Prostate news article, February 2008
THE GLASS DOOR Quite suddenly, I was one of “them”...
Article by patient Nick Cranfield. |
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When my name was finally called I went into the consultant’s office quietly confident. I was, and still am, one of those never-had-a-days-illness-in-my-life chaps and I knew I would get the all clear. So it was a bit of a shock to be told that I had got cancer. Other people have cancer but surely not me? Like all shocks to the nervous system it wore off fairly quickly but at the time it felt rather as though I had just passed through a glass door. Until now I had been on the sunlit healthy side, in the garden where all the flowers grew, but now, quite suddenly, I was one of “them”. Life not quite so guaranteed and with hidden enemies within liable to attack. I have never been under fire in any military situation but I couldn’t help wondering if my feelings were anything like that of a soldier confronted by a hidden enemy who was liable to take pot shots at him.
Like a lot of us men in later life my plumbing had been giving me a certain amount of inconvenience and a few years ago I had my prostate examined but no further action was deemed necessary. However, about a year ago it started to give me real problems, like getting up five or six times during the night….. and then not being able to go immediately, so I thought I should do something about it.
Then I read an article about the prostate and there was an illustration of a most fearsome bit of machinery which was supposedly used in an operation to reduce the size of one’s prostate. It was so horrifying that I funked doing anything about my problem and I thought that rather than be subjected to that sort of torture I would put up with the inconvenience.
Of course it eventually got so bad that I had to go and see my GP who promptly sent me off for a blood test. A few days later he rang me up and said “There’s no need to get alarmed but the PSA reading of your blood is too high and I am sending you down to see Mr X, a cancer consultant at the Princess Royal Hospital, Haywards Heath. So after a preliminary examination and another consultation I was booked in for an Ultra Sound Scan and Biopsy. “It won’t hurt” said the lady doctor who interviewed me. “You’ll just feel a sort of snatching sensation as they take little bits off your prostate”. In fact it hurt like hell as they had to take six samples off various parts of the prostate and without anaesthetic. But they were awfully good to me. One nurse kept her hand on my shoulder and comforted my front end and another nurse counted the snatches. “Three” she said ”we’re halfway there”. By the time we got to six I don’t think I could have taken much more but I didn’t yell out loud (I did silently to myself) and I did feel slightly superior to the chap before me, who, poor fellow, actually passed out. For two days after the biopsy I had to sit down on a rubber ring as my backside was rather sore. Then after a week it was back to the Princess Royal where I would learn if I was clear or if, in fact, there were signs of cancer.
I began to get a little suspicious as I seemed to be waiting an awful long time for my appointment. Other patients went in and came out looking cheerful and disappearing down the corridor with a spring in their step. Eventually I was called and the consultant told me in a very quite voice that the biopsy showed that I had got cancer of the prostate, it was quite treatable and did I have any questions?
For a bit I couldn’t think of anything: I was still trying to accept the fact that good old healthy me had got the dreaded disease which has killed so many, including some of my friends and many of the patients at the Hospice where I had worked for the past ten years as a volunteer. Eventually I said “On a scale of one to ten how much cancer have I got?” “It’s funny you should ask that” he said “as we use a scale of two to ten in order to assess the amount patients have, and I would put yours at about eight”. I rather wish I hadn’t asked but at least my prostate was twenty per cent healthy.
