Onward and ...

...upward? Well, perhaps.  I was thinking this morning how many people helped me and my family along the way through the treatment regimen, and importantly, the recovery struggle  (because struggle it was).  Without help, I don't know how anyone manages this kind of experience.  The blanket "thanks everyone!" seems inadequate. Specific thanks would be unnecessarily lengthy, yet something remains.

Today I finally sent an email to Dr. Nelson Stone who, when asked for information, took the time to reply, request information, and provide unsolicited input. His unbiased view allowed me to make decisions based on data, not emotion.  (The emphasis on data started with my radiation oncologist, Dr. Peddada, and I credit Dr. Kraft with insisting that I consult with him.)  When I contacted Dr. Stone initially (still, I think) prostate cancer required a fair amount of decisions on the part of the patient, unlike some forms of cancer.  Dr. Stone helped me form a plan with my doctors.  My recent visit to my urologist, Dr.Kraft, indicates a continued PSA level of less than 0.1 (which is as close to zero as labs will say), and testosterone level is still in the normal-high envelope (it's a big envelope).  And those consistent numbers mean I can now switch to yearly visits.  Small victory, and I'll take it.

Somewhat related to moving on, I had my tonsils out 3 weeks ago. And how are tonsils related to prostate cancer? Good question. My tonsils have been large since childhood, but after having cancer, my PCP started a campaign to get me to a specialist because she thought my tonsils might be harboring something. I have seen no data to back this up, specifically, but prostate cancer, if it spreads, can show up in lymph nodes (usually in the pelvis) and to bones (top two). Tonsils are lymph nodes, but clearly not in the pelvis, but they're lymph nodes.  Do you see the circle forming?  (Mayo lists bones, lymph nodes, lungs, liver, brain as the top 5 common sites.)

But I went (finally) to the otolaryngolgist (what a word! ENT is easier) and he said they should come out ("let's pop those bad boys outta there").  I thought a second opinion was needed, not only because I didn't like his answer, but he had an OfficeNazi on his staff.  Yeesh.

Second ENT was very chatty. Ended up saying I had 2 out of 3 factors indicating they should come out. So, not a requirement, but if I didn't do it, I should be seen by a specialist every 6 months. I thought "oh right... that's not going to happen".  He also said, in the interest of full disclosure, that "of all the surgeries I do, this one is the most painful".  Thanks, doc.  Me = Drag feet for a few months.  Finally scheduled the surgery and did it.
  (Sidebar) Oh baby!  If you're an adult and still have your tonsils, make them say "you're going to die unless you do this" because you'll want to for a couple of weeks after the surgery.

At any rate, the pathology report was clear (yay!).  I wasn't overly concerned about that, but had no idea that Ginny was worried about it until she visibly relaxed when the doctor told us at the post-op appointment. Unfeeling, insensitive American male that I am.

Point is, once a cancer patient, always so labeled.  Fair or not, it's the case.

March, 2010... How did it happen?

Well, hey, I thought I'd get in a last post for February, but the day turned into something completely unexpected. I mean, I slept in, puttered about for most of the morning, took Katie for a walk (she was completely thrilled) and then... found myself in a listless, pacing, weird state of mind. And dang it... I couldn't shake it.  There were plenty of things to get done, and I didn't do one of them. I hope that wasn't a glimpse of things to come.  Heck... I didn't even feel like drinking a glass of wine! That's how bad it was. 

I ended up taking a nap, hoping I could sleep it off kind of like the way I used to try to fall asleep on long car rides when I was a kid because of the nifty way sleep has of compressing time. If you can get to sleep, a day-long ride in the car seems more like a couple of hours.  And then I started this post on Monday, the first of March, and got derailed by some completely lousy news at work, and so now it's mid-week and I'm lagging behind.  In more ways than one.

Last week, I gave the radiation tech's my blog address and now I find myself wondering if I've made anyone feel bad in how I've reported on this journey. I sure hope not. But really, I'm not aware of having said *too* many rude things.  And it seems a bit presumptuous to think that there are a lot of people reading this. I know of a few, but most of them know me fairly well. In some respects, this is a bit like working as a disc jockey was for me (yes, I did that ...and worked as a radio engineer for a few years). There's something very unnerving about having a conversation with a microphone, which is a little like writing here. But that's not what I want to talk about.

