Fresh-faced and all chipper-like the nurse invited me to sit down before she began asking the usual battery of pre-surgical questions.
The Q-and-A session is part and partial for any surgery. In my case, that carving knife work will take place next Tuesday within the bowels of Lake Health System’s TriPoint Hospital. In the “out patient” section to be exact, though I’m not entirely sure where that sterile venue is actually located.
I’m sure I’ll hunt it down, especially since I’ll have my wife as the accompanying blood hound. When it comes to my health Bev is doggedly determined to do whatever it takes to get me there and ensure that my medicines go down with or without a spoonful of sugar.
Even if it kills me, or her, if that becomes necessary. You gotta’ love a wife who loves you that much.
Tuesday’s surgery will entail the removal of a pair of lymph nodes, located on either side of the gland associated also with the bladder. These nodes will then make their short journey to a laboratory where a pathologist will poke the things and determine whether the cancer has spread into my lymphatic system or remains locked inside the prostate gland.
The latter would be a good thing; the former, not so much. That would mean the cancer has made a sneak attack and infiltrated the allied lines. Under such a circumstances I’ll be looking at a three- to five-year life expectancy with treatments to suppress the disease rather than one that would whip the medically criminal antagonist at its source - the prostate gland.
My urologist - Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff - says in my case the odds of the cancer having spread is 10 to 15 percent. He noted also that I’ve been quite a good lad in getting both an annual rectal examine of the prostate as well as a PSA test.
I’m praying he’s correct and I’ve got a whole regiment of prayers warriors backing me up as well.
Back to the examination, the kind nurse did her duty, asking a gurney of questions not only related to my health but also that of my immediate blood family.
She answered my questions, among which included the likelihood that the surgery will require the shaving of my pubic hair. Yep, as distasteful as that imagery may be it is still necessary to help prevent bacterial infection.
“You’ll probably be asleep when they do it,” the nurse said.
Passing me off to a physician’s-assistant the nurse said I’d been a right fine patient. She put it by saying I’ve got a really decent sense of humor.
Good, I thought, the nurse didn’t pick up on the fact that I was nervously whistling in the dark, trying to wrestle with demons of my own mind’s making.
The physician’s-assistant also was top-of-the-line friendly as was a young woman who sat me down in order to draw a vile of blood.
For the former I answered a few more questions and promised that I’d be a good boy by peeing into a plastic specimen cup.
“The doctor ordered it,” said the physician’s-assistant.
Good thinking, I figured, since when in doubt, always blame the physician.
Similarly the blood-taking vampire was superbly pleasant, going so far as to ask which arm I’d like to volunteer for the mission. The right, as is usually the habit for such work, I replied.
After nearly 90 minutes the process was completed, about the same length of time the surgery will take, as I’ve been told.
So now I’m in the chute, waiting for the gate to open and for me to ride the bull out onto the arena floor. The prayer is, of course, that I can stay on and not fall off.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Just how old are you, anyway?
This blog has been pretty serious lately - and will be again tomorrow when I review my pre-surgical visit to TriPoint Hospital for the start of my prostate cancer work.
In the meantime here's a neat test provided by my aged cousin, Larry "Doc" Lee.
History Exam...
Everyone over 40 should have a pretty easy time at this exam. If you are under 40 you can claim a handicap. This is a History Exam for those who don't mind seeing how much they really remember about what went on in their lives. *** Get paper & pencil & number from 1 to 20. ****Write the letter of each answer & score at the end. Before you pass this test along, put your score in the subject line. Send it to friends so everyone can have fun remembering the good ol’ days. 1. In the 1940s, where were automobile headlight dimmer switches located? A. On the floor shift knob. B. On the floor board, to the left of the clutch.... C. Next to the horn. 2. The bottle top of a Royal Crown Cola bottle had holes in it.. For what was it used? A. Capture lightning bugs. B. To sprinkle clothes before ironing. C. Large salt shaker. 3. Why was having milk delivered a problem in northern winters? A. Cows got cold and wouldn't produce milk. B. Ice on highways forced delivery by dog sled. C. Milkmen left deliveries outside of front doors and milk would freeze, expanding and pushing up the cardboard bottle top. 4. What was the popular chewing gum named for a game of chance? A. Blackjack B. Gin C. Craps 5. What method did women use to look as if they were wearing stockings when none were available due to rationing during WW II. A.Suntan B. Leg painting C. Wearing slacks 6. What postwar car turned automotive design on its ear when you couldn't tell whether it was coming or going? A.Studebaker B. Nash Metro C. Tucker 7. Which was a popular candy when you were a kid? A . Strips of dried peanut butter. B. Chocolate licorice bars. C. Wax coke-shaped bottles with colored sugar water inside. 8. How was Butch wax used? A. To stiffen a flat-top haircut so it stood up. B. To make floors shiny and prevent scuffing.. C On the wheels of roller skates to prevent rust. 9. Before inline skates, how did you keep your roller skates attached to your shoes? A. With clamps, tightened by a skate key. B. Woven straps that crossed the foot. C. Long pieces of twine. 10.. As a kid, what was considered the best way to reach a decision? A. Consider all the facts.. B. Ask Mom. C. Eeny-meeny-miney-MO. |
11. What was the most
dreaded disease in the 1940s and 1950s?
A. Smallpox
B. AIDS
C. Polio
12. 'I'll be down to get you in a ________, Honey'
A. SUV
B. Taxi
C. Streetcar
13.. What was the name of Caroline Kennedy's pony?
A. Old Blue
B. Paint
C Macaroni
14.. What was a Duck-and-Cover Drill?
A. Part of the game of hide and seek.
B. What you did when your Mom called you in to do chores.
C. Hiding under your desk, and covering your head with your arms in an A-bomb drill.
15 . What was the name of the Indian Princess in the Howdy Doody Show?
A. Princess Summerfallwinterspring
B. Princess Sacajawea
C Princess Moonshadow
16.. What did all the really savvy students do when mimeographed tests were handed out in school?
A. Immediately sniffed the purple ink, as this was believed to get you high.
B. Made paper airplanes to see who could sail theirs out the window.
C. Wrote another pupil's name on the top, to avoid their failure.
17. Why did your Mom shop in stores that gave Green Stamps with purchases?
A. To keep you out of mischief by licking the backs, which tasted like bubble gum.
B. They could be put in special books and redeemed for various household items.
C. They were given to the kids to be used as stick-on tattoos.
18. Praise the Lord , & pass the _________?
A.. Meatballs
B. Dames
C. Ammunition
19. What was the name of the singing group that made the song 'Cabdriver' a hit?
A. The Ink Spots
B.. The Supremes
C. The Esquires
20.. Who left his heart in San Francisco ?
