn't gone and that I had stage 4 of a particularly virulent variety of the disease. A radical change of diet, a renewed commitment to meditation and some excellent medical advice meant that I beat the odds, and instead of the expected short sharp decline I have, since then, lived the best 11 years of my life. But I knew the cancer hadn't gone away. We were using some pretty effective tools to keep it at bay but down there somewhere the disease was lurking and waiting.
Last year it seems that the cunning little bastard had found a way around my best defences and, although still small, it was going for gold, making an impressive near vertical acceleration on the chart which measures its presence. On the advice of the medics I went to Christchurch and paid $2800 for a new type of scan which found out exactly where it was hiding, which was good news and bad news. The good news was that there was only one spot. The bad news was that the spot was all but impossible to get at. The advice given was to leave it alone and deal with it chemically when it got big enough to start compromising my life in, probably, about a year's time. I didn't much care for that advice so sought a second opinion, and was given a clear, but stark scenario. I could have radiotherapy, but it was a real roll of the dice. If I got a 1 or a 2 the radiotherapy would make no difference. If I got a 3 or a 4 it would make things considerably worse, causing nerve damage to my left leg and pose a risk to already irradiated bits of me, thereby leaving me lame and cancerous. But if I got a 5 or a 6 it would knock the tumour out of the park and I might not have any more trouble for ages. I thought that was a gamble that was well worth taking.
So, since last Thursday I have been in to Dunedin Public Hospital every day. The first couple of days the staff measured me, fitted me for a special little mattress thing that keeps me in the same place every session and added another tattoo to the little collection in my nether regions. Their task is like William Tell's - knock the apple out but, as far as possible, leave the child alone. Their crossbow is an enormous machine covered in beige plastic, like the sort you got on computer monitors in the 90s, and they are working it by remote control from another room. They are women, about the age of my daughters, and are kind and respectful and impressively knowledgeable.This week I have lain very still while the machine circles around me and the lasers shine and there are whirrs and buzzes and lists of incomprehensible numbers on a monitor. It takes half an hour, so it gives me another meditation session every day. Sweet.This is different from last time, when I had many sessions of many small beams converging on the diseased area. This time there are only a few very strong beams blasting away at a clearly defined place, and it will all be over by Friday. I am given pills to aid the process, and so far it's these, not the x rays, which cause some discomfort.
Many of you have supported me on this long journey and I'm very grateful for that. I see the doctor at the end of February and it's then that I'll learn which way the dice has fallen. I am quite comfortable with any of the outcomes, although obviously I and the family have a preferred option. I'll keep you posted.
Comments
So I'm asking on your behalf that all will turn out well. God loves you ❤