Somebody once quipped that at Massey
Ferguson they don’t talk about the Grim Reaper—they call him the International
Harvester. But whether we call him Reaper or Harvester or use any other of his
myriad names, he’s not a character we want to meet any time soon. In an episode
of Midsomer Murders the inimitable
DCI Barnaby and his trusty sidekick Gavin Troy had just visited an aged-care
nursing home and Troy came away horrified. “Who’d want to be ninety?” he asked.
“Anybody who’s eighty-nine,” said Barnaby.
Yet, once in a while we get a wake-up
call and realise that Mr Reaper is looking at us ... and he’s smiling.
I had one in 2010.
My PSA levels
had taken an alarming leap when I had my scheduled check-up in April and the
doctor wanted to do a biopsy of my prostate. It was done under anaesthetic and
was over even before I realised that I’d been asleep. Then there was a delay of
a few weeks before the result was known.
During that time one of my sons rang
to ask if I had the result of my autopsy. He probably meant biopsy, but perhaps
he was just getting a bit ahead of himself—he may have been planning how to
spend his inheritance.
When the results came through I
learned that there was a small but fairly aggressive cancer and was referred to
an oncologist.
I was lucky. Of the alternatives
available—surgery, chemo, or radiation
therapy—it was thought that RT would do the trick and I was sent to
Westmead Hospital for the treatment.
Despite the comment of one of my older
friends that it was a waste of time (he said that at my age I’d probably die of
something else before the cancer could kill me) I found the experience mostly
pleasant.
The waiting room was the best I’ve
seen in recent years: it’s comfortable and bright, with fruit juice and a
beverage bay freely available. The medical and ancillary staff are friendly and
almost unbelievably cheerful. Everybody gets treated well and, as a result, the
patients are equally friendly and supportive of each other. I asked one
radiologist about it and her simple reply was, “We love what we do.”
On my first visit I was measured and
tattooed. I’m sorry to say that the tattoos aren’t grinning skulls or pretty
girls—they’re just four tiny spots that allow the beam to be precisely aligned
during treatment.
A couple of weeks later the
treatment began—thirty-seven sessions spread over about eight weeks.
It’s
painless.
I was placed on an adjustable
couch under a linear accelerator, the area to be treated was exposed, and
I was carefully manoeuvred so that I lined up exactly with the beam. Then
everybody left and the equipment was operated from a personal computer in the
next room. In my case the treatment consists of six bursts of about five
seconds each, and then it’s all over—a total of five minutes on the table. It's
a bit like being defrosted in a microwave!
There can be side effects and those
are different for different people. In my case, the prostate became further
enlarged under the radiation and, given its location,
it caused problems
for functions with which we would prefer to have no problems.
Fortunately the medical staff are always on hand to assist and, apart from a
scheduled weekly appointment during which a doctor makes sure that you’re OK,
you can ask for help at any time.
There are four units at Westmead and
each one treats about forty patients a day. That’s a whole lot of people
getting a great deal of help—and, in spite of that, the cheerful words and
friendly smiles never seem to fade.
There’s one mystery I was unable to
resolve. I never met my oncologist. Every time we had an appointment he was
somewhere else and I was interviewed by one of his associates. I’ve come to the
conclusion that, like God, we hope he’s out there somewhere keeping an eye on
things, but we have to take him on trust.
The patients are really special.
Some of us were fortunate to have a
cancer that could be treated easily and with a high probability of success.
Others were much worse off and I met people who knew that their treatment
wasn’t working. Their courage was humbling. The children were the hardest to
cope with. During my treatment period there were a three year-old girl and two
boys (six and seven) receiving treatment. Death is a lot easier to face when
you’ve had a good life—those kids and their parents should never have to think
about it.
There's a reason for sharing this
experience with you.
Cancer is frightening and when we meet
it unexpectedly it's natural to have all kinds of negative reactions. Sometimes
not much can be done, but more often it can be treated. I’m well into my
seventies and for years I put off getting my prostate checked and ignored the
possibility that I might be affected. Fortunately my cancer was found in time.
Why don’t you think about getting
yours checked so that you’ll be in time too?
OzMan, I hope the men out there listen to your tale here. From what I understand, prostate cancer is one of the curable ones.
ReplyDeleteMy friend who died in November had pancreatic cancer that was not caught in time and was inoperable. It would have been virtually impossible to catch it when they could have operated due to its location. The tumor had wrapped itself around a vital artery.
We need to remind our women to get breast exams as well as pelvic exams for the same reason.
I have missed your musings for the past few weeks. It was good to see this one tonight!
Thanks, Yos. Cancer is a scary ailment but we've come along way and some of it is readily treatable. Unfortunately mine had some unfortunate (and permanent) side effects which do cause me some problems -- but, at least, the cancer appears to have been defeated and I've learned to live with the rest.
ReplyDeleteI'm sorry to hear about your friend. When something like that happens you feel so helpless. When it reaches the point where nothing can be done you need help to get your head around it.
If you ever have the opportunity read a book called "Kitchen Table Wisdom" by Rachel Naomi Remen, an American physician. She had done most things as a medical professional but, at the time she wrote the book, she was working with patients who had been diagnosed as terminally ill. Some she helped to live; others she helped to die.
She was a lot smarter than my local doctor. I once told him that I had a terminal head cold and he said, "You don't understand. Terminal means you're going to die from it." So I had to explain, "Yeah, now you've got the idea."