One More One More Time
By Don Adams © Don Adams 2002

Those of us who have reached a certain age understand that new beginnings, meeting new challenges, and submitting ourselves to new experiences are not subject to the artificial limits normally set by clock and calendar. Most usually we just deal with events as they occur, but at this time of year it seems to be the fashion to think back as well as forward to assess who we are, where we’ve been, and where we plan to head for the future. I’m personally more reflective this year than I’ve been in the past due to some developments of the past few months. And the past few years. Things like how I ended up living and loving in Mexico.

Come along and I’ll tell you all about it.

I had never felt that icy paralyzing fear of death until she leaned down to kiss me.

Don’t get me wrong; at forty-four years of age I had been kissed before. On occasion even by someone offering more than the familial affection that helps us all thrive. And on more than several occasions I’d experienced quite a significant degree of concern about the probability of my immediate survival; once as I steered a runaway eighteen wheeler down that steep bypass on the east side of Pierre, South Dakota; once as I bounced around the interior of my company car during a series of five or six rollovers; and more than once under hostile fire as I lustily cussed the Gray Marine Diesel Engine Corporation and the U.S.Navy for not building some sort of super-charger system which would propel my little flat-bottomed platform of doom much more quickly down the unfriendly waterways of lush and lovely South Vietnam.

That kiss was a much more serious matter.

It came on the second day after the surgery which confirmed that I not only had prostate cancer, but that it had spread into my lymph system. My urologist/surgeon, playing the call tighter than a Vegas odds maker, gave me a prognosis of a relatively quick and devastatingly painful death within a year. Neither quick nor painful particularly appealed to me in that context so I assumed the normal male in complete denial attitude and resolved to totally ignore both the doctor and his reality.

Back in the days when certain of the female gender were absolutely convinced that I not only could be domesticated but was also worth the time and effort required to accomplish that feat, I was married to a nurse. Wonderful woman. Saint on earth. Mother of my two children. But a nurse. A member of the medical profession, trained like all the others to maintain a personal and emotional reserve; a distance from those she ministered to. A necessary trait which permits her and other medical professionals to face what they must deal with each day.

That kiss was personally and tenderly delivered dead on target by my NURSE as I sat in my getaway wheelchair grinning’ and waving’ as I happily bade farewell to all my captors in the Conway, S.C. Community Hospital where I had been confined and cut open. Now she didn’t deliver a peck on the cheek; not a quick smack at the air beside my ear; but a full blown, right on the mouth real kiss!

That kiss was to me more threatening that a double jowl buss from Don Corleone. I’m talking real kiss of death.

Others have written accurately and authoritatively of their experiences with prostate cancer, offering up excellent advice and a great number of resources for those of you who may be facing, or who may someday face, the same problem. As I said before, I was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer at age forty-four, the youngest patient any of my doctors had treated, and I may have a differing perspective on the situation than many might. So far I’ve survived and exerted a significant degree of control over a diagnosed terminal condition for over twelve years. Maybe I know what works.

Some of the more perceptive among you may have already figured out that taking medical treatment advice from me is somewhere on the same shelf as playing Russian Roulette with six in the wheel. Feel free to bail out at any time, but the rest of you might learn something useful if you continue on.

Because prostate cancer, or any cancer; and as you’ll find out later my experience is not confined to merely one, I’ll stay about as close to the truth as you’re ever likely to catch me. I will not write or speak of cancer, nor death, with fear, despair, nor trepidation. That’s a major part of my sermon. And my survival.

The story of my first major cancer began in a small medical office in South Carolina while I was working storm claims after Hurricane Andrew tore the hell out of a big portion of the coastal area of that state. I had seen a television show telling of the need for prostate exams and stopped in to take advantage of an advertised free prostate screening test. I still fall for that word “free” even though it, and it’s myriad of assorted shades of varying implications did lead me into a rather interesting third marriage, but that’s a story for another time.

Anyway, the doc did the usual stuff; drew a little blood so the lab folks could run a PSA test, gloved and greased and performed the dreaded (by some of us) digital rectal probe, and then shifted into a really serious doctor demeanor.

He explained that my prostate should feel firm, yet spongy and pliable. Alive. Mine felt solid and unyielding to his touch. There was something in his tone and demeanor that led me to believe that he was at least 100% certain that I had prostate cancer or some equally disturbing anomaly but he tried to cover the obvious by suggesting that he should run a few more tests to determine exactly what the problem was. I rationalized by thinking that since he was offering free screening tests that he had to generate revenue somehow and that additional tests would be the logical way to accomplish that goal; but before he broached the subject I believe that both he and I feared the worst was about to be proven.

An appointment was made and a few days later I showed up at his other, better equipped office. He was to set up to perform two diagnostic tests; a sonogram, and if necessary, a needle biopsy of the gland. The sonogram was completely painless and non-invasive. Also inconclusive. The needle biopsy on the other hand…

I was already gowned in one of the fetching little open back frocks that we’re all so fond of so when it was time for exam number two he merely had to direct me to lie on an examining table, on my side, with my knees drawn up toward my chest. I knew I was only seconds away from experiencing a procedure very similar to that reported by UFO abductees so I was particularly careful not to look at the instrument I knew was being readied for insertion where I would really prefer that things not be inserted.

The nurse was very solicitous of my well-being and to insure that I wouldn’t be startled told me that I might feel some pressure against my prostate, or even a bit of pain and not to be concerned when I heard the loud clicks as the doctor pulled the trigger of the biopsy tool to snip core samples from my prostate. Despite her best efforts she was not successful in her attempt to calm me.

As I said, I never saw the weapon but thankfully it felt as though it was very thin. I think I was engulfed in a semi-soothing combination of shock and barely controlled hysteria so it could have actually been the size of the warhead of a SCUD missile for all I know.

Regarding pain, there was none as long as he kept the needle in the vicinity of the prostate itself. That little walnut-sized gland was dead as a hammer. On one occasion he pushed the needle completely through the prostate and into the live tissue of the inside of my lower abdomen. That, of course, got my undivided attention, but once he backed the needle out about a foot and a half my heart began beating again and my girlish screams faded relatively quickly.

He took nine samples from various locations within the gland and when the results came back from the lab a few days later they confirmed our shared fear by showing that each and every specimen was totally involved; positive for cancer.

Things were really serious at that point.

Next month I’ll tell you more about that particular adventure and much more about an even more devastating recent development. Come on back because it’s not nearly as depressing as you might think.