A. Tony Bennett
B. Xavier Cugat
C. George Gershwin
-----------------------------
ANSWERS
1. (B) On the floor, to the left of the clutch. Hand controls, popular in Europe , took till the late '60's to catch on.
2. (B) To sprinkle clothes before ironing.. Who had a steam iron?
3 (C) Cold weather caused the milk to freeze and expand, popping the bottle top...
4 . (A) Blackjack Gum.
5.. (B) Special makeup was applied, followed by drawing a seam down the back of the leg with eyebrow pencil
6. (A) 1946 Studebaker.
7. (C) Wax coke bottles containing super-sweet colored water.
8. (A) Wax for your flat top (butch) haircut.
9. (A) With clamps, tightened by a skate key, which you wore on a shoestring around your neck.
10. (C) Eeny-meeny-miney-mo.
11. (C) Polio. In beginning of August, swimming pools were closed, movies and other public gathering places were closed to try to prevent spread of the disease.
12. (B) Taxi , Better be ready by half-past eight!
13. (C) Macaroni ....
14. (C) Hiding under your desk, and covering your head with your arms in an A-bomb drill.
15. (A) Princess Summerfallwinterspring. She was another puppet.
16. (A) Immediately sniffed the purple ink to get a high.
17. (B) Put in a special stamp book, they could be traded for household items at the Green Stamp store.
18. (C) Ammunition, and we'll all be free.
19. (A) The widely famous 50's group: The Inkspots.
20. (A) Tony Bennett, and he sounds just as good today.
SCORING
17- 20 correct : You are older than dirt, and obviously gifted with mental abilities. Now if you could only find your glasses. Definitely someone who should share your wisdom!
12 -16 correct: Not quite dirt yet, but you're getting there.
0 -11 correct: You are not old enough to share the wisdom of your experiences.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
A. Smallpox
B. AIDS
C. Polio
12. 'I'll be down to get you in a ________, Honey'
A. SUV
B. Taxi
C. Streetcar
13.. What was the name of Caroline Kennedy's pony?
A. Old Blue
B. Paint
C Macaroni
14.. What was a Duck-and-Cover Drill?
A. Part of the game of hide and seek.
B. What you did when your Mom called you in to do chores.
C. Hiding under your desk, and covering your head with your arms in an A-bomb drill.
15 . What was the name of the Indian Princess in the Howdy Doody Show?
A. Princess Summerfallwinterspring
B. Princess Sacajawea
C Princess Moonshadow
16.. What did all the really savvy students do when mimeographed tests were handed out in school?
A. Immediately sniffed the purple ink, as this was believed to get you high.
B. Made paper airplanes to see who could sail theirs out the window.
C. Wrote another pupil's name on the top, to avoid their failure.
17. Why did your Mom shop in stores that gave Green Stamps with purchases?
A. To keep you out of mischief by licking the backs, which tasted like bubble gum.
B. They could be put in special books and redeemed for various household items.
C. They were given to the kids to be used as stick-on tattoos.
18. Praise the Lord , & pass the _________?
A.. Meatballs
B. Dames
C. Ammunition
19. What was the name of the singing group that made the song 'Cabdriver' a hit?
A. The Ink Spots
B.. The Supremes
C. The Esquires
20.. Who left his heart in San Francisco ?
A. Tony Bennett
B. Xavier Cugat
C. George Gershwin
-----------------------------
ANSWERS
1. (B) On the floor, to the left of the clutch. Hand controls, popular in Europe , took till the late '60's to catch on.
2. (B) To sprinkle clothes before ironing.. Who had a steam iron?
3 (C) Cold weather caused the milk to freeze and expand, popping the bottle top...
4 . (A) Blackjack Gum.
5.. (B) Special makeup was applied, followed by drawing a seam down the back of the leg with eyebrow pencil
6. (A) 1946 Studebaker.
7. (C) Wax coke bottles containing super-sweet colored water.
8. (A) Wax for your flat top (butch) haircut.
9. (A) With clamps, tightened by a skate key, which you wore on a shoestring around your neck.
10. (C) Eeny-meeny-miney-mo.
11. (C) Polio. In beginning of August, swimming pools were closed, movies and other public gathering places were closed to try to prevent spread of the disease.
12. (B) Taxi , Better be ready by half-past eight!
13. (C) Macaroni ....
14. (C) Hiding under your desk, and covering your head with your arms in an A-bomb drill.
15. (A) Princess Summerfallwinterspring. She was another puppet.
16. (A) Immediately sniffed the purple ink to get a high.
17. (B) Put in a special stamp book, they could be traded for household items at the Green Stamp store.
18. (C) Ammunition, and we'll all be free.
19. (A) The widely famous 50's group: The Inkspots.
20. (A) Tony Bennett, and he sounds just as good today.
SCORING
17- 20 correct : You are older than dirt, and obviously gifted with mental abilities. Now if you could only find your glasses. Definitely someone who should share your wisdom!
12 -16 correct: Not quite dirt yet, but you're getting there.
0 -11 correct: You are not old enough to share the wisdom of your experiences.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Friday, May 25, 2012
Lord, teach me patience, please
Clearly it had become time to either cut bait or fish.
Weeks of intensive Internet searches about prostate cancer, its impact, its treatment and the consequences for doing nothing had built up to the point of agreeing to formulate a life-saving protocol.
With the praise-worthy word that my full-body bone scan was clear I had reached that juncture.
Besides, after sitting for well more than an hour and listening to urologist Lawrence Wolkoff present his case and all the options my butt was starting to get sore.
Much of what Wolkoff offered was material that proved to be a bedspread to the heavy blanket of material sewn by the threads of countless Google “hits” I’ve struck since first hearing the word “cancer.”.
Running through the rather substantial print-out document, Wolkoff pointed out any number of items. What’s a prostate, what’s prostate cancer, Gleason score, PSA ranking and so on; an entire lexicon of terms that dog a mature male who is side-swiped by the disease.
Questions were raised, answers were given; sometimes the former being posed before the latter had an opportunity to express itself.
It is my curse and that of everyone else in journalism, really. We are imprinted at our writing births to probe, investigate, prod and generally make a pest of ourselves.
At least Wolkoff has a great bedside manner. He took my inquiring jabs and thrusts in stride.
For her part my wife, Bev, was the quiet one. She sponged up the presentations that fell to the floor, asking about such affairs as what does radioactive “half life” mean and what about the side effects of radical surgery.
When the document’s menu was exhausted and Wolkoff had spoken his piece, he concluded by saying that Bev and I could take some time to review the material.
We could even seek a second opinion.
