Man diagnosed with prostate cancer. What then?

I'm 56 and I wrote in January 2014 of my amazing recovery after having my prostate removed on January 12th. But a dear friend just asked me, 'what did you think when you were diagnosed?'

This is what Zoe wrote:

"When you were first diagnosed I came across a few blogs for men post prostate surgery – they were really heart rending in some cases. Men feeling like there was no point to their existence, even committing suicide. I feel (without much proof,possibly) that instead of being incredibly empathetic and understanding and doing everything they can for the psychological and physical well being of their patients the predominantly male doctors just focus on removing the cancer and wander off thinking the patient should be grateful for being given back his life without cancer".

(I'm on the right, obviously, with one of my 'brains trust', youngish Jason Allen. Pic on Feb 18 on our CX Roadshow tour)

So here's what happened.

First there was the rush to diagnosis. My lovely GP is Pam Goodwin, a den-mother kind of doc who doesn't muck about. She strongly recommended Manish Patel, he got down to business by establishing I understand the mechanics of the condition. We scheduled a biopsy, to be done under a general anesthetic. It came and went, I went back for the results a few days later.

'Sorry, you have cancer', he said. We discussed the options - there was only one in my case, removal and as soon as possible. He referred me to Sean Mungovan, a physiotherapist who was to manage my post operative incontinence. There was a blizzard of things to do, and as I left his room I found myself in a very strange state. I was confused, overwhelmed. His secretary looked up, and asked me what I needed to do. I actually couldn't talk properly.

She understood, and helped me with the bone scan appointment, the hospital appointment, the physio appointment, and a mountain of forms and reading material, including a DVD on robotic surgery.

When I walked out, I slumped onto a bench seat and looked at the western afternoon sky.

I texted the girl I was going out with, and she called straight back. God bless her. She encouraged me, asking what I knew, and hearing my fears.

They were that I would die, that I would be incontinent, and that I would no longer either get a boner (erection) or ejaculate. Unspoken was that she would pack up and bail out.

Talking to her helped. I withheld everything from my adult daughter, as I needed to get the bone scan out of the way. I emailed my closest colleagues and friends, and got love in reply. My girl friend came over and helped me get drunk.

My visit to  Sean Mungovan, the physiotherapis, was fairly brutal as his method is to freak you out with a big bag of sanitary pads and a stern warning to do everything he says. If I didn't do all the pelvic floor exercises and walk 10,000 paces a day, the inference is my post operative world would be awash with urine. He did an ultrasound and showed me how my pelvic floor contraction was not yet sufficient.

I believed him, and I did everything he said. Don't get me wrong, he was nice about it, and had his methods.

Several days later I had my bone scan, and decided that if the cancer had escaped from my prostate then I would just die in style. I didn't want to go like my friends Ian and Ross who had radiation and chemo and died horribly anyway. I would die in a manner that ensured my life insurance would pay out, so my daughter and her family would live in comfort on my legacy.

Once the bone scan came back negative, I knew removal would or should end the nightmare.

I went into Christmas almost OK, but when my daughter and her husband and my grand kids left later on Christmas day after I cooked lunch, I felt terribly alone. That was a slump.

I'm tremendously emotionally resilient, according to Mel my psychologist.

So to answer Zoe, no I wasn't emotionally supported or counseled by the prostate removal gang. Yes I was very carefully looked after, but no one asked how I was feeling.

How do I feel since? First of all, yoyfully once the operation was done, a few days later the catheter was removed. Dr. Patel's nurse Marnie said the immortal words: 'everyone is incontinent from this moment on'. But she was wrong. (See my story) I'm the odd one out, without a shred of incontience.

I've had moments. I can get half a boner, which is encouraging. I have had an amazing 'dry orgasm' just the other day which was both intense and a big happy surprise.

I do miss ejaculation. It was to me an intensely primitive male moment, putting my 'seed' or mark into a woman. It elevated me, made me feel like a real man.

I worried about my girl and whether she'd persist with me in my less enabled state. I paid a lot of attention to her needs and her satisfaction, but it wasn't the same without the breathless excitement and the full function of a glorious erection.

