Oh, Ya Got To Have Friends!

She's the one who started it all. The Divine Ms. M, Bette Midler, in the fall of 1972. Her debut album. And the cut that still resonates in my head to this day is the first cut of the "B" side, "Friends."

And I do. Have friends. After my hideous experience at NY/Presbyterian hospital last Friday a friend of mine, who just happens to work there, took me out to keep me company until I crawled back in from the figurative ledge. This same friend had already told me that I would come and stay with him and his wife after my surgery until I was well enough to travel home from New York to central New Jersey.

And it didn't matter which New York hospital I used. I would still be welcome.

Then on Sunday, out of the blue, a friend of mine from Baltimore called and announced that he and his partner would "love to have me come and recuperate with them" if I chose to have the surgery done at Johns-Hopkins. How many people have friends who would invite them to come and be an invalid with them, for however long it took to get well?

I have friends like that.

I don't remember ever doing anything to earn friends like that, but I seem to have 'em.

Oh, and here's the kicker on all this. Yesterday morning I called a surgeon's office at Mount Sinai and made an appointment to see him this coming Friday morning. He's performed over 1,000 prostectomies using the "da Vinci" robot. This morning, at my daily 12-Step meeting, our "guest speaker" was someone who worked in medical administration --- for a doctor who specializes in cancers.

Take a guess.

Yup. We spoke after the meeting. She works for the guy I'm seeing on Friday. The paperwork (and insurance) is all being taken care of.

I am being taken care of.

I've got friends.

2 Down, 2 to Go

This is a prostate cancer update.

I had my appointment with the surgeon at Weill-Cornell/New York - Presbyterian Hospital last Friday at 3:00 p.m.

I showed up on time, signed a paper, got my blood-pressure checked and was seated in a waiting room. In about 10 minutes I was taken to an examination room.

I sat in there, unattended, with no one dropping in to check on me, for 70, that's right, SEVENTY minutes, before I got sick and tired of waiting and walked out to see what was going on.

"Oh" some flunky exclaimed. "Didn't anyone come in?"

No.

I went back. It was another 10 minutes or so before I was finally escorted into Dr. God's inner-sanctum by one of his flunkies in a lab coat. She began the interview, only to quickly be joined by Dr. God, Himself.

I maintained a civil tongue but made my displeasure at being treated so badly abundantly clear.

I ran through my list of questions, which he promptly answered. I terminated the interview with, "I'll let you know."

I thought about it over the weekend and concluded that the actions of the staff were indicative of the mind-set of the teacher. That they treat people badly because he tolerates them treating people badly.

I would, under no circumstances, consider urological surgery at Weill-Cornell/New York - Presbyterian Hospital. In case anyone cares.

Next stop, Mount Sinai this coming Friday morning, followed by Memorial Sloan-Kettering a week from Wednesday.

I'm tired of doctors. I'm tired of surgeries. I'm tired.

Prostate Update

I saw my urologist last p.m. He confirmed what I already suspected, that the cancer is localized to the prostate and it will have to come out.

Good news. Bad news. But news.

Now the ball is in my court. He was solicitous and concerned. He answered my questions truthfully. He assured me that he wouldn't feel "two-timed" if I snuck around and saw other doctors behind his back. In fact, he encouraged me to make appointments and to get other opinions.

I've been given names of doctors at New York Hospital-Presbyterian, Memorial Sloan-Kettering and Mount Sinai in New York and at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.

Some of them use the robot, others do not, preferring instead to do it the old fashioned way, through a 3" incision.

My guy at home in NJ has done 600 removals in his career. He does them at a non-teaching hospital in New Brunswick, NJ (St. Peters). His rationale is that the operation is so delicate he doesn't want to have surrender any portion of it to resident surgeons, i.e. "rank amateurs." I liked that.

There's a good 10-15% chance that post-removal I'll still have to have some sort of follow-up therapy, probably radiation. Hey! That leaves a good 85-90% chance that I WON'T.

I'll be incontinent for awhile. A month, maybe two. As for "male potency" (don't you love the euphemisms we come up with for "hard ons"?), well, it'll be about as good as it is now within 6 months. I can wait 6 months. It's already been years.

Ordinarily I'd be on the phone this morning, rounding up appointments, arranging for time off, coordinating everything. But the weather is crappy, and I need a good scary movie... "Ultimate Destination" would do.

I'll deal with cancer next week. Promise.

p.s. But be assured that I know this ... I am loved. A lot. And that is going to make all the difference in the world.

Prostate Cancer

Before I left town on my last vacation my urologist had me drop by his office one night for a "minor procedure." It was to biopsy my prostate.

My PSA readings (a blood test) had been varying for years but recently, in the last year, they had been consistently hovering above the number generally recognized to be worrisome by the medical profession.

He took his samples (you don't even want to know about how he gets them, suffice it to say you have zero dignity during the procedure) and I went, gaily, off to the beach.

Well, last Thursday I had my follow-up with him. His face a mask of concern, he told me that it was cancer. 60% of the samples were infused with cancer cells over 90% of their surfaces.

I have no idea how others handle this, but I do know how one person I know handled it -- my ex had prostate cancer and had his prostate removed in 1991. They filleted him like a fish to do it. Afterwards he had to inject his penis with a syringe full of something in order to get a half-assed erection. He did not take it well. Sex was a lot... everything to him. I might as well have been a hole in the mattress, for all the (BITTER, PARTY OF ONE)... but I digress.

Not that I'm exactly worried about that. I haven't had sex with another human being in ... a decade? Two? Well, it's been a long time, and nobody is beating my door down and, to be honest, I have been deliberately NOT looking lustfully at anyone since 1984 or so.

So I'm not really worried about that.

No... it's the pain I fear. I remember how much pain the ex was in. It was bad.

My RN friends assure me that the pain is much more manageable and bearable than the gastric bypass was last year.

That's good news, I suppose.

But what about AFTER the removal? What then? Will I have to have chemo? Radiation? Will I be incontinent for the the rest of my life? Or even a month?

There's a new machine, Da Vinci by name, which is a surgeon-controlled robotic octopus which, according to the hype, does all of it's work through one teeny hole in your gut and which does NOT damage, the way old-fashioned surgery does, the delicate nerve bundle which surrounds the prostate and which contributes to a male's intense joy at the moment of ecstacy.

Shit. Look, I'm scared. It's cancer and I'm scared. I wasn't scared at quadruple-bypass surgery or bilateral endarterectomies or even gastric bypass -- but this time I'm scared.

I need help. Gods, yours and anyone else's who is willing.

Oh, and yes, I plan to not drink over it.