On that score I had pigeon-holed in my breast pocket a slip of paper scrawled with the names and telephone numbers of two other urologists.
“No,” I thought to myself.
And with a quick nod to my bride of 40 years I made my peace and gave the green light. My decision would involve the implantation of tiny radioactive metal pins, called “seeds.”
This option was plucked over radical prostate-removing surgery. There, Wolkoff would unsheathe his scalpel, carve away at my lower torso and extract intact the diseased prostate and its two cancerous tumors.
Along with such connecting tissue that includes a pair of lymph nodes.
Noting the advantage of radical prostate-removing surgery that includes once gone, always gone, Wolkoff did not object to my alternate selection of internal radiation treatment.
“You’re an excellent candidate for either one,” he said.
Told that if I were cloned (world: imagine there being two of me. Scary, huh?) and one of me were pried open by surgery while the other one would undergo being zapped by sub-atomic particles each would stand before Wolkoff 12 years hence.
Thus, it was actually a fairly easy decision. I took the fork that I did for several reasons.
For starters, with radical surgery I’d be laid up in a hospital for several days. And I would have to tend to a catheter installed in my penis for up to two weeks, endure likely incontinence and impotence for who knows how long, plus enjoy some other side effects equally too yucky to expound upon.
The placement of radioactive seeds in my slightly larger than walnut-sized prostate does come with a “do not remove” cautionary tag, however.
I’ll have to have my PSA level rated every six months. If it rises above “1” then the cancer has returned and I will have reached a point of no return where the radiation-juiced-up prostate could not be removed.
As a result, I’d have to go into containment/remission mode.
“If you were 52 instead of 62 I’s highly recommend surgery over radiation seeding,” Wolkoff said.
The thing is, says Wolkoff, my diligence at getting a PSA test every year along with my annual check-up in all likelihood saved my life.
For one simple reason, he says.
The recent rectal exams performed by both Wolkoff and my family doctor, Mike Baranauskas, showed only a slightly enlarged prostate. Absent were any lumps, bumps, protrusions, ripples or any other oddity that would point to a too-late, too-diseased organ.
By me assembling a 12-year-long spreadsheet of PSA numbers the doctors concluded that the last figure had spiked. It was as striking a red flag as ever there was one, Wolkoff said.
So this is what will happen next. On June 5 I’ll file myself into TriPoint Hospital. There I will get some sort of chemical poured into my blood stream that causes a dreamless episode of sleep.
During my drug-induced nap time Wolkoff will take up to two hours to remove the side-saddling lymph nodes. A pathologist will examine the nodes and determine whether they've been compromised by cancer, a 10- to 15-percent possibility.
If these nodes are cancer-free I’ll meet with Wolkoff’s partner on June 25 for a consult on how the seeds are to be implanted.
It’s actually kind of cool. In the past when doctors used the medical equivalent of a blunderbuss, rice grain-size radioactive “seeds” were scatter-shot into the prostate gland.
Some of these pellets would land next to each other. Still other seeds would fall by the wayside and not even hit the paper let alone strike the 10-ring tumor bull’s-eye. None of these misplaced radioactive lambs could then find their way home within a tumor’s corral.
On the other hand, today’s seed-planting methodology leaves no cancerous furrow untouched.
What is now the case is a two-person sharp-shooting sniper team that can launch radioactive projectiles directly into the enemy’s camp, taking out the cancer’s command and control center.
Neat, if you ask me. And I was by Wolkoff who said this was the perfect choice for me.
Bev agreed. And now I must wait once again. And pardon me if I say “wait on the Lord once again.”
They say there are no atheists in foxholes. Well, I’m here to tell you there are not too many on operating tables, either.
One step at a time, Jeffrey, one step at a time.
-Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Weeks of intensive Internet searches about prostate cancer, its impact, its treatment and the consequences for doing nothing had built up to the point of agreeing to formulate a life-saving protocol.
With the praise-worthy word that my full-body bone scan was clear I had reached that juncture.
Besides, after sitting for well more than an hour and listening to urologist Lawrence Wolkoff present his case and all the options my butt was starting to get sore.
Much of what Wolkoff offered was material that proved to be a bedspread to the heavy blanket of material sewn by the threads of countless Google “hits” I’ve struck since first hearing the word “cancer.”.
Running through the rather substantial print-out document, Wolkoff pointed out any number of items. What’s a prostate, what’s prostate cancer, Gleason score, PSA ranking and so on; an entire lexicon of terms that dog a mature male who is side-swiped by the disease.
Questions were raised, answers were given; sometimes the former being posed before the latter had an opportunity to express itself.
It is my curse and that of everyone else in journalism, really. We are imprinted at our writing births to probe, investigate, prod and generally make a pest of ourselves.
At least Wolkoff has a great bedside manner. He took my inquiring jabs and thrusts in stride.
For her part my wife, Bev, was the quiet one. She sponged up the presentations that fell to the floor, asking about such affairs as what does radioactive “half life” mean and what about the side effects of radical surgery.
When the document’s menu was exhausted and Wolkoff had spoken his piece, he concluded by saying that Bev and I could take some time to review the material.
We could even seek a second opinion.
On that score I had pigeon-holed in my breast pocket a slip of paper scrawled with the names and telephone numbers of two other urologists.
“No,” I thought to myself.
And with a quick nod to my bride of 40 years I made my peace and gave the green light. My decision would involve the implantation of tiny radioactive metal pins, called “seeds.”
This option was plucked over radical prostate-removing surgery. There, Wolkoff would unsheathe his scalpel, carve away at my lower torso and extract intact the diseased prostate and its two cancerous tumors.
Along with such connecting tissue that includes a pair of lymph nodes.
Noting the advantage of radical prostate-removing surgery that includes once gone, always gone, Wolkoff did not object to my alternate selection of internal radiation treatment.
“You’re an excellent candidate for either one,” he said.
Told that if I were cloned (world: imagine there being two of me. Scary, huh?) and one of me were pried open by surgery while the other one would undergo being zapped by sub-atomic particles each would stand before Wolkoff 12 years hence.
Thus, it was actually a fairly easy decision. I took the fork that I did for several reasons.
For starters, with radical surgery I’d be laid up in a hospital for several days. And I would have to tend to a catheter installed in my penis for up to two weeks, endure likely incontinence and impotence for who knows how long, plus enjoy some other side effects equally too yucky to expound upon.
The placement of radioactive seeds in my slightly larger than walnut-sized prostate does come with a “do not remove” cautionary tag, however.
I’ll have to have my PSA level rated every six months. If it rises above “1” then the cancer has returned and I will have reached a point of no return where the radiation-juiced-up prostate could not be removed.
As a result, I’d have to go into containment/remission mode.