She - adorable supportive girl - did indeed depart a few weeks after the op, and I completely understood. My thinking is that we had a variety of things going on BUT the sexual issue was just that - prior to my operation, I was at a certain level of performance, and post I was different. I wouldn't for a minute think she seized on that at all - she is far too nice a soul. Hence I feel that when (and I will) I enter a new relationship, it is on the basis that everything forward from now is an evolution and an improvement on what is. So good vibes all around, OK?

Likely the boner will return, although the word is that it can take a year or more.

Now it is six weeks post-op, I do not have cancer nor will I get this form of cancer ever. So I am relieved. My general state of joy and happiness is as good as usual. Next week I resume Pilates, and will step up towards my pre-op level of fitness. Plus I'll do some extra swimming and fix my pushbike.

My only fear is that I'll remain alone, in which case I need to get a dog.

FOOTNOTE: I recovered. See my BLOG here.

Not safe in Balmain. Exchange Hotel bouncer bashes mature patron

Keith Stallard is a friendly, sociable and generally sober guy who likes to organise social groups in Balmain (inner city Sydney, Australia). Keith works on improving third world water sanitation, and is the last guy you'd expect to end up in a pub assault. Yet that is what happened, around 8pm on Friday 24th January 2014 at the trendy Exchange Hotel in Beattie street Balmain.

Keith alleges he was assaulted by a bouncer, after being told to move out of a 'closed area' as he talked on his mobile phone.

"I was taking a telephone call from my boss in France and discussing how to improve water supplies and sanitation in Liberia and Indonesia when the hotel manager asked me to leave the part of the pub I was in because it was closed. I was there because it was the only part of the building where I could hear my caller. I said I would leave within 5 minutes when I had finished the call. A few minutes later, I had a similar discussion with the bouncer whilst still on the call. I promised to stand within 1m of the open door to the ‘closed’ section where they could see me."

But it all went horrifyingly bad.

"Suddenly, I was thrust against a wall or a door - I cannot remember - smashing the wine glass in my right hand, cutting my hand, pouring wine all over myself, hand and injuring my knee."

Keith called the Police, but as there were no witnesses and the CCTV didn't cover the incident, charges were not laid.

The attitude of the manager rankled with Keith. "Rather than apologize, the hotel manager defended this inappropriate use of violence by saying that he had known the bouncer for several years and he had never done anything like that before."

There are 21 hotels within 3km. Clearly the Exchange Hotel is not a safe destination while managers and bouncers such as these remain unchecked.

Last Friday I faced death

FRIDAY 17 JANUARY 2014

I’m going to share an absolute screaming miracle here. Last Friday I went into surgery to remove my Prostate gland. I had an aggressive cancer that was intent on killing me. I didn't want anyone other than direct supporters to know yet, in case it all went bad.

One week later I've just got home from lunch with my step sons and their dad. Today I've worked, done domestic duties, driven the car, and had all the usual body functions except one that is best described as the Male Fun Function (MFF). Shortly I'm headed for happy hour at the local. 

My surgeon just called to say the pathology shows ALL the cancer was inside what he took - nothing has escaped. It's over.

I'm CURED. I'm FREE!

My turbo charged recovery is one thing. The whole back story is another.

In October I met the girl of my dreams after a rugged and horrible year of divorce and mayhem. She has been, and is pivotal to my recovery. 

A few close to me know how extreme things in my life were in 2013, often out of my hands, and enough to make a man drink even more. If you pretty well imagine it, I've probably had it happen. I bumbled my way through.

In December (a month before I write this) I was diagnosed with aggressive Prostate cancer. We only just caught it. Then on January 10, 2014 I had the offensive organ removed using Da Vinci robotic surgery. They make six keyhole incisions. I will never need that thing again.

That same operation day I walked up-stairs in hospital. One week ago. The physio put a giant TICK on my chart and I didn’t see her again.