"You don't know it yet, but we're the lucky ones... "

I've been mulling this one over for quite awhile. And I still don't think I have it quite handled, but I'm fairly sure I am not thinking about this the same way Lance thinks of it.  Well, natch... I'm not nearly as fast on a bicycle as he is and besides, I'm just a *few* years older. 

Originally, I read this remark that someone sent to Lance Armstrong when his cancer diagnosis became widely known. At that point, Lance was far from coming out the other side of the experience. And when I re-read the book - "It's Not About the Bike" - the remark struck me anew and has been with me ever since.  I'm not the only one to take note, because a brief search shows several people quoting these words. How are cancer patients the lucky ones?  Hmm?

Well, let me digress for a minute.  Or maybe a couple of minutes.  I have friends who have been fighting much more serious battles than I have with this cancer. People who have reached the point of saying they weren't sure anymore why they're doing it. People who woke up in the morning and wanted to just die because they were (and are) so tired of the whole process. Doctors appointments, needles, pills, bills (OMG the bills!) and worse than the bills, insurance fights... all that in the midst of that having to give up their whole self-concept.  All of it.  And then re-define themselves.  It is another example of letting go of what we hold dear, willingly or not.  I only know the barest edge of that... and while I'm thankful for that, it humbles me and makes me wonder why I write as if I know?  Really, I was more concerned about the changes to my life than I was about the cancer (which several people close to me thought was outlandish...and rightly so!).  But here I am, writing anyway... and I won't stop. :-)  But back to the point of the post...

So what about it? What makes someone who has a life-threatening disease consider themselves lucky? Or more broadly, what is it about going through an intense adversity that changes people into thinking - and perhaps more importantly - feeling that they are somehow chosen?  Parallels abound once the question is made a bit broader and I find it begins to make sense within that context. Some of the parallels that come to mind - military experience (which I don't have), intensive training (which I know very well) - and now that I think of it, it seems the common thread is a sense of surviving something.  Going through a difficult passage and finding the result of the struggle has produced a different perception, a different approach, a different person still moving into the future, but now (as Eliot said) no longer at ease in the old dispensation. No longer living the same... perhaps more conscious, more aware than ever before.
There are spiritual examples as well, and our myths are full of the struggle, the passage, and the changeling that results from it all.

It has been good to write about this. And I celebrate the struggle even while lacking understanding of it and the mechanics of it.

And I celebrate being on the downhill slope of the radiation treatments. #17 done today.  Eleven more to go!  Woot!

Drugs, drugs, and more drugs

Oh, and did I mention drugs?  But first... the countdown continues: 7 of 28 sessions down.  Woot!

This week, due to some fun with my corporate drug dealer (ok, business partner) I had to turn a long term prescription into a mail-order thing.  That's fine, but the whole experience is weird.  And it just keeps getting better.  But the corporate connection came through in stellar fashion, complete with a computer voice call to put me at ease.  The woman who "talked" to me told me they had just shipped my prescription, so CLAM DOWN you silly human, you.  Ya Maroon!  I know I was ... uh... impressed.

The bag with the drug arrived and inside was a ton of paper telling me all about this drug - which is the generic form of FloMax.  Interesting list of possible side effects, one of which was kind of funny, in a twisted way: decreased semen.  I laughed.  Sorry... but I did.  And if you go looking for a list of side-effects of this drug, have fun.  Oh yeah, there is some mention of nasal congestion and coughing, which I have had.  And I think this one has lowered my blood pressure a bit.  Otherwise, no big deal.

The hormones continue to cause hot flashes... which are getting a bit more insistent as time passes.  I'm wondering what happens when I stop the testosterone blocker.  I was supposed to be on that for 6 months, which would have taken me out to March 21st I think, but today I found out that maybe I stop taking that when the radiation treatments end.  Need to confirm that next week.

And I did a little reading about bone mass loss in men due to no testosterone.  That, coupled with an article about the benefits of vitamin D has made me start pounding the little chewable calcium tablets... (they've got vitamin D in them as well) in the hopes of heading some of that off.  If it's not already too late.  Seems that recent data indicates that anti-seizure medications can cause bone loss too.  And I've been on those for AGES.