“If you were 52 instead of 62 I’s highly recommend surgery over radiation seeding,” Wolkoff said.
The thing is, says Wolkoff, my diligence at getting a PSA test every year along with my annual check-up in all likelihood saved my life.
For one simple reason, he says.
The recent rectal exams performed by both Wolkoff and my family doctor, Mike Baranauskas, showed only a slightly enlarged prostate. Absent were any lumps, bumps, protrusions, ripples or any other oddity that would point to a too-late, too-diseased organ.
By me assembling a 12-year-long spreadsheet of PSA numbers the doctors concluded that the last figure had spiked. It was as striking a red flag as ever there was one, Wolkoff said.
So this is what will happen next. On June 5 I’ll file myself into TriPoint Hospital. There I will get some sort of chemical poured into my blood stream that causes a dreamless episode of sleep.
During my drug-induced nap time Wolkoff will take up to two hours to remove the side-saddling lymph nodes. A pathologist will examine the nodes and determine whether they've been compromised by cancer, a 10- to 15-percent possibility.
If these nodes are cancer-free I’ll meet with Wolkoff’s partner on June 25 for a consult on how the seeds are to be implanted.
It’s actually kind of cool. In the past when doctors used the medical equivalent of a blunderbuss, rice grain-size radioactive “seeds” were scatter-shot into the prostate gland.
Some of these pellets would land next to each other. Still other seeds would fall by the wayside and not even hit the paper let alone strike the 10-ring tumor bull’s-eye. None of these misplaced radioactive lambs could then find their way home within a tumor’s corral.
On the other hand, today’s seed-planting methodology leaves no cancerous furrow untouched.
What is now the case is a two-person sharp-shooting sniper team that can launch radioactive projectiles directly into the enemy’s camp, taking out the cancer’s command and control center.
Neat, if you ask me. And I was by Wolkoff who said this was the perfect choice for me.
Bev agreed. And now I must wait once again. And pardon me if I say “wait on the Lord once again.”
They say there are no atheists in foxholes. Well, I’m here to tell you there are not too many on operating tables, either.
One step at a time, Jeffrey, one step at a time.
-Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
What do you call a guy bushwacked by prostate cancer?
Okay, so later today I'll visit Lake Health's Tri-Point Medical Center.
Its radiological unit, to be specific. There I'll be injected with a radioactive dye that will take a couple of hours to blitzkrieg through my bone structure.
Then about 1:30 p.m. or so I'll return to the sterile environment, try to remain calm and steady and smiling attendants provide me with instructions on what will happen over the next 60 minutes or so. That's about how long it takes to undergo a complete bone scan.
As explained by my urologist, Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff, what an expert in interpreting this non-TSA-approved scanning gizmo is looking for is any area "that lights up."
Pray that no such illumination appears, please. The reason: Such bright areas indicate that the prostate cancer has spread to my bones, and bones (for whatever and still not understood reason) is where prostate cancer cells go to hide after leaving the walnut-sized organ.
A clear image would point to the cancer being confined to the prostate. That will greatly assist in achieving a 100-percent chance of beating the disease through any number of treatment options.
Those options and the results of today's bone scan will be released to my wife Bev and me on Friday.
Yeah, it seems that with a disease like this it's a constant battle of going to doctors, tests and fighting the urge to eat at fast-food joints between visits.
In any event, one thing that still bugs me is I'm not sure what to call myself.
I don't really consider myself to be a patient yet since I haven't submitted myself to the rigors of a hospital stay. I suppose that most people would say I'm this since I've seeing a physician specialist.
However, I do believe the word "client" is more accurate. No, I don't believe "customer" qualifies either, since that sort of gives the impression that the only reason so many doctors have seen me is so that they can keep up their membership in trophy golf clubs or gas in their Porsches. (Sorry, guys, I couldn't resist).
Maybe the best word to describe my current status is "cancer victim." Yeah, I kind of like that one.
I didn't ask for, nor did I want, to contract cancer. It snuck up on me like a thief in the night while I wasn't looking and distracted by another serious - but not life-threatening - set of physical problems.
So victim it is. For the immediate, anyway.
Sure I'll become a patient when I'm actually receiving treatment but it's still just a short haul down the road.
Ultimately there really is only one term that any prostate cancer victim wants to carry around. That being, "prostate cancer survivor."
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twiter: @Fieldkorn
Its radiological unit, to be specific. There I'll be injected with a radioactive dye that will take a couple of hours to blitzkrieg through my bone structure.
Then about 1:30 p.m. or so I'll return to the sterile environment, try to remain calm and steady and smiling attendants provide me with instructions on what will happen over the next 60 minutes or so. That's about how long it takes to undergo a complete bone scan.
As explained by my urologist, Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff, what an expert in interpreting this non-TSA-approved scanning gizmo is looking for is any area "that lights up."
Pray that no such illumination appears, please. The reason: Such bright areas indicate that the prostate cancer has spread to my bones, and bones (for whatever and still not understood reason) is where prostate cancer cells go to hide after leaving the walnut-sized organ.
A clear image would point to the cancer being confined to the prostate. That will greatly assist in achieving a 100-percent chance of beating the disease through any number of treatment options.
Those options and the results of today's bone scan will be released to my wife Bev and me on Friday.
Yeah, it seems that with a disease like this it's a constant battle of going to doctors, tests and fighting the urge to eat at fast-food joints between visits.
In any event, one thing that still bugs me is I'm not sure what to call myself.
I don't really consider myself to be a patient yet since I haven't submitted myself to the rigors of a hospital stay. I suppose that most people would say I'm this since I've seeing a physician specialist.
However, I do believe the word "client" is more accurate. No, I don't believe "customer" qualifies either, since that sort of gives the impression that the only reason so many doctors have seen me is so that they can keep up their membership in trophy golf clubs or gas in their Porsches. (Sorry, guys, I couldn't resist).
Maybe the best word to describe my current status is "cancer victim." Yeah, I kind of like that one.
I didn't ask for, nor did I want, to contract cancer. It snuck up on me like a thief in the night while I wasn't looking and distracted by another serious - but not life-threatening - set of physical problems.
So victim it is. For the immediate, anyway.
Sure I'll become a patient when I'm actually receiving treatment but it's still just a short haul down the road.
Ultimately there really is only one term that any prostate cancer victim wants to carry around. That being, "prostate cancer survivor."
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twiter: @Fieldkorn
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Prostate biopsy not one of life's simple pleasures
Well, I can cross-out THAT one from my bucket list.
Having gone through a prostate biopsy on Monday - while no piece of cake - was not the torture-rack experience I was building myself up for.
Then again, it was more “involved” than two friends and my father-in-law, Bud Shope, had promised.
