The wonderful prostate biopsy experience

The biopsy procedure happened on August 4th, and the diagnosis of cancer came back on August 6th.
This post was my attempt at some humor about the whole procedure, and I wrote it about 2 weeks after the procedure.  Warning... this is a long post.  Most of it (but not all) is true... so, keep that in mind.
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Last week I had to go in to get a biopsy done on a part of the male anatomy we don't tend to discuss in public.  No, not that part. The prostate gland. Anyway, it was an interesting experience from all sorts of directions.  Let me see if I can describe it...

I arrive at the doctor's office and wait until a polite, chatty woman invites me to come into the back with her, and as we walk down the hall she says that I don't look as if I'm looking forward to this.  I laugh, and ask if she sees many of us who are overly excited about the immediate future when we come in?  And she laughs in turn.  I can tell it's just another day at work for her.  At least she seems to like her work.

Of course you know where the prostate gland is located, right?  Well, just in case, let's just say it's tucked up behind some other sensitive parts, and so getting to it is done by going through the ...ahem... rectum. We arrive at a room containing the usual set of exam room stuff... table with paper cover and weird pillow, a folded drape, sink, tool trays... you know... and... and ... the anal probe, which she takes great pains to point out right away so I can have time to absorb the horror -- the simply wonderful size and girth of what I will from now on refer to as "the Alien Probe (AP)".  Betsy (not her real name (oh right)...the nice woman in the nurse's garb) then provides a brief play-by-play of what will happen, which only serves to work me up more. Amazingly, during this whole thing, no one takes my blood pressure. But they probably know it's off the chart anyway.  After that, she says, "OK...I'll step out while you take your pants and your underwear off, and probably that dress shirt, and then get on the table on your left side with your knees drawn up towards your chest... and I'll be back."

I comply.  What else am I supposed to do? Lock the door (like my kids did to the MeanNurse years ago)?  After all, they have the Alien Probe.  But the sequence of leaving while you undress makes me wonder if there's something taboo about being in the room when someone undresses. I'm sure some researcher somewhere has an opinion on that or has written a dissertation on it.  But I digress.  Expect more of that...

Betsy knocks ... Why do they knock?  After all, they're going to see me in some strange half-naked pose anyway, right? ... but she's polite and knocks and asks if I'm ready before she enters the room.  And, yes, I was ready (I thought), with the paper drape over my half-naked body, my legs and feet sticking out awkwardly below the drape.  (I'm tall, nothing ever fits or covers.)  She comes into the room and ...dims the lights. Like that's going to set the mood and make me feel comfy?  Right.  But worse, the thought occurs to me that she might put on some mood music and as a result I begin to imagine Barry White murmuring in the background (hey baby...).  I shake my head to get rid of that as Betsy sits down behind me and proceeds to throw half of the cover off so that it ends up folded over itself along the line of my hips.  So I wonder... who is this cover for, anyway?  Me?  I know the naked me is scary, but I've gotten used to the shock over the years, so... why not just completely naked?  I mean, don't I see myself all the time?  Because now, my entire backside from the end of my t-shirt down to my feet, is hanging out in the open. Oh nevermind.  Anyway, Betsy asks me to scoot a bit towards her and says brightly, "Perfect!".  Of course, I'm wildly flattered.  'Cause I have a perfect bum.  She said so.

Then the fun begins in earnest (no pun intended).  She says something to the effect of...  "I'm going to ram this Alien Probe up your bum and twist it back and forth and take some ultrasound pictures and then I'll get the doctor and we'll do the biopsy."  Well, really, she said it a bit more tactfully than that, but you get the idea.  (As a nice extra, a large display sits directly opposite me so I'm able to watch the ultrasound picture. Totally weird.)  I find myself wondering where the heck the doctor is when she starts off with about a gallon of surgical lube in the relevant area, and says "you'll feel some pressure here" and ...oh my god... she wasn't just whistling Dixie.  "Pressure" isn't quite the word I would have used to describe it.  Mr. Alien Probe doesn't go in easily. In fact, quite the opposite... and she's chatting all the time telling me she's making progress ("almost there, aaallmost there.. can't you freaking RELAX? alllmost there..." and so on).  Frankly, I think I fainted in there somewhere.

She proceeds to take pictures, and the part of me who is a techno-geek starts concentrating on the user interface displayed in front of me as if I'm going to have to report on the usability characteristics sometime in the immediate future.  I mean I'm really concentrating on the screen.  In fact, I display such incredible concentration characteristics that one of my hands begins twitching spasmodically and Betsy asks if I'm OK.  I barely manage to resist the impulse to ask if she has ever had the Alien Probe/baseball bat up her bum, but I really don't want to know, and besides, I promised a friend I would be good.  So I say yeah, I'm OK... but I think I'm going to pee.  She says, "No... no you won't... that's a false indication because of the Alien Probe, and besides, I can tell there's nothing in your bladder. See?  You can see it right there on the screen."  Comforting, on the whole, but then there's still the AP.  It's not so mild.

