This quarter’s test again had good news, an undetectable PSA.
I've had 26 PSA tests since the uptick five years ago that launched my treatment.1 I was never in suspense — early on I’d heard prostate cancer was a nothingburger, and when mine plainly had become a somethingburger my inner Eeyore assured me I'd die soon. So I always had firm expectations.
This new test, finally, rattled me. Eeyore grumbles that my winning streak won’t last, and he’s calling it right for once. On some unknown schedule — months or decades — hormone therapy runs out of steam, and doctors buy time with a handful of harsher treatments.
Then I had a thought.
People with cancer start acting like hunted animals, every moment tense, every sense attuned to the stalker.
Well, to hell with that. I'm not letting this spoil my retirement.
I'm not listening for footsteps. I'm not cracking open the door. I'm not tiptoeing down the hall. I'm staying where I am, among family and friends, with unlimited provisions of everything I love or need.
And I’m throwing the bolt. If cancer wants me, the fucker's going to have to bust in and get me.
On October 4, 2018, I tested at 7.4 ng/mL; normal is <= 4.0 ng/mL.
Wowsa! What a fabulous thing to read. This blog is really a great idea and I REALLY love your writing too. Maybe I can hire you to write for me sometime! Hugs, JF
So Ben, did you stock-up with 12 gauge deer slugs, some protein bars, and some good red wine or instead schedule a PSMA PET CT scan? As my PSA is slowly rising and approaching the second BCR PSADT debatable threshold, I have the PSMA scan scheduled to see if I can find the little garden of sprouting PCa blooms and then stomp on the little fuckers with a blast of protons. I’ll get a liquid biopsy too to see if I have CTCs fertilizing the tiny PCa sprouts. If I do find some CTC of PCa, then, I’ll see what the docs at the COE farmer’s supply suggest as the PCa weed killer. In the meantime, I can wipe gun oil on the 12 gauge pump and sip a glass of Cab.