I was released within 48 hours. The pain was only Panadol threshold! Just six days after the operation I was unwired from the post-op hardware and I am NOT incontinent. Far from it - all the mental prep work the physios have done is wasted, as I am operating entirely normally!

I hope and expect to regain great erectile function fairly quickly too given my profile. Not boasting, just sayin..... these two are the sleeping bogies of Prostate Cancer, but they don’t NEED to be!

A year of Pilates really helped. Please do consider this form of exercise; with its focus on core and pelvic contraction. Most men thing it is girly, but once I started, I fast got back to how I felt as a young man! Many guys tell me it cures aches, pains and sore backs too.

I went to work on day 5 (after the op) for a few hours. On day 6, I did my usual journalistic work from my kitchen table as usual. And I’ve been down to the pub every day for a beer or three as well. No more daytime sleeps. 

I feel ready to rumble.

So this blog is to rejoice, to help you to thank whatever faith you worship (or not), and to salute the beautiful people in your life who stand beside you. Oh, and make sure if you are aged 40 or over that you talk to your doctor every year about proactive health measures. And younger? Talk to your doc about other things, boys ‘cos we are all here for a fun time not a long time!

Please share this with other men, of all ages. It isn’t all-bad. Is it?

(Gory Details. Footnote)

This is ALL because the Cancer was detected and did not traverse outside the Prostate gland. And because I elected to treat it FAST. 

I get checked every year in November. I go to my GP and request a long consultation, and a full medical. She weighs me, checks reflexes, height, spatial reaction, and orders a blood sample. She does a DRE. Look it up, I quite enjoy it! She and I laugh a lot.

I take home a bowel scan kit and send off the two easy swabs with a small payment. I fast one morning, give blood, piss in a jar. I do this every year since I turned 40. (I am now 56).

The November blood results came in with a PSA of 4.2 so we repeated it after 6 weeks and it measured 4.4 (normal is less than 1).

THEN I went STRAIGHT to a Urology specialist – Manish Patel in Sydney, highly recommended – and he suggested I pay for an MRI scan. Then a Biopsy (under a general, do not attempt this while awake) and a Bone Scan to make sure nothing had escaped into my system. Don't mess around. If you don't have the cash, pay for it and then apply to your super fund for a medical release of your money.

I had a bunch of physio sessions before the operation to prepare the pelvic floor – listen to EVERY word they say.

Because the cancer was inside the gland, Professor Patel could filet around, and 'preserve' the layer of erectile nerves. He told me they were 'invigorated' and 'active'.

I had the robotic removal in a private hospital. Don't wait for the public system to schedule you with a specialist down the track that does the old fashioned full operation - you'll be munted.

I got this monster (Gleeson 7, Stage 2) just BEFORE it went berserk. It came on FAST, within 12 months of my previous clear PSA and DRE.

Be careful men!

Julius at Falls Festival

Marion Bay is a quiet section of coast just north of the Hobart waters in Tasmania. Less than an hour from the capital, it has a secondary road leading in, and a well planned annual music festival, The Falls Festival.

The dirt road leads down a hill with the bay view spreading ahead. Mid afternoon on day one I’ve beaten most of the traffic, and drive right up to the welcome gate. Volunteers brace against a whipping gale and hand me two plastic bags – black for rubbish, clear for recycling.

I’m here following a directive from the editorial committee who thought it would be funny (for them) and enlightening (for our readers) to have a punter’s perspective from a punter who would not normally attend a gig like this. Looking at the short traffic jam of backpacker campers and cheap cars crammed with what look like children with beards, I feel the committee choose well.

Cars are searched. They are looking for booze and gas bottles, possession of either will result in you losing your ticket, the numerous signs warn. I possess neither so I am free to enter.

Now I am at the Gimmee Shelter chalet, a plywood erection with a cool dude inside. Literally chilled, the gale has peaked at about 400 on the Beufort scale by now. He profers the contract, which requires my name, address and phone number presumably so I can be hunted down if I steal the tent.

