It's 12 days until my prostate gland will be surgically removed. The extent to which it is infested with cancer is not exactly known, but believed to be contained within a quadrant, where the little buggers may, or may not, be nibbling at the shell of the gland. A complete biopsy will be available a week after the surgery.
Most of my thoughts lately have been focused on those two medical events--surgery and biopsy...well, not exactly true. I am also thinking about sex and my ability to give and receive pleasure without that walnut-sized secretor of semen, and without whatever portion of the bundle of nerves that stimulate an erection must be removed.
For now, though, it's spring break until next Monday.
As prescribed, I do Kegels, kind of fitfully. Take late showers.
Erections, and preparing lesson plans for next month's substitute teacher, have become the obsessive driver of my actions.
Twelve more days to have all the body parts I was born with...not that I want to be dramatic about it...
I look at brochures and video testimonies featuring the brotherhood of prostate cancer survivors. The visuals alone are encouraging. All these guys look confident, wryly humorous, attractive in an athletic sort of way, in short, virile. But, "That's going to be me," morphs into a questioning whine.
And then there's the daunting specter of the catheter...I'll think of it as torture: a healthy man caught spying behind the front lines of disease. I'll grin and bear it, soldier on, man up!...Won't I?
At Trader Joe's today, I grabbed the pre-made Carne Asada, and when BFF looked askance, I answered that it was for Cancer Boy. Similarly with the chocolate bar, and salt and pepper potato chips. An extra 6-pack of beer? Cancer Boy. Fresh scallops? Cancer Boy.