“Uncomfortable” was the way they each described their own first-hand biopsy experiences. Uh-huh. Yes, uncomfortable is the correct word for both the self-performed Fleet enema an hour or so before the procedure.
And uncomfortable was the setting where a multi-purpose probe was inserted into the rectum. (Doesn’t this sound so inviting?) I went into this thinking that the probe to be something small.
So just imagine how surprised I became when after Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff drilled and tapped his way to the prostate gland the probe swelled to the size of a fire hose. Yeah, I grant that this portion of the process was uncomfortable.
Next came Wolkoff sending a vile of Novocaine into the gland in order to deaden what was to come next.
Come to think of it, maybe there were a couple of other needle pricks. I’m not sure since my prostate never really expressed physical displeasure before the way a bump on the head, broken arm or even a stomach ache feels.
In any event, as I was laying on my left side, right leg pulled up into my chest, Wolkoff sent the actual tool used to extract prostate core samples for further pathological study and determination.
The first drill bit startled me far more than it hurt. The best way to describe this step would be to say that the tool left me with the impression of a spring-loaded plunger that when snapped, yanked out some part of my protesting prostate.
Wolkoff then repeated this step nine more times, careful to give me advance warning what was coming. His assistant - a female, but at this point I really didn’t care who was looking at my big, fat ugly butt - gently held my feet down.
That’s because first snip resulted in a huge recoil on my part. Which, come to think about it, defeated the long-standing law of physics that every action produces a reaction, equal in force and opposite in direction.
My reaction far exceeded Newton’s law, almost sending Wolkoff flying into the back wall. In about 10 minutes time his work was done, Wolkoff noting that he got what he was looking for.
Funny thing was, however, I could not help but imagine how any of the supposed walnut-sized prostate gland could possibly remain, given that the good doctor had extracted 10 samples in all.
Still, it was all for a good cause.
Having seen my PSA score nearly double and refusing to decline sent the alarm bills ringing. Such incidents must be explored, my doctors said, in order to unearth whether the cause is from prostate cancer or perhaps simply the result of a benign, enlarged gland.
Considering the National Cancer Institute says that about 242,000 American men are diagnosed annually with prostate cancer and that about 30,000 die each year from the male-only disease, I was more than willing to let my mind go crazy and become lost within the swamp of despair.
That’s not good, of course, and it also flies in the face of all the words of encouragement from friends and prayers from fellow Christians.
Then again, in hindsight, the experience was not all that bad. Just don’t ever ask me to volunteer to be a stand-in for another man facing the same thing.
Once was more than enough, thank you.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Having gone through a prostate biopsy on Monday - while no piece of cake - was not the torture-rack experience I was building myself up for.
Then again, it was more “involved” than two friends and my father-in-law, Bud Shope, had promised.
“Uncomfortable” was the way they each described their own first-hand biopsy experiences. Uh-huh. Yes, uncomfortable is the correct word for both the self-performed Fleet enema an hour or so before the procedure.
And uncomfortable was the setting where a multi-purpose probe was inserted into the rectum. (Doesn’t this sound so inviting?) I went into this thinking that the probe to be something small.
So just imagine how surprised I became when after Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff drilled and tapped his way to the prostate gland the probe swelled to the size of a fire hose. Yeah, I grant that this portion of the process was uncomfortable.
Next came Wolkoff sending a vile of Novocaine into the gland in order to deaden what was to come next.
Come to think of it, maybe there were a couple of other needle pricks. I’m not sure since my prostate never really expressed physical displeasure before the way a bump on the head, broken arm or even a stomach ache feels.
In any event, as I was laying on my left side, right leg pulled up into my chest, Wolkoff sent the actual tool used to extract prostate core samples for further pathological study and determination.
The first drill bit startled me far more than it hurt. The best way to describe this step would be to say that the tool left me with the impression of a spring-loaded plunger that when snapped, yanked out some part of my protesting prostate.
Wolkoff then repeated this step nine more times, careful to give me advance warning what was coming. His assistant - a female, but at this point I really didn’t care who was looking at my big, fat ugly butt - gently held my feet down.
That’s because first snip resulted in a huge recoil on my part. Which, come to think about it, defeated the long-standing law of physics that every action produces a reaction, equal in force and opposite in direction.
My reaction far exceeded Newton’s law, almost sending Wolkoff flying into the back wall. In about 10 minutes time his work was done, Wolkoff noting that he got what he was looking for.
Funny thing was, however, I could not help but imagine how any of the supposed walnut-sized prostate gland could possibly remain, given that the good doctor had extracted 10 samples in all.
Still, it was all for a good cause.
Having seen my PSA score nearly double and refusing to decline sent the alarm bills ringing. Such incidents must be explored, my doctors said, in order to unearth whether the cause is from prostate cancer or perhaps simply the result of a benign, enlarged gland.
Considering the National Cancer Institute says that about 242,000 American men are diagnosed annually with prostate cancer and that about 30,000 die each year from the male-only disease, I was more than willing to let my mind go crazy and become lost within the swamp of despair.
That’s not good, of course, and it also flies in the face of all the words of encouragement from friends and prayers from fellow Christians.
Then again, in hindsight, the experience was not all that bad. Just don’t ever ask me to volunteer to be a stand-in for another man facing the same thing.
Once was more than enough, thank you.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Friday, May 11, 2012
Not exactly what I had in mind for a pleasant Monday afternoon
Come Monday morning I’ll be feeling a might troubled but by Monday afternoon those feelings will go straight to the bottom.
You see I’m scheduled for a prostate biopsy; that nasty treat in which tens of thousands of men - most of them being old men of varying age - have to go through. That is, if we want to live longer by avoiding the likes of prostate cancer.
Annually, around 242,000 American men are diagnosed with prostate cancer. And the male-only disease will steal the lives of around 30,000 of them, says the National Cancer Institute.
Had many of these men gone through the uncomfortable blood-letting to extract the body’s elixir for the prostate-specific antigen (PSA) blood test and also submitted to the yes-embarrassing rectal prostate exam many of these men would still be alive. That’s why I’ve been having both tests done for 12 years now, ever since I turned 50. However, it was my unlucky turn this year to see a spike in my PSA readings.
These numbers that didn’t shrink much following two subsequent blood tests and one more physical exam.
As a result, urologist Lawrence Wolkoff said I needed the prostate biopsy. The Cancer Institute explains that the so-called “transrectal biopsy is “.. the only sure way to diagnose prostate cancer.” Pressed for odds as to what he possibly/likely will find and Wolkoff reluctantly said the odds were 60-40 in favor of finding prostate cancer.
That was more than enough to convince me to go through with the biopsy.
