Needle in anus. No! I’d rather have a knife.

March 30, 2021

Household is just me and P. again.  And G., sitting on my neck, soothes my soul.  P. is making cookies again.  I cleaned the stove.  I try to be a good domestic partner.  I’m going to change my occupation in Fb to “kitchen stove cleaner.”  Has a certain sound I find pleasant.  Can’t write more, need to practice banjo.

March 31, 2021

Today I kept an appointment with my internist, Dr. Ed Malters.  He is a fine fellow, a board-certified internist.  This means he keeps up-to-date on the medical literature germane to the health of old duffers like me.  

My problem was I couldn’t pee without taking “Flo-Max,” a miracle drug.  The reason I take the miracle drug:  I have a huge prostate gland.  Perhaps it’s the biggest on the block!

Far from being a gland to feel pride in, or to boast about, my gland constricts my urethra so that my pee comes out in a mere dribble.  This would not be something to feel pride in or boast about.  Instead, I feel consternation when I can’t pee.

Anyway, a gland isn’t a point of pride for me.  Oh, it’s nice and all.  I even used to like it, back in the day.  Except when the doctors poked their digits into my rectal regions to check its size and surface characteristics.  These days, I don’t like it so much.  Hence, the “Flo-Max.”

Flo-Max is the same thing as a drug, called tamsulosin.  Try saying that 10 times.  Quickly.  It allows urine to flow freely, so life for me was great for about 10-15 years, now.  Every year my internist asked me if I wanted a “PSA” test and every year I asked him not to bother.  You see, I learned from fellow prostate sufferer Steve that a PSA test (prostate-specific antigen) would invariably be elevated in old guys like me.  

An above-the-limit PSA would result in the doctor recommending a needle biopsy test for cancer.  This would clarify the cause of the elevated PSA test.  Was it cancer?  Was it a normally enlarged prostate?  A biopsy would tell.  Wouldn’t it?

No, it wouldn’t.  Usually the biopsy would tell v. little.  And the biopsy is no walk in the park with the dog.  

The needle biopsy involves pulling down one’s pants while a guy (usually) jabs a large-bore needle into and through one’s anus to sample the prostate gland cells.  Thanks, but no.  OOOOhhh!  Pain!

My friend had the biopsy done.  “Wow,” I remarked.  Only, my friend said the biopsy didn’t show any cancer!  “Good” I remarked.  Only the biopsy needed to be repeated in six months to make sure.  “Too bad!” I rejoined.  And on and on.

Short story:  I didn’t want to be jabbed by needles into my arse every six months for the rest of my life.  

Instead, I opted to forgo the PSA test and I’ve been relatively happy until now.  

On one of my routine man-exams my internist inadvertently checked the box “PSA,” and of course, the reading was elevated.  I opted to decline a biopsy.  This resulted in my being denied a small life insurance policy which would barely pay to have me cremated.

Now, the piper is due.  Tamsulosin no longer can control my ability to pee without making my blood pressure so low I can’t stand up without falling down.  

Dr. Malters has referred me to a urologist.  A urologist is French for “bummer.”

He (all of them are male) will put me to sleep and ream out my urethra with a device inserted through my penis so that I may pee without taking any medicines.  That will obviate my need for two medicines.  

Now I will take meds for (1) depression, (2) hypertension, and (3) cholesterol.

I’m hoping that through vigorous outdoor exercise, occasional alcohol and marijuana use, and banjo playing, I will live the next 15-20 years of my ill-spent life without further trouble.

Amen and amen.