Re-reading this I think it's a bit scattered.  But it's time for a quick nap before dinner... and I'm not going to fuss over it. The post.  Not the nap.

In the wake of week 1 of radiation treatments

Last Friday, week one of radiation treatments ended quietly and uneventfully with me feeling more tired than I thought I should have felt, but everyone else thinking I was a bit off my gourd, so to speak.  OK... I think everyone else is right, and I'm wrong... and I freely admit it.  And the only lame explanation I can give for my thinking is that I had the idea I would somehow be able to tell the difference between this radiation tiredness and the tiredness from the radioactive seeds.  Or this tiredness and the tiredness associated with the hormone treatment (which is still a very present factor).  Or (weirdly) this radiation tiredness and the general tiredness brought on by general life stuff.

Mistaken?  Yep.  But, still, I want to know more than I have had time to discover.  Here's a short list of items I'm still curious about:

• Body absorption rates - what is the ramp-up curve of symptoms relative to the rate at which my body absorbs the radiation?
• Along with that, how does the body deal with the radiation? Meaning, what different processes are running in overdrive right now simply because of the radiation? (That one seems like a simple one to answer, but is it?)
• How is this program of radiation actually designed?  I ask that because I noticed over the last week that the rotation of the machine around me is not consistent. Nor is the duration of exposure equal in all locations.  So, how is this laid out?  And, following that, who checks to see if it's actually working?
• Is there anything written about the drugs I'm taking (bicalutamide and Flo-max now) having an effect on dreams?  I'm having some pretty interesting ones.
• I need to know more about Vitamin D and bone loss in men due to the lack of testosterone that this treatment regimen causes.  What are the long term effects? How much damage is being done? And what happens if my body doesn't begin producing testosterone on it's own after this treatment is over?

Still on my list of things to do: create a visual of the overlapping treatments I'm doing.  There's no real need for this, but having something like it would have helped me understand the treatment sequence and layout when I started. 

There's more... but it's late and sleep beckons.  Onward into week two!

IMRT Radiation - 2 down, 26 to go

I had good intentions of posting following my first day in radiation, but that didn't happen obviously.  So, here goes ... day 2 treatment done and talked to the doctor afterwards.  Evidently, Tuesday is my day to see the doctor after my treatment and so I almost called the post "Tuesdays with Dr. P" but that just didn't sound right.

Anyway, my initial impressions... and I stress the word "initial" ... are that radiation treatments sound one heckuvalot worse than they are (assuming there are no horrifying complications). The short version is,
I arrive at the doctor's office and change, wait until they come and get me, hop on the table and get in position (with help) and dang near fall asleep while the machine does it's little loop around me.  That's about it.  Of course, I swear I can feel it, but I can't.  And I keep looking, in vain, for some indication like sunburn or something... but that's not there either.

Thing is, the effects of this treatment have a curve over time, just like the effects of the hormones and the seed implants.  So, I'll see a bump in effects, probably starting around week 3 or so and (they say) lasting up to 4 weeks after the treatment stops.  Well, OK then.  Psyche up!

Today I thought how funny it is that I've got this paper drape over me (once again with the drapes) and yet this is a huge linear accelerator doing radiation on me... and I haven't asked yet what gives?  Why can't I keep my sweats on?  Do these rays bounce off fabric?  Ah.. so much to know... so little time.

But all in all, the start of this stage is going very well.  Tomorrow I'll have more about the exposure sequence... because that is fascinating too.  OK... maybe only to me... but fascinating just the same.

Support & wisdom and STYLE

Standing on the edge of the next phase of treatment, and undoubtedly stressing a little about it, I'm struck with how subtle remarks from friends and family are (to quote my mother) "a boon and a blessing".  Examples abound, from comments on this blog, to supporting remarks left on Facebook, to my sister saying that the fatigue I'm feeling now is an indication of work taking place.  And it's easy to lose track of the fact that work is taking place.  All of this forms a web of thought, feeling, and support that amazes me.

And so this post is to acknowledge the wisdom of the group, the support that provides this intangible yet clearly present gift.  There is no way to be worthy of such a gift, but there are ways to be thankful.