Not that I’m expecting the 10- to 15-minute procedure to be one of the year’s top highlights. It’s going to be uncomfortable, yes, says Wolkoff, who (sort of) scoffed at my suggestion that he first juice me up with a Valium tablet.
And why not? The process includes a requirement for a “Fleet enema.” This little bit of medical gear is bought over-the-counter at any drug store. And because trying to give yourself an enema would require having all the arms of a Hindu god I’ll be required to employ my wife, Bev, for the rather unpleasant, shall we say, enterprise.
A little more than an hour later I’ll visit Wolkoff who’ll have me strip, put on a hospital gown, step into a smallish room and lay on my side.
At that point (pun intended) Wolkoff will “insert” needles through the rectum and then into the prostate gland. Those needles will include a type of Novocaine to help deaden the pain. Along with inserting the nerve block the needles will drill out about 10 or more “cores” from various parts of the walnut-size prostate.
The reason is to take samples from enough locations so as to ensure that a diseased portion of the prostate is not overlooked.
Fair enough, I figured, and just as scientifically sound. Once the cores are removed they’ll be labeled and bundled up and sent to a pathologist who’ll poke around the samples, looking for any cancer cells.
After the pathologist has concluded his survey work he’ll issue a detailed report and send it to Wolkoff who then will either ease my mind or drop the bombshell. I’ve heard from men who’ve had the procedure.
Among them being both my father-in-law and one of my brothers-in-law. Not exactly a piece of cake, they say, but not like I’m going to be put on the rack or have my fingernails pulled out.
Yet I am aware that at least one study says that 55 percent of the men who’ve undergone a transrectal biopsy report being uncomfortable during the procedure. Meanwhile, another study found that 20 percent of the men who’ve experienced the procedure would undertake it again only if they were first given a general anesthetic.
Ain’t going to happen, the pros tell me. I even asked an anesthesiologist who attends our church - Dr. John Hagopian - if he’s ever knocked a wussy old man old for a transrectal biopsy.
His answer was short, blunt and to the point: “No.” And so I’ll fret the rest of this weekend away, a habit that I’ve refined to an art form.
Then on Monday I’ll visit Wolkoff and pray that it’s the fastest 10 minutes of my life. -
Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
You see I’m scheduled for a prostate biopsy; that nasty treat in which tens of thousands of men - most of them being old men of varying age - have to go through. That is, if we want to live longer by avoiding the likes of prostate cancer.
Annually, around 242,000 American men are diagnosed with prostate cancer. And the male-only disease will steal the lives of around 30,000 of them, says the National Cancer Institute.
Had many of these men gone through the uncomfortable blood-letting to extract the body’s elixir for the prostate-specific antigen (PSA) blood test and also submitted to the yes-embarrassing rectal prostate exam many of these men would still be alive. That’s why I’ve been having both tests done for 12 years now, ever since I turned 50. However, it was my unlucky turn this year to see a spike in my PSA readings.
These numbers that didn’t shrink much following two subsequent blood tests and one more physical exam.
As a result, urologist Lawrence Wolkoff said I needed the prostate biopsy. The Cancer Institute explains that the so-called “transrectal biopsy is “.. the only sure way to diagnose prostate cancer.” Pressed for odds as to what he possibly/likely will find and Wolkoff reluctantly said the odds were 60-40 in favor of finding prostate cancer.
That was more than enough to convince me to go through with the biopsy.
Not that I’m expecting the 10- to 15-minute procedure to be one of the year’s top highlights. It’s going to be uncomfortable, yes, says Wolkoff, who (sort of) scoffed at my suggestion that he first juice me up with a Valium tablet.
And why not? The process includes a requirement for a “Fleet enema.” This little bit of medical gear is bought over-the-counter at any drug store. And because trying to give yourself an enema would require having all the arms of a Hindu god I’ll be required to employ my wife, Bev, for the rather unpleasant, shall we say, enterprise.
A little more than an hour later I’ll visit Wolkoff who’ll have me strip, put on a hospital gown, step into a smallish room and lay on my side.
At that point (pun intended) Wolkoff will “insert” needles through the rectum and then into the prostate gland. Those needles will include a type of Novocaine to help deaden the pain. Along with inserting the nerve block the needles will drill out about 10 or more “cores” from various parts of the walnut-size prostate.
The reason is to take samples from enough locations so as to ensure that a diseased portion of the prostate is not overlooked.
Fair enough, I figured, and just as scientifically sound. Once the cores are removed they’ll be labeled and bundled up and sent to a pathologist who’ll poke around the samples, looking for any cancer cells.
After the pathologist has concluded his survey work he’ll issue a detailed report and send it to Wolkoff who then will either ease my mind or drop the bombshell. I’ve heard from men who’ve had the procedure.
Among them being both my father-in-law and one of my brothers-in-law. Not exactly a piece of cake, they say, but not like I’m going to be put on the rack or have my fingernails pulled out.
Yet I am aware that at least one study says that 55 percent of the men who’ve undergone a transrectal biopsy report being uncomfortable during the procedure. Meanwhile, another study found that 20 percent of the men who’ve experienced the procedure would undertake it again only if they were first given a general anesthetic.
Ain’t going to happen, the pros tell me. I even asked an anesthesiologist who attends our church - Dr. John Hagopian - if he’s ever knocked a wussy old man old for a transrectal biopsy.
His answer was short, blunt and to the point: “No.” And so I’ll fret the rest of this weekend away, a habit that I’ve refined to an art form.
Then on Monday I’ll visit Wolkoff and pray that it’s the fastest 10 minutes of my life. -
Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Growing old as a male has its health responsibilities
WARNING: What is being described is graphic but also vital for life-saving male health, especially for those men age 50 or older and particularly for those of us on the other side of 60.
The cell phone call had disturbed the pleasure of an afternoon’s worth of crappie fishing. I hate when that happens, too.
But this call was important and the telephone number appearing on my cell phone’s screen appeared vaguely familiar.
In general terms the conversation started with “Hello, Jeff, this is Doctor Wolkoff. Your PSA numbers haven’t gone down very much.”
If that wasn’t disturbing enough what followed certainly qualified as a personal earth-shattering moment.
“You need a prostate biopsy,” the good doctor Lawrence Wolkoff said with a soberness that I may have misread more than I should have. Following Wolkoff’s address and after speaking with his assistant, we set May 14 as the date for the biopsy.
Ever since I had turned 50 some 12 years ago I have insisted on what I call my “old man’s physical.” That has included both a physical as well as a prostate-specific antigen (PSA) blood test.
I’ve always been a touch paranoid about being invaded by prostate cancer in spite of the fact that I do not fall within the most-likely-to-get categories.
