Thursday, November 15, 2012
I made a call this morning to arrange an appointment with my urologist. Yes, it was about this time a year ago that my VA doctor informed me I had a high PSA score and perhaps I would want to check in with a urologist. I did and to make a long story short, I decided not to go the route of having an instrument stuck up my nether regions to take twelve chunks of flesh out of my walnut sized prostrate to check the possibility if I had prostate cancer. In fact, my urologist gave me a warning up front "A man you age, even if you do have prostrate cancer will probably die from another cause."
After getting over the shock of the "a man your age" comment ("You talking to me?") I considered going down that route. Then I did some checking and decided not to go down that route. Then I did some more checking and again decided to go down that route. I was scheduled for the procedure December 29th last year but again changed my mind after I attended a Christmas dinner and was introduced to a man who had his prostate removed. He's now wearing Depends. Uh....no thank you. I could even see his Depends through his clothes. I won't go into all the side effects of this procedure which has proven not to be effective but I decided to monitor my PSA score.
My next blood test my score did go down. Still over the 4.0 but not 8.4 like it was before. Now it was 4.3.
So here we are today. Last week I noticed that about five minutes after I peed, I felt the need to pee again. FIVE MINUTES! So I did what any red blooded American does, I ignored it, hoping this new symptom would go away. It hasn't. Tuesday, Wednesday, and now Thursday, I feel like I have to take a Wicked Piss all the time. Something definitely is NOT RIGHT.
So I talked myself into calling my urologist and making an appointment. He can see me Monday.
Now I'm not telling my blog readers all of this because I want to elicit your sympathy. I don't want that. Don't Cry For Me Argentina. My theme song. Also, I'm not telling you this because I want advice. Believe me, I get all kinds of advice. Everyone's an expert, but this is my body. I'm listening to it right now and it's saying "get this checked out."
My situation reminds me of a quote I read in a book I just finished by the great American movie director (by way of Krakow, Poland and Vienna, Austria) Billy Wilder. He tells the story of an old man who visited his urologist.
The doctor to the old man: "Why are you here?"
The old man says: "I can't pee"
The doctor asks the old man: "How old are you?"
The old man says: "92"
The doctor says: "You peed enough."