I know this path has to be walked down, and that is no trite phrase. It literally has to be walked: 5 days a week, for the next few weeks, until the radiation is done.  Oh all right... I'm driving down part of it (the road to the doctor's office).  But as I used to say about some other stressful work... you just keep going and really, you can do almost anything for 5 weeks. It's not that long.

And maybe "edge" was the wrong word. This isn't so much like jumping off a cliff, which is sort of implied by that word.  It's more of another door, a word which I fear borders too closely on a hackneyed cliche (excuse me if it is!).  Or maybe just another step down the hall that leads from the radiation waiting room to the door that says "High Radiation!" (I am not making that up... I'll have to get a picture of that door) at the doctor's office.

I am, and will ever be, in debt to the gathered support and wisdom of the people in my life.

As for STYLE...

Feelings in the mist... and radiation set-ups

OK... this is about feelings mainly, and not about prostate cancer, specifically, or about the technology or about the treatment regimen... so feel free to bail now, and no hard feelings, see?  Because I want to vent a bit and I know that venting is sometimes just a pain.

So, I'm tired. I haven't been doing anything that would seem to make me tired, and yet I'm tired.  And (to be a bit silly) I'm tired of being tired.  It's a whine, I know... and I think if I'm like this now, when radiation hasn't started... what will I become halfway through?  A whining, sniveling, piece of cheese?  (Now there's a visual for you!)  I certainly hope not.  Even so... it could happen.

And coupled with being tired is a wonderful soreness in my trunk. Well, not so wonderful, really.  Again, if I had been doing something - yard work, swimming, lifting weights, for example - and got like this, well, it would almost be good!  But knowing I'm not doing any of those things and yet still being here... stinks.

Now I know I have it easy. I know that as far as pain goes, this is nothing.  And while I don't beat myself up over that, I know it.  Even so, this is part of the struggle, isn't it?  I mean the struggle that is not cancer, and is not tiredness, but the struggle to be, and to find meaning in that being.  The feeling is very much like some of the words Longfellow wrote in "The Day is Done"

...And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me   
  That my soul cannot resist:   
 
A feeling of sadness and longing,   
  That is not akin to pain,     
And resembles sorrow only   
  As the mist resembles the rain. ...

That about sizes it up.  I won't dwell on this long. Or often. But it helps to get it out.  And I lied when I said I wasn't going to talk about the treatment... because I am.  But only a little... on the next page...

More on Intensity modulated radiation therapy

I've been reading the NY Times articles about radiation treatments for cancer (as they're unfolding) and I must say the news is rather dire (the link goes to the latest one).  I'm going both ways on this now - wanting to be informed, but also knowing that I'm not likely to change directions on my treatment when I've come this far down the path.

Why not change?  Well, for one, all the data I could gather pointed to better results with this course than if I had chosen surgery.  And my tendency is to think I'm going to be one of the ones who has relatively few problems along the way.  But I don't think other people go into the treatment expecting problems, so that's not a new thing.

I'm not surprised at the problem being reported by the Times, I think because I see it every day. I work in a technology area, but I'm focused on the human side of technology.  The fact that technology outpaces understanding and training is not new. And it doesn't surprise me to find out that controls and regulations on these machines are inadequate or completely absent. And it's certainly not surprising to hear that companies might think of releasing a product just a bit ahead of when they should.

But I found something key about my approach...

IMRT - Intensity Modulated Radiation Therapy or "Beam me up, Scotty"

Starting to do some research on the next phase, and finding some more new terms, new information, old information new to me, and more.  And in the midst of all that finding more information about steps that seem to be fading into the past.

But first, I finally found the specific Cesium isotope that is in the seeds I had implanted on Dec. 10th: Cesium-131, which I know, is just thrilling. I'm trying to contain myself.  Really.  But, as silly as it sounds, finding this specific information is a bit of a thrill.  It's relatively new, having been approved by the FDA in 2003, and the first implants were done using it in October 2004.  The link goes to the IsoRay site - the company who developed the process for using Cesium-131.