Those markers include: Black men get prostate cancer much more than do male members of other racial or ethnic groups; a family history of the disease; being age 65 or older; and a couple of other medically technical points that I’ve found to be complicated enough so as to blur my brain cells.
But the raw statistics and the stark realities demand that any guy over age 50 should get tested; annually, too. And the older one becomes the more red-line the need for this testing becomes as well.
After all, the National Cancer Institute notes that annually about 242,000 American men are diagnosed with prostate cancer. And the male-only disease will steal the lives of around 30,000 men. That figure is only about 10,000 less than the number of women who will die of breast cancer, by the way.
(As an aside, and a point that I’ve always been upset about, the federal government allocates just under $700 million annually for breast cancer research but no more than $390 million for prostate cancer research. It’s a matter of the squeaky wheel getting the most government grease, with the nations’ men having allowed those gears to rust barrel-tight.)
Still, when my family doctor - Mike Baranauskas - saw that my PSA numbers demonstrated a fairly good spike in elevation it was time to reassign me to the care on an urologist.
In this case, Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff. Wolkoff was good about his business when he sat me down in his examining room. He noted that on daily basis he sees any number of men demonstrating the same PSA measurement parameters.
Just to be on the safe side, however, Wolkoff performed what has sometimes become a Hollywood slapstick joke about the male anatomy.
He put on a pair of Latex gloves and with what I assume to be one of his trigger fingers, penetrated my rectum and then approached and began feeling the prostate gland, one of a man’s pretty-important reproductive organs.
The prostate gland is typically described as being like a walnut in size and surrounding the urethra, the tube in which urine flows.
What is being sought is a judgement call by the doctor as to his evaluation of the prostate’s size, its hardness, whether any lumps exist and a host of other factors.
As explained by Wolkoff and other scientists, if the prostate is too large it puts a headlock around the urethra tube. That belt-tightening then arrests the flow of urine from the bladder to the penis. This is the physical portion of a man’s two-part prostate health examination
Guys, the entire process takes under maybe 10 or 15 seconds. Take it from a pain wuss, while the pressure is mildly uncomfortable it is hardly painful. Next up is the PSA blood test. This test requires a visit to what is called a “phlebotomist,” the medical term for the vampire who draws the blood required for laboratory analysis
Once the lab results are reviewed a report is given to the requesting physician. Those results are often made available within a couple of working days.
Yeah, I know all about the PSA controversy; whether the test is reliable, does it cause more harm that good, does it upset patients more than is necessary, are there false-positives, should men in their 70s and 80s even bother getting the test, blah-blah-blah; I’ve read them all .
I also know that some studies suggest that one-half of all men in their mid-70s or older likely have prostate cancer. And that such men often die of something else long before normally a slow-developing prostate cancer does its dirty work.
Fact is, I’m not in my 70s, let alone my 80s. And I hasten to remind everyone, I’m pretty much paranoid about prostate cancer, either of the jack-rabbit-quick kind or else the creeping-at-a-snail-pace variety.
So I’ve shoved aside any thoughts of macho manhood and have undertaken the yearly ritual of an examination of my prostate.
Yep, including the one where a physician pokes around where the sun doesn’t shine, so to speak. I even once allowed a female doctor to perform the task.
My belief is that of the James T. Kirk-character famously played by William Shatner in one of the “Star Trek” movies: “The first order of business is survival.”
Would that more men my age shout “amen” to that pithy piece of logic.
Yet when it comes to logic and one’s health, a woman has it all over a man. As one female editor here at The News-Herald put it: “Once you give birth you stop being embarrassed.”
Men - many men, anyway - just don’t get it. They often shun a frontal thought about their health in general and their prostate health in particular.
It’s not what men want to talk about in their man caves when their discussion is more focused on things like ERA’s, passing statistics and who is the Cavalier’s best free-throw artist. Neither will you hear even a whisper of the word “prostate” in a deer camp, my hometown.
Rather, there it’s all guy-speak regarding MOAs, illuminated reticles, bullet drop and the controversy about issuing too many doe tags. That’s okay for those situations, I guess, though a brutally frank look at the subject is so important that it can literally be a life-saver.
After all, the survival rate for prostate cancer victims is high; no, make that, very high.
But ONLY if the affected male overcomes his squeamish pride and junior high giggles and makes the effort to save himself a whale lot more in the way of pain, grief, and assured death by waiting until it is too late.
I’m not looking forward to the biopsy procedure - and I’ll cover that subject next - but I am trusting that my rigorous commitment to having my prostate examined each and every year for more than a decade is going to pay a living dividend.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
The cell phone call had disturbed the pleasure of an afternoon’s worth of crappie fishing. I hate when that happens, too.
But this call was important and the telephone number appearing on my cell phone’s screen appeared vaguely familiar.
In general terms the conversation started with “Hello, Jeff, this is Doctor Wolkoff. Your PSA numbers haven’t gone down very much.”
If that wasn’t disturbing enough what followed certainly qualified as a personal earth-shattering moment.
“You need a prostate biopsy,” the good doctor Lawrence Wolkoff said with a soberness that I may have misread more than I should have. Following Wolkoff’s address and after speaking with his assistant, we set May 14 as the date for the biopsy.
Ever since I had turned 50 some 12 years ago I have insisted on what I call my “old man’s physical.” That has included both a physical as well as a prostate-specific antigen (PSA) blood test.
I’ve always been a touch paranoid about being invaded by prostate cancer in spite of the fact that I do not fall within the most-likely-to-get categories.
Those markers include: Black men get prostate cancer much more than do male members of other racial or ethnic groups; a family history of the disease; being age 65 or older; and a couple of other medically technical points that I’ve found to be complicated enough so as to blur my brain cells.
But the raw statistics and the stark realities demand that any guy over age 50 should get tested; annually, too. And the older one becomes the more red-line the need for this testing becomes as well.
After all, the National Cancer Institute notes that annually about 242,000 American men are diagnosed with prostate cancer. And the male-only disease will steal the lives of around 30,000 men. That figure is only about 10,000 less than the number of women who will die of breast cancer, by the way.
(As an aside, and a point that I’ve always been upset about, the federal government allocates just under $700 million annually for breast cancer research but no more than $390 million for prostate cancer research. It’s a matter of the squeaky wheel getting the most government grease, with the nations’ men having allowed those gears to rust barrel-tight.)
Still, when my family doctor - Mike Baranauskas - saw that my PSA numbers demonstrated a fairly good spike in elevation it was time to reassign me to the care on an urologist.
In this case, Dr. Lawrence Wolkoff. Wolkoff was good about his business when he sat me down in his examining room. He noted that on daily basis he sees any number of men demonstrating the same PSA measurement parameters.