Tent # 104 is mine, thankfully free of a shared guest since these are twin share and had there been a lucky solo punter in the queue with me, we would have been consigned together. To share, and discover each over, yelling over the blustering of tent flaps and twanging of guy wires.

Duly established I tour my new world. Attempts at counter cultural vibe are everywhere, little woollen spider webs and painted logs poked in the ground. I do an outer lap, keen to inspect the facilities that will matter to me the most – the bar arrangements, and the other end of that process, the toilets. Both are in abundance.

Drinking is a serious business at Falls. First you need tokens – these come in $5 and $2 denominations (not refundable) and are, we are warned, water soluble. At least they warned us.

At a bar you dish up the tokens. This is presumably a clever form of tax on the drink concession, who can’t take actual money and who presumably redeem mountains of tokens for actual money, minus the Falls commission, later on.

Food concessions take money – lots of money. As I walk amongst the youth, marvelling at the lack of anyone remotely as old as I, the thinking turns to just how much money these kids have. At $7 for a beer, and $12 for a burger or $4 for chips, it’s going to be a long three days.

There are some terrific hippy vibed shops, and a too cool chilled beats coffee and pizza place with a DJ and decor that resonates with 18 year olds. I glance at the DJ, feeling empathy for his empty existence, standing there grooving away at his chill beats, chill wind whipping up his chilled shorts, blowing his neat festy dreads around like little whips. Ignored, as I am.

Absolutely no one says hello to a 56 year old, and I am starting to feel like a grizzled Toolie at Schoolies. It’s an all age gig, so the arm band tells who can and can’t buy booze. Unlike the walled confines of a club, it is hard to imagine how or if underage drinking is policed.

I see a sum total of two police, and the security is present but respectfully restrained. I like that. There are a couple of gruff encounters, but I’m used to that since my demeanour hovers between homeless grifter and absent minded pensioner. At least it does in this crowd.

There are three venue areas. The Main Arena contains the Valley Stage, which is a permanent construction sitting down the slope towards the Bay itself, framed behind. There would not be a prettier stage outside of Sydney Harbour.

You need to show your wrist band to enter this precinct, which has bars and concessions and toilets and probably would easily contain eight thousand people at once.

Leaving the secure area, you are in open country with concessions, camping areas, toilets and the disappointingly closed on day one Village. This appears interesting, yet remains unexplored.

The Field Arena is working on day one, with a low key and surprisingly quietly mixed slab of acts I’ve never heard of, like The Correspondents and Mountain Mocha. But the kids are happy. A surprising number of them are wearing onesies. I regret leaving mine in Sydney. It is flipping cold, but the wind abates at sunset.

I walked to the beach – easily a one hour return hike across the tundra, vegetation grimly clinging to the earth as I walk doubled against the arctic gale. A bridge over a creek has a sad lonely lifeguard in attendance, to deter anyone from drowning there. The beach has a troop of lifeguards, huddled in a sand whipped cluster. A dozen hipsters and one child wander the sand like extras from The Walking Dead.

Sleeping in a two man tent erected on a knobbly grassy slope is very hard work, even for an easy sleeper fuelled by Tasmanian beer and many little plastic goblets of excellent Pinot Gris ($9).

I stagger out at first light and hit one of just six hot showers ($2 for 2 minutes). It is gratifyingly gratifying. Just prior I closely inspected the toilet – a long drop arrangement that is infinitely more appealing than those porta loo things. A men’s urinal alongside is a tin walled area with guttering into which you urinate. I marvel at the considerable genetic advantage one has being male.

With no early opener in sight, I decide to pull up stumps and head for Mona in Hobart instead. I’ve experienced the life, heard the beats, endured the cold (it is 8 degrees this morning) and fulfilled my brief.

Next time, I’m going to force some of those glib young editorial types into something more Julius, like a Boz Scaggs concert. That’ll teach them.....

Rogues I know and almost love

I want to go back to Rudi's restaurant; Stuyvesants House in Crows Nest Sydney. Because I miss the dysfunctional floorshow, through some undiagnosed flaw in my values system. I miss the food from Max, with his trademark smoker aroma, pictured (minus the aroma) here:


Rudi takes no prisoners. These guys are seriously hard core.