There are certain pictures which remain in one’s mind long after the event and I clearly remember making my way down to the room where all my family were waiting for me. As I walked towards them I think they could tell that the news wasn’t all that good and they were so gentle and considerate escorting me to the pharmacy for some pills, to the X-Ray department to make an appointment for a nuclear medicine bone scan (!!) and lastly to the general office to fix for another consultation. And then it was home for a jolly good drink. The nuclear bone scan was interesting. I had to turn up at the hospital in the morning to be injected with some radio-active material, go away for four hours and drink as much as possible before returning in the afternoon. In the meantime I was not to cuddle small children (mine are approaching fifty) and presumably not to go out in the dark in case I glowed and upset the traffic. .The scan itself, the purpose of which was to try to find out whether the cancer had spread, consisted of lying on a table while what seemed like half the ceiling slowly descended to about six inches above my nose. Then at an imperceptibly slow speed I was moved along under the scanner. If I had been claustrophobic it would have been an alarming experience but happily I don’t mind confined spaces and the two technicians conducting the business were a jolly couple who had amused me when I first went in by being unable to agree as to whose turn it was to give me the injection to make me radioactive.
Then it was back again to the hospital a week or two later for another consultation. This time I was thoroughly caught out as the first thing that happened was that a charming nurse (and in actual fact I found that without exception all the staff at the Princess Royal were so kind and considerate that it has been a pleasure to go there) said “come with me, go into that room and take all your clothes off except your underpants”. Oh crumbs! If only I had known I would have put on a clean pair. “Never mind” she said “I’ve seen worse”. But not much worse, I’ll bet. Then I was weighed, measured and my heart and lungs listened to. The thoroughness and care amazed me. Then I saw a male doctor who gave me an injection in the stomach. (“This won’t hurt” he said….liar!). Then came an interview with the senior Cancer Consultant, who had in attendance a stenographer and a palliative nurse. Three of them to one of me making me feel quite important.
The Consultant said I had a choice (which surprised me) of either radiotherapy, which entailed four trips per week down to Brighton for six weeks on end and no guarantee of a cure, or going for the hormone treatment which suppressed but did not eliminate the disease but had a high success rate for it’s intended purpose. The prospect of twenty four journeys to Brighton helped me quite easily to opt for the hormone treatment with the minor risk of hot flushes and the possibility of getting rather keen on high heels and frilly spring dresses!
So this is where I have got to now. In a couple of months I have further appointments at the Princess Royal to see how the treatment is going. The nuclear bone scan I had proved a bit indeterminate. One consultant said it was all clear, the other consultant I saw said he wasn’t absolutely certain. So I think it’s best to forget it. On the whole I feel incredibly lucky. I have been treated with such kindness and consideration by the NHS staff at the Princess Royal that I won’t hear a word said against them or the NHS.
Lucky too, in that if you are going to get cancer the prostate is one of the best places to have it. Treatable with modern drugs and with a good chance of preventing it spreading. For me almost no pain, just a certain amount of inconvenience. It is quite easy to be brave if you are not in pain but so many of the patients at the hospice where I worked were courageous beyond belief. Ordinary sorts or people facing ultimate death with a quiet courage that was inspiring. And the nurses in the hospice, like the nurses at the Princess Royal, treated their patients with wonderful kindness and gentleness.So there are bonuses to having cancer. Each day becomes a little bit more valuable because however benign it may seem you are sitting on a time bomb. You can’t help thinking this when you are lying awake in the wee small hours and possibly not feeling your best! And then you realise how a lot worse off than you many people are, and that makes me feel a bit of a hoax at times.
My real big bonus is that I resolved, if I was diagnosed with cancer, that I would buy myself a nice shiny toy to think about if ever I was feeling sorry for myself and needed cheering up. So I bought a motorbike. Ridiculous you may say, at 75, and I cannot but agree with you. It is a modern replica of a British bike of the sixties, lovely to ride and giving me a lot of fun. If my treatment goes according to plan I’ll have another ten years to enjoy it. And that’s another bonus!
Since writing the above some six months ago my prostate is behaving itself very well and my Consultant is very pleased with the progress of my treatment. On the debit side I do get hot flushes almost continuously (NOW you know what it’s like, my women friends say) and cold sweats; sometimes I feel I could push a house over and sometimes a bit less so. I am also getting rather fat which I dislike intensely and soon I won’t be able to get into all those frilly summer frocks which the hormones I am on are urging me to buy!