Just to be on the safe side, however, Wolkoff performed what has sometimes become a Hollywood slapstick joke about the male anatomy.
He put on a pair of Latex gloves and with what I assume to be one of his trigger fingers, penetrated my rectum and then approached and began feeling the prostate gland, one of a man’s pretty-important reproductive organs.
The prostate gland is typically described as being like a walnut in size and surrounding the urethra, the tube in which urine flows.
What is being sought is a judgement call by the doctor as to his evaluation of the prostate’s size, its hardness, whether any lumps exist and a host of other factors.
As explained by Wolkoff and other scientists, if the prostate is too large it puts a headlock around the urethra tube. That belt-tightening then arrests the flow of urine from the bladder to the penis. This is the physical portion of a man’s two-part prostate health examination
Guys, the entire process takes under maybe 10 or 15 seconds. Take it from a pain wuss, while the pressure is mildly uncomfortable it is hardly painful. Next up is the PSA blood test. This test requires a visit to what is called a “phlebotomist,” the medical term for the vampire who draws the blood required for laboratory analysis
Once the lab results are reviewed a report is given to the requesting physician. Those results are often made available within a couple of working days.
Yeah, I know all about the PSA controversy; whether the test is reliable, does it cause more harm that good, does it upset patients more than is necessary, are there false-positives, should men in their 70s and 80s even bother getting the test, blah-blah-blah; I’ve read them all .
I also know that some studies suggest that one-half of all men in their mid-70s or older likely have prostate cancer. And that such men often die of something else long before normally a slow-developing prostate cancer does its dirty work.
Fact is, I’m not in my 70s, let alone my 80s. And I hasten to remind everyone, I’m pretty much paranoid about prostate cancer, either of the jack-rabbit-quick kind or else the creeping-at-a-snail-pace variety.
So I’ve shoved aside any thoughts of macho manhood and have undertaken the yearly ritual of an examination of my prostate.
Yep, including the one where a physician pokes around where the sun doesn’t shine, so to speak. I even once allowed a female doctor to perform the task.
My belief is that of the James T. Kirk-character famously played by William Shatner in one of the “Star Trek” movies: “The first order of business is survival.”
Would that more men my age shout “amen” to that pithy piece of logic.
Yet when it comes to logic and one’s health, a woman has it all over a man. As one female editor here at The News-Herald put it: “Once you give birth you stop being embarrassed.”
Men - many men, anyway - just don’t get it. They often shun a frontal thought about their health in general and their prostate health in particular.
It’s not what men want to talk about in their man caves when their discussion is more focused on things like ERA’s, passing statistics and who is the Cavalier’s best free-throw artist. Neither will you hear even a whisper of the word “prostate” in a deer camp, my hometown.
Rather, there it’s all guy-speak regarding MOAs, illuminated reticles, bullet drop and the controversy about issuing too many doe tags. That’s okay for those situations, I guess, though a brutally frank look at the subject is so important that it can literally be a life-saver.
After all, the survival rate for prostate cancer victims is high; no, make that, very high.
But ONLY if the affected male overcomes his squeamish pride and junior high giggles and makes the effort to save himself a whale lot more in the way of pain, grief, and assured death by waiting until it is too late.
I’m not looking forward to the biopsy procedure - and I’ll cover that subject next - but I am trusting that my rigorous commitment to having my prostate examined each and every year for more than a decade is going to pay a living dividend.
- Jeffrey L. Frischkorn
JFrischkorn@News-Herald.com
Twitter: @Fieldkorn
Monday, May 7, 2012
Some pluses and minuses from the other side of 60
Turning the corner on 60 certainly has its rich and rewarding moments just as it does the ones which rob and take away from the joys of growing older.
Here are some of the pluses and minuses I see of the world from the other side of 60.
Here are some of the pluses and minuses I see of the world from the other side of 60.
Pluses:
- Wearing suspenders without people laughing.
- The senior citizen discount on a cup of McDonald’s coffee.
- Senior citizen menus with reduced portions and still having enough food leftover for the next day’s lunch.
- Being able to give a young person your decades-worth of sage advice, even when it’s unsolicited, which is almost always the case.
- Using your cane and then having a pretty young girl open the door for you. (Much to the chagrin of my wife, Bev).
- Becoming a grandfather; easily the world’s best job.
- Being called “Bumpa Korn” by your youngest grandchild.
- Having a neighbor come over and shovel the snow from your driveway.
- At age 62 being called a “young man” by someone in their 80s.
- York Peppermint Patty (yeah, I enjoyed them when I was a youngster but not as much as I do now, especially since they’ve been named a “low fat” food.)
- A cup of sweetened warm milk at 3 a.m.
- Long Sunday afternoon naps.
- Being ask by someone “how are you?” and then going into a 10-minute spiel about the status of your health, the too hot/too cold, too wet/too dry weather and the generally poor state of today’s politics. (This is a Constitutional Right of all senior citizens though I forget which amendment.)
- Taking longer to think about what you really need in the way of a Christmas present and then failing to come up with an answer.
- Being eligible at age 66 to buy reduced-cost Ohio resident fishing and hunting licenses.
- When your birthday no longer seems so important while your wedding anniversary does but even more so.
- Knowing that you’ll always have friends that you can call on for help, even if it’s just to listen.
Minuses:
- Thinking that a Buick four-door sedan may actually be a good-looking car worth buying.
- Senior citizen menus with reduced portions and still having enough food left over for the next day’s lunch.
- Being eligible at age 66 to buy reduced-cost Ohio resident fishing and hunting licenses.
- Con-artists, swindlers, flimflam men and other lowlifes who take advantage of the elderly.
- Finding out that the young person you wanted to give your decades-worth of sage advice to thought the better of it, saying “I don’t believe anything that old coot says.”
- Forced to toss out a perfectly good sport coat simply because it’s made from polyester clothe.
- Wii bowling tournaments for senior citizens. Heck, Wii ANYTHING.
- Forgetting where you set your glasses down and then discovering they’ve been on top of your head all along.
- Knowing that the sweater you wear to the office is older than some of your coworkers.
- Revealing to a youngster how old you really are and then hearing him/her simply say “wow.”
- Being asked to umpire a family game of Whiffle Ball instead of being picked as a player.
- Insisting that any new television or remote MUST have closed caption.
- The seemingly never-ending visits to doctors, especially the specialists.
- Forgetting that you never, but never, wear black socks with either sandles or shorts. (Isn’t there a law on the books against this social ill?)
- Dealing with a health care insurance company over who pays the prescription bill. Before my health problems began I had no idea how ruthless are these health insurance companies.
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