My breaking straw event is detailed below. Here is Rudi with his apparently terrific son.





The deal breaker was that I had myself thrown out before Christmas 2011, as I could not abide by how Rudi treated another novice waitress. (Story here).

NEXT ROGUE:

How about Eric Robinson? 

Since the early 1970's one of the two dominant partners in Jands, and probably the toughest guy from the slug it out era of the 70's and 80's. He has always driven the concert audio side of the company, and needed to be aggressive and driven to get to the top.

Which is where he remains to this day. The stories about Eric are legion - one that sounds credible is when Samuelsons UK purchased the Jands Concert Productions business in the late 1980's for a reported seven million dollars. Eric flew over to London to head up operations, and upon arriving happened upon a vintage Rolls Royce in the warehouse.

'Get that thing out of here', he is reported as saying, although the language was inevitably more colourful. Transpires the car belonged to the Chairman, and relationships deteriorated over the next few years. Another time an old school type reportedly sneered that 'you Australians are all convicts', whereas Eric quickly replied 'yes, and you sent us here'.

He hasn't been pictured anywhere we know of, other than this from the 1990's. At the most recent Australian Road Crew Reunion in Sydney Eric attended, and the jokes flew thick and fast since at least half the people in the room had been fired by him at some stage.

Eric has a very fast wit, and his deal making skills are almost the best there are......

Berlin in one day

 It was Sunday and my train from Prague took almost five hours. Most of the time we were beside the River Elbe, one of the major waterways of central Europe. It runs from the Czech Republic through Germany to the North Sea.

The train was not an ICE high speed train, it was an electric train but very comfortable. There was a buffet bar where I ordered Goulash and a Draught beer .

It is so lovely watching the green countryside of Europe roll by, and the convenience of a train is hard to beat - city centre, to city centre. If I had flown, it would have been costly and take 2 hours in the air. Add on 2 airport hours and the transfers and the train won at less than half the price!

I checked in to the Adina apartment hotel at Kakescher Markt and being Julius set out to find a corner store to buy some milk for the morning tea. But everything is shut on Sunday here!

Beside the River Spree I came upon this delightful outdoor old time dance venue. They were doing the Tango just now. It's been a while since my Tango days, the rehabilitation was thorough, but the titanium rod in my lower left leg throbs whenever I hear the tell tale music!

Smiling I continued my futile quest. A shop, any shop other than souvenirs or beer. Eventually I just gave in, as you do, and had a beer.

Berlin cannot be done in one day. Not at all. So the next morning I looked out the window to see rain and wind. Fortunately my host in the Czech Republic had awarded me some merchandise, one of which was a perfect weatherproof jacket with hood! 

I chanced the trains, figuring the system and ended near to my target, the Brandenberg Gate.

At this point I've decided to never travel without mobile data again. I loaded the map on the iPhone using wifi at the hotel, and being myself (who I am) managed to navigate away and delete it. The map will triangulate and let you know where you are in reference to phone towers, but without a map it is just a moving blue dot on a sea of blue. Very opaque!

Lucky I had a tourist map with me, and the iPhone still operated as a compass, for West or East. Those are the directions that matter in Berlin.

 The Gates were built in the 1300's I think, and mainly used as an excise point between here and there. But when the wall was built, the Gates became part of no-man's land. Wiki says: "The Eastern Bloc claimed that the wall was erected to protect its population from fascist elements conspiring to prevent the "will of the people" in building a socialist state in East Germany."

But the real sombe event is the Holocast Memorial just down the road.

This memorialto the Jewish victims of the Holocaust, consists of a 19,000 m² (4.7-acre) site covered with 2,711 concrete slabs or "stelae", arranged in a grid pattern on a sloping field.  

At first it just seems like an architectural installation, but once you start to travel down these narrow pathways, and go down a hill so the slabs are tall above, it becomes claustrophobic and morbid.

