(Feel free to ignore the idiotic title, I too-often inappropriately favour the jovial quip.)
Under the guise of 'helpful transparency', here's a quick update to my previous mental meanderings.
I had a TRUS biopsy this morning... set me thinking about how when I was recently in A&E, I was asked to complete a 'how likely are you to recommend us?' questionnaire.
How likely? What... to recommend 'having a stranger shove gawd-knows-what (I didn't look) up yer poop-shute, accompanied by what sounded like the firing of a spud-gun I had when I was 8'?
Hhhmmm... let me think a bit.
The recent MRI I hugely enjoyed. (Particularly the middle-eight, where the beat got quite funky for a mo' and the didgeridoo came in from the left.)
This, not so much.
Very odd feeling, uncomfortable rather than painful... quite tolerable. And, of course, very useful if you want to remain on the 'staying alive' pathway.
A bonus is perhaps that any innate latent gay tendency/curiosity has now been 'none of that for me, thankyouverymuch' firmly nuked. And all without having to sheepishly frequent 'the right bars' or that guilty morning after walk-of-shame.
I did at one point mutter something about 'feels like you can't find fourth gear', but refrained from asking whether there was any sign of that sixpence I'd inadvertently swallowed in the 1965 Xmas pudding.
Honestly, at times it felt like someone was rowing a boat in there.
I realise some of this pseudo-humour may be potentially offensive, but it's really not meant to be... in fact, quite the reverse - outlining my way of dealing with stuff I'd prefer to not have happening, perhaps it'll help lighten the tone elsewhere.
Anyway, we can move on to the next stage - bone scan. (The video for that looked very uneventful, about as exciting as watching accountants sleep.)
Meantime, me and my 'T3 - locally advanced prostate cancer' cruise-on through life - or at least what's left of it.
(Schwarzenegger was a T-101 in 'Terminator', so clearly I've some way to go. Maybe I'll get upgraded to T4 next time.)
From what relatively little I know... whether T3/T4 or T123456789000000000435678, treatment is largely the same. Survival rate of course varies... from no impact on life expectancy, to 'can I please have your trifle?' [cos you'll be dead before dessert].
I did momentarily wonder whether I should ask to retain my 3x-enlarged prostate - add it to the paperweight collection of one of my grand-daughters.
In other news... on the walk back, all the crossing lights were green-to-go in my favour - unimpeded flow across seven lanes of traffic, with a backpack full of Lidl's finest junk food. Bliss.
In next week's exciting episode of 'My Glamorous Life'... The Gleason Scores!
I'm of course expecting the worst - and anything less is a bonus.
Oddly, I'm still not worried.
(And that's not the same as 'I don't care'.)
I'm either drawing huge amounts of bravado - or those mushrooms I downed in 79 have finally kicked-in.
Seriously though, whatever I have/don't have is something about which I can do b**ger-all'. And worrying would simply further-dampen things. So, 'plan for the worst, hope for the best' seems ok to me.
Almost forgot, sorry - before I go...
Entirely constructively (honestly, the bleaker it gets the happier I'm determined to be), perhaps I could rework the 'Me and My Shadow' classic (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i-4uKgXRnpI) - cross-out 'shadow' and pencil-in 'tumour'. Yeah, maybe. That might work.
Edited by member 05 Jul 2018 at 05:56
| Reason: Typos