Prostate Cancer: It’s A Walk In The Park

In some circles, there’s a sense that prostate cancer is easily treatable and frankly a bit of a walk in the park. Carl told me: The worst thing I hear when telling people I have prostate cancer is when they say: ‘Yes if you’re going to get cancer that’s the one you would choose’. Despite the many effective treatments and survival rates improving even a cursory glance at the relevant statistics should indicate that prostate cancer, like any form of cancer, goes about its business in a brutal manner.

A time to unite and spread awareness

You may have no interest in cancer, but unfortunately, cancer may have an interest in you. All of which brings us to Prostate Cancer Awareness Month. This year the theme is to elevate the voices of those who are living with it together with the voices of partners, families, and friends who are along on the no-joy ride. As ever the driver is to encourage men to get tested so doctors can catch the cancer before it spreads. Read on…

Prostate Cancer is Top of the (Medical) Charts

Just this spring, we got the unwelcome news that prostate cancer is now the most commonly diagnosed cancer here in the UK. Men, we are top of the charts, though admittedly on one of the unlovliest hit parades in the world.

I may be clutching at straws, but there is an upside to this because it means many more men are coming forward to get tested and as we know; catch cancer early and your chances of survival look a whole lot better.

Everyone in the UK over 55 is screened for bowel cancer every two years, but there’s no such screening for prostate cancer because detecting it is so problematic. The PSA test just isn’t accurate enough for national screening.

I’m a case in point, when I was diagnosed with a sizable tumor in my prostate with a Gleason score of 4+3=7, my PSA was still only 5.03 which is barely above normal. We need better tests and right now a lot of work is being put into a pre-biopsy MRI scan. Read on…

Preen cancer update 12.8.20

I’ve just got off the phone with my oncologist who came calling with good news. My PSA level remains at 0.03 and has done so now for almost a year meaning I’m still part of the NED Squad. (No Evidence of Disease)

My final hormone therapy jab happens at the end of the month and at that point all treatment ceases. My PSA is then monitored every six months for two years. It may start to rise, and should it reach 0.5 then further treatment will need to be considered.

Obviously, I’m hoping the unwelcome guest gives me a break for a year or so, but you never know. But make no mistake this is good news by any standards. Thanks to you all for being in my corner during this trying time. Now fuck off cancer you irritating little bastard.

The Final Countdown

It’s close on three years since I was diagnosed with prostate cancer and in a month my treatment for the ejection of my unwelcome guest should come to a close. What then?

It was in November 2017 when I got the unwelcome news. I’d had blood in my urine, a rectal exam discovered a distended prostate and then came a biopsy telling me there were lots of little unwelcome guests all over my prostate with a particularly ugly slug measuring 10mm. Dr. Gleeson had me at 4+3=7 and my PSA stood at 5.03, but my feeling scared and sorry for myself meter had the needle jammed way over into the red zone.

Sometimes I get nostalgic and miss the old days, but there are some old days I’d rather delete entirely from the memory bank. As most people reading this will know, those early weeks after diagnosis are frankly terrifying, whatever the doctors are telling you, you are telling yourself something infinitely worse. Read on…

How Does Your Partner Understand Your Prostate Cancer?

When I was diagnosed with prostate cancer my wife and I sat together when I got the bad news. Even though I kind of knew it was coming, the fact that I had an unwelcomed guest loitering with intent in my prostate was still a shock.

When I got home, I knew I had to tell my 14-year-old daughter the bad news but was at a loss as to how to begin. Finally, I said I had a problem, but it had been caught early and my prospects were good. To which she replied: ‘Well at least it’s not cancer’. This wasn’t going well.

Read on: https://prostatecancer.net/living/partner-understanding/

This Year I Finally Got a White Christmas

It wasn’t just Bing Crosby who dreamt of a White Christmas. To this day my daughter bemoans the fact that as we live in the city center, we almost never get snow and have only ever seen two White Christmases.

I thought my prostate cancer recovery was going well

Even those of you who are entirely ‘Bah! Humbug’ about Christmas must admit that for about 30 minutes when the snowflakes fall a kind of magic happens and even the ugliest places are beautified. Admittedly after that half hour is up, the snow turns to a grimy slush, but I’ll settle for a few minutes of crystal white wonder, particularly on Christmas Day

Well, this year I got a White Christmas, but as the eagle-eyed among you will have spotted this sentence starts in the first person singular and not the third person plural — all will be explained.

Read on…

The Unwelcome Guest is moving

Dear All

Things are changing at The Unwelcome Guest. My scribblings have been picked up by Health Union, a US company. They publish a number of cancer related websites and are employing me as a freelance writer on ProstateCancer.net.

You can see my first piece here.

I’m happy about this development as I’m hoping to reach many more readers. The downside is that contractually I’m not allowed to post my blogs elsewhere. If you want to keep up with my cancer capers, you’ll need to track me down at the Unwelcome Guest’s new home.

I’ll post links to give you a heads up when a new article appears and if I feel a particular blog isn’t suitable for Health Union then I’ll publish it here.

This is all very new and if anything changes, I’ll let you know.

I really do appreciate you reading my stuff and just in case anyone is wondering, I’m feeling fine.

All the best

Jim


 

My number’s up

Ok calm down I’m not about to peg out, but I’ve just discovered that my PSA reading is up rather than on the smooth glide path down that I was counting on. I was at my quarterly meeting with the oncologist at Guy’s Cancer Centre when I was given the unwelcome news that the Unwelcome Guest has made a slight return.