I hurry away, towards Check Point Charlie, where I find a segment of wall standing. There is a display alongside, at the foundations of some SS establishment that was excavated.

There is a kind of museum alongside (I can't find the name, but it is right at the segment of wall) which deals with the slippery descent into the Second Wold War. It is a complicated, devious journey to dictatorship.

Sadly my history is riddled with gaps, so I won't try to fill you in.

The thing that struck me was the entreaty along the lines that when Hitler rose, the people were accepting, or went along with the ride, or kept quiet. The pogrom was around the corner, books were burned, and synagogues razed.

It just went from bad to mad, and of course the country fell. Berlin seems to be the centre of the horrible awakening, and the theme is to admit and to never forget.

This is kind of sick - photo taken before WW2 of some Hitler Youth frolicking with their preferred decorations. From Berlin Wall museum.

Prague in one day

This is Prague Castle, said to be the largest complex of its kind in the world. Of course I took the number 22 tram there. It ran through Belveder, Prague Castle and the end of the line is Pohořelec, which I discovered later because a sense of direction in old streets is impossible.

Those who know me, understand I enjoy the scenic route. Wrong Way Grafton, sometimes unfairly you mock me. How was I to know? I got off, the tram tickets here cost just 24 Crowns, and when you consider 1,000 Crowns is around US$50, this is a cheap destination!

Being lost, as I was, there was but one solution. Pilsner. A pint later, the barman pointed to the edge of the crappy tourist map to indicate I was indeed at the end of the line. The Czech's are very friendly so far, and I do like that.

I'd come down from the corner of Austria and Slovakia, where I was on business the day prior. Peter the taxi driver took me three and a half hours, for 5,500 Crowns (US$250). I think that was fair - he had to drive back again of course! Nice man, fractured English. Good driver too. In a Skoda, of course. The national car.

Of course I met Jaroslav Róna. I had to muscle aside a group of Russian tourists to get this picture. Some cultures, they must touch a statue. I tried to explain how, in Australia, we must kiss it.

Loved this old Trabant. Remember U2 had several of these on the tour in the early 1990's? Prague and indeed the Republic were part of the USSR until the Velvet Revolution. They never looked back - they offloaded the Slovakians, who now have their own (even cheaper) country, with the capital Bratslavia. We drove through there on the way in, from Vienna airport.

I'd flown to Vienna from Chicago, via Zurich. Swiss Air are tremendously efficient, the plane rolls up to the gate and they get that door open faster than I've ever seen and motion you off. None of the faffing around we experience daily in our country!

Up at The Castle, these poor buggers stand erect with their wooden guns, unflinching as dumb Australian tourists egg them on to mug for the camera and kids jump up and down and wave their arms a breath away. Worst job in uniform, probably did something bad late at night with a lonely Bratsworst and got caught.

I walked up Petrin Park, a really steep climb to the tower. Passed this little establishment along the way. Not much in the way of ambiance but no one answered my hopeful knock and call.

Walking.... walking .... took a few wrong turns and ended up on the Milady Horakove, a main road where they are making a big road tunnel. I had to stumble through the roadworks, of course. The workers ignored me, the tourist map in my left hand said it all really.

Exhausted, I returned to the Hotel 16 Kateriny which is a FABULOUS boutique place about 15 minutes from Wenceslas Square - the tourist centre of Prague. Beware pickpockets, they say, so I had the wallet in the front pocket but no need to worry - even at dusk on my way to dinner at Grosello at the Marina it was safe as anything!

 
So this is it. Alone and happy, Pilsner on the go, food on the river Vltava. Hard to imagine but it floods occasionally - this was in June this year, but nowhere near as bad as 2002 which was a disaster.

 
I've had breakfast and chatted with the delightful Pavla here at Hotel 16. I really must plug this place, it is essence of Prague and very caring. About US $160, there are cheaper, but this one is first class and truly great.

I'm headed to Central to buy a ticket (hopefully) on the 10.30am train to Berlin now.

Prague. Probably best to enjoy with a significant other, as I think it is one of the most romantic and affordable cities in Europe.

Enjoy!