Now I know how the other half lives -- that is to say, move over girl, so I can assume the position.
I am at the beginning of treatment for prostate cancer first diagnosed in March. After a biopsy and scans and talking with four doctors (two surgeons, a medical oncologist and a radiation oncologist), I have elected the “glow in the dark” strategy -- hormone therapy and radiation.
While the former began with a good-for-a-month shot in the butt of Eligard -- basically, chemical castration to continue for six or seven months -- I am prepping for the latter. This will be 28 days (weekends don’t count) of zotzing.
For this, the radiation oncologist (Doc L) and technicians need to “see” four gold target seeds now embedded in my cancerous prostate.
Last week at an outpatient surgery, Nurse K and her student LPN charge, Nurse V, asked the mildly sedated me to put on a hospital gown, drop my pants and climb on a bench.
Scoot back, Nurse K said. Scoot back some more. She stooped and pulled some things up from the end of the bench. Feet there and there, she said -- the same stirrups that every woman experiences once a year.
Now, I understand a little.
With my legs splayed like I was a chicken ready for stuffing, cool air bathed where no breeze has ever gone.
Vulnerable. I get it now.
When I quipped to Nurses K and V that they weren’t seeing my best side, Nurse K replied that viewing the plumbing was akin to seeing big toes -- been there, done that, they all look the same.
Oh, I said with relief (or embarrassment)?
They covered my nether regions with gobs of paper and tape, shaved the target area and liberally swabbed antiseptic.
Nurse K later asked if I’d ever had a Brazilian wax or watched the movie, “The 40-year-old Virgin”? Nope. (More on that later.*)
The procedure, while not nearly as intrusive as what the better species endures, included a probe up my backside, a bunch of sharp pokes, and the stabbing of some sort of device to insert the seeds through the perineum into the offending gland.
Not huge discomfort, but not painless either. Hard to imagine worse, bigger instruments assaulting the conscious -- sympathies to gynecological patients everywhere.
Once done and the doc gone, the nurses cleaned up.
Nurse K asked if I remembered the “Kelly Clarkson” yell (*the movie reference). Nope, but I got it soon. She asked if I wanted slow or fast? Fast, fast as you can. No hair by hair stuff.
With a rip here (“Ow, ow!”) and done, they redraped me and helped me up.
Oops, you missed some.
Back down. Rip again. (“Ow” again)
They led me wobbling to the nearby bathroom to finish cleaning and to dress.
There, I found a package of panty liners.
As a boxer-not-briefs wearing guy, what an odd thing to put on the bottom of baggy shorts. I learned only later that the things have wings and tape, I know, clueless.
Dressed and wheeled out, my daughter-in-law picked me up at the door and whisked me home.
Nurses K and V displayed kindness and good humor throughout. I have profound admiration for them.
Nursing, maybe above all professions, should be revered and held in the highest regard given some of the hard things they must see -- and, this wasn’t it.
I remain humbled.
***
Next up: This week, Doc L will order another MRI and CT scan, have a mold shaped to hold my body still as 300 beams of radiation target it, and we do a dry run for the daily zotzing. I’m guessing those start around July 15.
As for me, I am convinced, as Shakespeare wrote: That all’s well that ends well.
P.S. The Bard wasn’t the first to use the phrase in his famous play. Dr Oliver Tearle of Loughborough University writes that in 1381 the Chronicon Henrici Knighton opined: “If the ende be wele, than is alle wele.”
Yikes!