For those who know of my cancer journey, there’s a part I haven’t spoken much about – the emotions. Probably because it’s easier talking about the clinical steps from diagnosis to treatment to, God willing, survival.
Hearing “Len, you have prostate cancer” ripped through me.
First of all, people in my family die from heart disease not cancer, so this made zero sense and was a real slap in the face. I kid (mostly). Sad and scared falls short of describing the swirl of emotions that invaded every inch of my being.
Holy $h%&.
Life DOES end.
MY life could end.
I’m only 52.
I want to walk my daughter Melissa down the aisle one day (however not wearing my gaudy plaid suit — but more on that later).
I knew little to nothing about prostate cancer. So let’s add fear of the unknown to the mix.
I did what most eager to educate themselves on a given topic do – I turned to the Internet. I spent 48 hours deep diving through site after site. Scroll. Click. Repeat. Let me tell you, while the Internet is an educational marvel of our time; it’s also akin to a house of horrors featuring your every deep dark nightmare.
My girlfriend Maureen suggested I get a book – an actual paper book with clinical information free of panic-inducing stories. She’s been my rock through this ordeal.
I rolled up my preverbal sleeves and decided to tackle the situation head-on. It was stage 1. This is not a life sentence unless I ignore it and make it so. Not happening. Not on my watch.
As you would expect, a series of specialists recommended various courses of treatment. They guided me through the decision-making process to figure out what was best for me. Removing my prostate was an option. But, I’ve had it my whole life and had grown quite attached to it. I opted for brachytherapy – implanting 76 radioactive seeds to target treat my cancer.
During the day surgery, I dreamt I was at The Brick Field at Commonwealth Stadium talking to fans on game day. Probably a sign I needed a vacation, but work provided the perfect distraction from the reality of my health, so I joined Team No Days Off shortly after diagnosis to keep my emotions in check.
When I awoke, I said aloud “holy $h%&, I’m alive!” I would think the complication rate in such a procedure is pretty low if not zero, but remember, I had been pressed up against the thought of my own mortality and had worst case scenarios playing on a loop in my head.
I went about my business for the next six months. No pain. No discomfort. Batting away thoughts of “what if” became routine and manageable.
Last September brought my first follow-up appointment. That day, I was short-tempered and, if I’m being completely honest, I probably took my tension out on a few folks around me unfairly. My nerves were on edge. The 30-minute drive from the stadium to the Cross Cancer Institute was the Longest. Ride. Of. My. Life.
Did it work? What if it didn’t?
I wasn’t in the mood for small talk so when the doctor asked “how are you doing today?” I quickly let him know we can decide that after he tells me what’s up. It was good news. Whew!
Fast forward to last week. One year to the day those 76 seeds and I became one. Another positive follow-up appointment. I’m not quite out of the woods yet, but it’s looking damn good.
I’ll live to see Melissa get married this fall. I sure hope the DJ plays some AC/DC for her dear old dad.
… Oh, and about that gaudy suit.
This brilliantly-designed intentional fashion mistake helped me raise $57,000 for Prostate Cancer Canada through the Plaid for Dad campaign. Beyond the much-needed research funds raised, I hope to use my story to inspire others to get their annual medicals. Cliché or not, it very well may save your life. Seriously, do it.