As for IMRT, I did some research on it over the weekend and am convinced that the theory I've read so far seems to make sense. There's a good, if a bit dated (2004), research paper on the Prostate Cancer Research Institute pages - a long read, but worth the time.

I think I mentioned that the next immediate step is to do some scans (scheduled for Wednesday) to map out exact location of the prostate.  You'd think they'd know by now, wouldn't you? I know I think that. And I must have had a look that said that when I talked to my doctor last week, so he explained that things move around a bit.  And this technique is extremely accurate so they want to make sure they're targeting all the right stuff, and not hitting much surrounding tissue.  The research paper above shows some fascinating data and maybe I can be forgiven for stealing one of their graphics for illustration purposes.  A bit tough to see maybe, but it's a map of the radiation to the prostate (in the center) that encroaches on the rectum only minimally, as well as other surrounding tissue.  The usability part of me finds it incredible that in the screen above "right" is on the left side, and "left" is on the right side. Hello?  It's a computer program...

And there's more...

"I got da blues..."

Years ago, a close friend of mine recorded one of his sons saying "I got the blues". I have a .wav file somewhere of a little child's voice, sounding rather peppy, saying "I got da boos".  And today started out there for me, oddly enough.

I've thought before how difficult it is to separate what feelings and thoughts are mine, if you will, and what ones are due to some mix of fatigue, radiation and hormones. To tell the truth, I was having enough trouble discerning my thoughts and feelings anyway, nevermind having the extra help from the rest of this experience. For the most part I've been able to be positive and up-beat about the treatment, the course of direction, and where I believe this path is taking me.  But I just want to acknowledge here that it isn't all that way.  I'm aware of feeling weak, not just physically weak, but emotionally as well. And someone saying, "Snap out of it!" serves to hammer home just how far off track I've strayed. Or seemingly so.

It's an odd thing to observe yourself going off the deep end... slipping quietly (or not) into a state of feeling unreasonably sorry for oneself. And frankly, Scarlet, there's a hint of wanting to wallow in this for awhile.  But thankfully, not for too long.  Trouble is, some of my tried and true methods for getting out of the that state of mind are shut off to me to a degree. I used to get on the bike and hammer that feeling out by just getting physically exhausted.  Now, I can't sit on the bike seat for that long.  So it goes.

But that's not what I want to think about right now.  I want - and need - to think about the next step, learn about that step and get into the frame of mind I need to be in for that step to proceed positively.  I don't have time to waste energy on feeling sorry for myself.  And that's not a list of "shoulds"... it is what it is... where I need to be, and where I will be.

I just wanted to get these feelings out of my head and out in the open, where, as Pooh said, the thing that seemed so thingish inside of you looks so different. 

Answers from the doctor visit

A bit delayed on this post, mainly... check that... entirely due to a migraine that took me out and stomped all over me. But things are better now, and the relief from the pain is SO goooooooood.

So... I posed a few questions to my radiation oncologist when I saw him this week. Some of them were rather obvious, from his point of view, but they helped clear things up for me.  At any rate here are the questions,

1. Q. What tells us we've succeeded in this venture to knock out the cancer?
   A. PSA tests. Ideally, PSA should be at a zero level (0.something) but we don't start running other tests and scans until the PSA level bumps over 1 or 2.  There are too many false positives and in the past we did other tests and biopsies which didn't lead to anything.  So, we wait until it bumps over 1 or 2 and then we start looking.
2. Q. What follow-up routine will we set up?
   A. We'll set up a series of PSA tests every 6 months for the next 5 years, and we'll be giving you a stack of test forms for the lab with dates on them... so we'll have all that at the end of the treatment.
3. Q. About the hormone therapy, why does the Trelstar LA continue so far beyond where I'll be taking the bicalutamide?
   A. Essentially, continuing the Trelstar LA (an LH-RH agonist) keeps the pituitary gland trying to signal the testicles and adrenal glands to product testosterone. But because we've already depleted that hormone no testosterone production happens.  So, we want to keep testosterone production at zero for a year. After that, we let it run... and testosterone production may take as long as a year to start up again (if it starts... sometimes it doesn't).

Those were the main questions I had.  There are some more that came to mind... but those I'll put on the next page.