Betsy does her thing fairly quickly, as I watch unintelligible (to me) movements on the screen, and then she announces in her perky voice, "OK!  I'm done. I'll go get the doctor." And then... then... she takes the Alien Probe out.  Ah! Wonderful relief!  But then I get to thinking... uh-oh.... the biopsy... ?  But by now, QuickBetsy has already stored the AP and popped out the door to get the doctor.  She pops back in and chirps that the doctor will be right with us.  Again, I wonder where the heck the guy is, anyway, because this is all about me!

In the meantime Betsy has turned the lights back up (so the doctor can find his way into the room, I guess)... and about 5 minutes pass and the doctor comes in... followed by a crowd of onlookers.  Well, OK... it's not a "crowd" per se, it's one other observer.  But I'm thinking, "Wilbur Tango Foxtrot?!?  Is this being filmed too? Is my perfect bum going on YouTube in an hour?" And I recognize the observer as one of the people working behind the desk at the inner office.  So maybe it is my perfect bum attracting all the attention. My internal critic checks in for a second and says "Gad... shut off that ego, willya?"  I tell him what he can do with that request. Something to do with the Alien Probe.  So, no... I won't.

The crowd gathers back a few steps from the table (to admire the sight no doubt), and the doctor describes me to Ms.Observer as "an otherwise healthy young man...with this surely magnificent ...blablabla..." and then they turn down the lights again! This time I can visualize the crowd dancing in sync to the tunes of Barry White (bad thought again!)... when Betsy and the doctor sit behind me and OMG ...they put the Alien Probe back in!  They apologize for the uncomfortableness and the observant doctor says, "It must not hurt too bad. Your toes aren't curling." And I say that's because I'm concentrating on not moving my toes rather than thinking about another part of my anatomy that is just SCREAMING for me to think about it.  At the same time I wonder why he's watching my toes.  Foot fetish maybe?  They think the bit about my toes not curling and my explanation is funny.  Figures.  Meanwhile the geek part of me is on a rant about efficiency of effort, and time-and-motion studies, and WHY, once they get the AP in, don't they just LEAVE it in?  I mean, really...at least one part of me would have preferred to keep it where it was once it was in. By now they're all three chatting about baseball (boring) or what they did this last weekend (boring), or my perfect bum (amazing)... and then I make some oblique comment about trying to resist making "Deliverance" jokes... and that changes the discussion completely.  The doctor says he just had his kids watch that film. I am horrified. I say "You're kidding! I haven't watched that film. I'm too scared of it." And he explains they're all grown and all, and he thinks the film is a great example of human... of human... (he can't think of the word) ... And so Betsy tries to help...but she can't think of the word either (it's because of my perfect bum, no doubt).  And I say "uh... human depravity?"  And they all laugh. 
I swear.  This is beginning to crack me up.  I'm afraid I'll laugh and shoot the AP out.

While all that was going on, the doctor is taking samples of the prostate with a tool that sounds something like a roofing stapler. Snap! (retract tool, put sample in jar, reinsert tool) SNAP!  and I could swear I feel every one taking a core sample of my prostate.  And then, because I can, I start counting, thinking all the time about some damn lying internet article that said something about 15 to 21 samples (who makes up these numbers?).  And I'm counting, snap! 7 (retract tool, put sample in jar, reinsert tool), snap! 8 (retract tool, put sample in jar, reinsert tool)... but then Mr.ChattyPantsDoctor asks "Are you counting?" which totally blows my concentration, and my toes curl.  Of course he notices that and says, "Hey! Your toes curled. What number was I on?"  The guy is a regular comedian. I say well, I was up to 9.  He says "Wrong! That was 10!"  I love this guy... I really do.  He gets up to 12, which is all they're taking, and that makes me so happy I could cry because 15 was looking pretty far off, and I was about to invoke every god I could think of - approved, standard, pagan, Christian, retired, forgotten.. all the gods.. with a general request to make the number something a lot less than 21.  Said gods are evidently aware of my as yet unprayed prayer and show me and my now shot-full-of-holes prostate great mercy.  The doctor stands up, says some encouraging words that I forget immediately and turns on the lights (does he switch off Barry White, or is that me?) as he leaves with Ms.Observer (who is, I think, still drooling at my perfect bum). Oh right.

Betsy... remember Betsy?... Betsy removes the Alien Probe.  She's so good when she's not being so bad.  And then... another wonderful bit... she puts the drape back over me. I'm thinking, what was that for?  Tired of seeing these lubed cheeks?  (It's a good thing they don't have the ability to hear my thoughts.)   She washes her hands while giving me some post-Probe instructions and then (I love this part because while they're back there, they don't clean up after themselves) hands me a box of tissues to wipe my sorry sore bum, and then she leaves the room. I bet they don't do dishes at home either.

On the way out, Ms.Observer winks at me.  No, really.