But let’s put this into some perspective. The PSA blood test is a notoriously crude measurement but just about the only means available to check the state of prostate cancer particularly post-prostatectomy or in my case post-radiotherapy.

When the Unwelcome Guest was first diagnosed, my PSA level stood at 5.03. I was then put on hormone therapy and the dive down started. Within a month my PSA stood at 2.61. Six months later, in June, it was 0.8. Following radiotherapy last Autumn, a test in December revealed my PSA to be virtually undetectable at 0.07.

For it to be entirely undetectable it has to fall to 0.03 or lower and that of course was what I was hoping for, but the Unwelcome Guest had other ideas. Now I’m told the little bugger has bounced back up ever so slightly to 0.1. In itself this may not be serious, and doctors recognise something called the PSA bounce, with the numbers fluctuating, following radiotherapy. Hopefully this will correct itself, but if it continues to climb and were it to reach 2.0 then other medical options would have to be explored.

I can’t deny this was something of a shock as I was pretty convinced that while still on hormone therapy and following radiotherapy to misquote Yazz and The Plastic Population ‘The only way was down.’ But that’s the Unwelcome Guest for you; full of little surprises.

Prostate cancer that comes back is called a recurrence and happens in 1 in 3 men after treatment for early prostate cancer, but we are a long way from that and anyway if those are the odds on the table I’ll take ‘em.

My next appointment at Guy’s cancer theme park is in September and as you might imagine I’ll be paying pretty close attention to the scores on the doors. In the meantime, I’ll be doing what I’ve learnt to do since Autumn 2017 when I was diagnosed and live in the moment. Nothing bad is going to happen to me in the short term, we have a wonderful holiday to look forward to and then come September we’ll take a look at the lay of the land.

The war on cancer

Last week the newspapers were back to declaring war on cancer. Let’s hope it’s more successful than the war on terror. But this was welcome news; a new cancer hub known as the Institute for Cancer Research (ICR) is set to be located in south London close to the Royal Marsden Hospital. Researchers there will look at new ways to stop cancer cells from evolving and resisting chemotherapy. One of their goals is to ‘herd’ cells together and stop them from flourishing much in the way that drugs now control HIV. They are calling it the world’s first Darwinian drug discovery programme.

Senior scientists at the ICR argue that the traditional use of ‘shock and awe’ chemotherapy against cancer has failed because too often it has helped fuel ‘survival of the nastiest’ competition and evolution among cancer cells.

Dr Olivia Rossanese, head of biology, said: “We’re especially excited by the potential of APOBEC inhibitors, to slow down evolutionary diversity and drug resistance, and ensure our existing cancer drugs work for patients for much longer.”

Inhibitors are being designed to stop the action of a molecule called APOBEC to reduce the rate of mutation in cancer cells, slow down evolution and delay resistance. These drugs should become available within the next ten years.


It all started with my balls

A reader of these blogs kindly sent me a link to an article by the novelist Colm Tóibín who was recently diagnosed with testicular cancer. A seasoned novelist, Toibin knows how to grab a reader’s attention:

It all started with my balls. I was in Southern California and my right ball was slightly sore. At the beginning I thought the pain might be caused by the heavy keys in the right-hand pocket of my trousers banging against my testicle as I walked along the street.’

It’s a stark piece which sets out in unflinching detail the pain and disorientation caused by chemotherapy or ‘the juice’ as he calls it. But what makes his experience particularly bleak is that he went through much of it on his own. Get cancer and you need back-up.

But he’s also funny and has a very Irish trope that runs through the article.

‘If anyone has been out anywhere – at Mass, a football match, downtown, in Dublin, to the pub – you asked them: ‘Was there a big crowd?’ When other friends came to visit, they could also be asked if there was a big crowd at any event they had attended. I don’t know why asking about the ‘big crowd’ gave me such satisfaction.’

This becomes his go-to small talk, but I only wish if asked whether there was a big crowd at his house he could have answered. ‘Yes, my house was full.’

He has a testicle removed, completes his chemo and contemplates having one sad lonely ball.

“They used to complete one another’s sentences, those balls, they were so close, but now the surviving testicle has to get used to the change.”

Dark, dark humour but beautifully written for all that. The same is true of much of the work of South African novelist J.M. Coetzee. He now lives in Adelaide, Australia where his novel ‘Slow Man’ is set. Coetzee also finds laughter in the darkest of places. In his book, which is largely an interior dialogue, an elderly man is out cycling, gets hit by a car and has a leg amputated.

Like Tóibín, Coetzee’s fictional character is alone in the world and has some troubling thoughts about the kind and cheery young doctors and nurses who are tending him. He senses an indifference to his fate on their part. It’s as though at some unconscious level these young people who have been assigned to his care, know he has nothing left to give the tribe.

‘Better for the old to tend the old, the dying the dying! And what folly to be so alone in the world!’

I’ve had mostly exemplary care from the doctors and nurses at the NHS and would always prefer brisk cheerfulness to hand holding sympathy which would likely make me blub uncontrollably. But what I couldn’t stand is to be alone. So thank you Mrs Preen, thank you daughter, thank you Bucket the dog and thank you family and friends. So far I can bear cancer, but I couldn’t bear that.