Questions for the doctor visit this week

In a discussion with family over the weekend I was asked a couple of interesting questions:

1. How will you know if the treatment has been successful when you get to the end?
2. And a corollary: What kind of follow-up is planned to monitor your status?
3. And then, a question I've been wondering about relative to the hormone therapy:  I stop taking the testosterone blocker (bicalutamide) in March (after 6 months on that), but the luteinizing hormone-releasing hormone (LH-RH) shots continue until late June. Why?
   

I have my own ideas about #3, based on the little research (and understanding) I have of the hormone interactions. But I want to see if I'm even close to being on target with those thoughts before writing about them. I hate to be wrong.  No, really.

As for the other two, I have an idea (hope?) that monitoring will be done by checking for any PSA count, which seems like the easiest way to tell if all the cancer is gone.  Because, if there is any PSA count 3 months after the last Trelstar injection it would indicate the presence of some prostate cancer somewhere... and hence the PSA count.  But I don't know for sure if that's the case.  And I guess I just rambled on about an answer to number 1 & 2... without knowing for sure.  So much for consistency!

So, I'll wind down on this post and go have a glass of wine (one) and think about how easy I have it in comparison to some others who are gracefully and lovingly dealing with issues so far beyond this one.

Sleep ..or not...

I'm tired, after a week of work (and two weeks before that of essentially sleeping at will...which I knew at the time was too good to be true) I am really tired. I want to think I'm just being a wimp, or getting old, or something like that. I really don't ... and I mean don't - want to say it has a thing to do with having cancer, or having 50 (or so) little radioactive rice bits in me.

But what else is there? I sure haven't been doing anything physical to make me feel this way. And to go along with the tiredness I have a sense of sadness and longing... a phrase that gets dangerously close to some lines from Longfellow's "The Day is Done". Check it out... lovely poem... and it describes the feeling almost exactly.  Is this just me being maudlin, or is it somehow related to the hormones that are doing their version of a four-wheel drift through my body?  No way for me to tell.  I want to joke about it, but really, in my current mood, this is no joke, it's not funny and I wonder why I'm on this path, where it's taking me, and if I will ever regain the illusion that I have a bit of control.  Arrgh!

Prostate brachytherapy and bicycling - first experiences

Because of my inability to find useful information about bicycling after having brachytherapy (seed implants) I thought my first two experiences might be worthwhile reporting on.  At least maybe for any cyclists... and who knows, there might be one or two who'd just like to know.

So, I got clearance from both of my doctors first, and neither office asked me what kind of cycling I do, (which might be an indicator, but is perfectly understandable).  For the record, I mostly do road riding (as opposed to off-road or mountain biking), and I tend to like to ride as hard as I can.  At my age that statement means I can still ride fairly fast, but there are a lot of people out there who are a heckuvalot faster.  I'm not complaining. 

I had made plans to go out with some friends for a friendly (aka leisurely) ride on the 2nd, so I wanted to make sure I could even sit on the seat without something outrageous happening.  I didn't want to get out with a crowd in public and start screaming in pain or something.  Accordingly, I went out for a short ride - as quick as I could make it - a 10-mile flat loop from home on New Year's eve.

Finding info

Last post for 2009!  Well, it's been a wild year, from start to finish... especially the finish. That's not to say it's been bad...just a different ride than I could imagine.  And it continues to be that way.

I was thinking about riding my bike because I'm not feeling so sore from the seed implants, but neither of my doctors had said anything specific about the subject (and I probably forgot to ask).  So the other day I started doing some searches on the topics of brachytherapy and bicycling, or seed implants and bicycling, and was having some difficulty finding relevant information.  Then I came across a pdf document that said something to the effect that I should stay away from motorcycle riding and bicycle riding for 4 to 6 months after having seed implants.  Short story: that info is incorrect.

It would have made me nuts... nevermind the people who live with me...to wait that long.  So I called both of my doctors. The urologist asked if I was having any bleeding still going on (no) and if not, they thought I could go ride. The radiation oncologist's office said, essentially, listen to your body...if it hurts, don't do it... but they didn't have any problem with me trying.  There's a catch with this last one, of course...

Post Christmas post (for lack of a better title)

In the past week or so I've been to the urologist for a post procedure chat, had some changes in the side-effect picture, and today had my 2nd (of 4, I think) Trelstar injections.

The chat with my urologist went well.  I was prepared for his usual doctor-macabre sense of humor, but there was none of that. Instead, he said the procedure had gone very well, there was no evidence of any infection (they take a urine sample almost every time you walk through the door) ...which was good, and if I hadn't asked a couple of questions, that would have been the end of it.  

I had some bleeding going on (from hemorroids) and asked if the FloMax I'm taking might be causing that... and he said it was more likely due to the ultrasound probe being in there for over an hour.  I said I thought the bleeding was getting less frequent, and he said that if it kept going that direction it was nothing to worry about.

Radioactive Man - 1 Week Down

Well, it's really a week plus a couple of days since I became Radioactive Man... and this will be a mercifully short post because there just isn't much to report.  OK...that's a lie.  There is a lot to report, but it's not all that interesting.

How am I doing on the 9th day since the implants?  Well, it's not bad, really. I'm doing most of the activities I was doing before (except bicycling... I haven't gotten back on the bike yet). I'm a bit fatigued, which has led to getting up later in the morning, and a tendency to feel nappy in the afternoon.  I noticed a bit of a melancholy mood the other day, which I immediately ascribed to the hormones ... but who knows, really?
And other than that, the frequency with which I visit the bathroom has increased considerably.  I've also noticed that some sitting postures are awkward, or uncomfortable, and that I'm better off standing, for the most part.

I suspect the sitting problems are due to the prostate getting swollen as a result of the seeds, or the procedure, or both and wonder when it will abate.  I also wonder, looking at the picture of all those little titanium bits in me, if riding a bicycle will ever be the same again.  I hope so, because I have a lot of places I still want to ride to!

That's it for now.  It's late... time to make another bathroom run and then to sleep!

Numbers

Reading over the list of effects after the brachytherapy (seed implants) I think the initial flurry of changes - more getting up at night, some pain associated with elimination, and some mild discomfort - are more likely due to the procedure and catheter than from the seeds.  Most of the discomfort is waning, or gone, which is fine with me.  I'm basically a wimp when it comes to pain.  However, according to some reports, it will come back.  Well, thank you, Voice of Doom.

That's kind of the way of this. Add to that the power of suggestion: a friend mentions that they thought of the seeds in me as "pins and needles" and half an hour later I could swear I feel little pin/needle pricks in a relevant area.  Gee... thanks!  So, anyone got one of those pain (placebo) pills?  I'll take it.

But that's not really what I wanted to talk about. 

The day after seed implants...

The Further Adventures of RadioActive Man Return with us now to the time of yesterday when the lights were turned off and I glowed in the dark... sorta

Man... it is hard to keep a straight face after a lead-in like that. But maybe I'm too close to the subject.   I'll try and relate the story, or what I can remember of it, because a great deal of it is just a blank.  Really.  Scary how blank it is, but that's a general anesthetic for ya. One minute you're chatting away, and the next... well... you're waking up somewhere else. So, for the next couple of weeks I'm told I can set off radiation detectors at the airport. But it won't last. Cesium, the radioactive part of the titanium seeds they implanted, has a 9.5 day half-life, so the amount of radiation is going to go down fairly soon.

We arrived at the hospital where the procedure was being done just before 10am and were directed to a bay in the surgical prep area and as soon as one of the nurses came over I was directed to undress and get in a hospital gown.  So.. I did that and got on the bed/gurney and the nurse came back and hooked me up to a warming device.  Turned out the gown had a kind of lining that they pumped warm air into.  Very nice.  I played with seeing how big I could make my chest and stuff... while Ginny cringed and (I'm making this up) said she was just a close friend. 

And then, surprise surprise surprise... they began asking me all the questions they'd asked the day before.  And talk about cumbersome user interfaces.  This one looked like it had been a direct port from some old mainframe panel-driven interface into a web-based form model. Anyway, we filled out the form and joked around with the nurse... and then we were visited by the OR nurse, and then the Anesthesiologist dropped by to chat for a few minutes.  Each of them confirmed that I knew my name and birthday (and that those matched who they thought they were going to work on).  They split and yet another nurse came to wheel me in to the OR.