Faith & whatnot

A little while ago I read a book my sister gave me - Moonlight Sonata at the Mayo Clinic by Nora Gallagher, who I know because she and my sister went to college together.  Nora's memoir details her path pursuing information about a mysterious medical condition she has. Her story provides brief glimpses into the spiritual side of her experience, which is what attracts me most. Don't get me wrong. The medical piece is not to be trifled with and her story is frustratingly similar to anyone who has crossed into the world of medical situations. 

Back to the spiritual experience.  The glimpses Nora provides of her spiritual experience call to me because of my failed attempts (here and elsewhere) to wrap words around a similar change in a specific, defined, spiritual practice. (Nora's was clear, I think. Mine, not so much.) Instead,  I continue to struggle to find words to describe the changes taking place in me.  I'd really rather take an easier way out, claim "there are no words for this" even if it's true that some things are too deep for words, and that's all there is to it. But if I can't use words to at least point to that thing and say that thing, or draw a circle around the topic and point to whatever somewhere around the middle and say there... that! ..then how do I share what seems so important to pass on?  

Sidebar: 

     On Wednesday evenings for the past 10 years or so Ginny and I have met with a small group of people to practice lectio divina, an ancient form of meditation. I need silence. Really. I need silence. This gathering is a simple method to get me to be silent because I don't have the discipline to do it on my own. This group practice has become my only church right now. And that is significant because traditional church had been a significant part of my life up until a few years ago.

End Sidebar

I'm aware that my spiritual and cancer experiences are woven together so tightly that I can no longer separate them. And this seems only right.  Without having cancer stop me in my tracks, I doubt that I would have (on my own) stopped long enough to notice that I needed to stop and notice. And without having some sensitivity to the spiritual side, I don't know if I would have noticed the changes that cancer brought to that. Or, rather, what the treatment protocols did to that.  Taking away testosterone for a year did things to my thinking and emotions and strength - everything - because, as many of my women friends laughingly told me, hormones affect everything.  

And now, back on the male side of the fence I think "So what? Is that even significant?" It is, obviously, or I wouldn't be writing about it. But like my mother's slow, agonizingly beautiful slide into death prompted questions about things I'd never questioned before, the testosterone depredation and return did the same thing.  And I'm still struggling to frame it with words. 

Nora's adept expression has put words around some similar questions. My hat's off to her.

Wither testosterone? Or, Who is that Masked Man?

I want to write about the disappearance of testosterone, and its return, before I become completely engulfed by the hormone and forget what being without it was like.

But let's go back a bit to when I was diagnosed and went to consult with the radiation oncologist, who explained the treatment protocol he recommended, and why. In the midst of that he said they were going to "chemically castrate" me by essentially removing testosterone from my body, and thereby wiping out my sex drive. I recall reacting to the word "castrate" as any man might...with fear, and the idea of removing my sex drive...well, that was flat scary too.  I also recall sensing something like gear-headed pride emanating from the doctor about his ability to do that.  And I let it pass without too much question.  I should have questioned this aspect thoroughly, had I known what questions to ask. I didn't and odds are if you know anyone going into this kind of therapy, they won't either.  But looking back I should have asked what that would do to my emotional life, to my concept of self, to my sense of spirit and also to my physical body.  I thought the hormone segment of the treatment was the least of my worries. But it has long-lasting effects and it's slow... both in the going and coming. You don't feel it slipping, and when you want it to come back, it's hard to sense that as well.

But oddly, the return of my testosterone levels into the normal range had the effect of making me look back and wonder at the way my mind changed. I had read the research papers on the cognitive effects of the treatment (androgen deprivation therapy), but they didn't touch on some pieces that were significant, perhaps because they are hard to measure. I'm talking about sex drive, emotions, physical strength, sense of spirit (small s and big S), and the interplay of all those in a sense of self.

A few weeks ago a friend asked me what it was like to lose your sex drive. And I replied that it slips away silently and you almost don't notice it being gone. (Of course, in the midst of treatments your thoughts are more about just getting through them than they are about having sex, but having said that it just seems odd that part of you can just go... like that! ... and it's just not important.) Anyway, he seemed shocked, but wanted to know more and I tried to explain some more, like this:

OK, so you lose your sex drive, and don't really miss it as much as you think you will. And then you begin to realize you're more emotional than ever. And weirdly, you have names for these emotions, some of which you vaguely recognize as things you've felt before, but couldn't name. And you're out of energy and don't have the ability to think of anything complex anymore, and your muscles seem to be almost falling off because they're disappearing. And then, after the treatment ends, you might be stuck there, because it's a crap-shoot as to whether your body will start making testosterone again (and the doctors are not going to give you any because, you silly goof, you had prostate cancer which feeds on testosterone).  And so, in my case I'm back on the boy's side of the testosterone fence (after having less than most women) and now, here's my sex drive back, and I find myself oddly missing the time, not so long ago, when I didn't have this silly distraction.  Really.  I spend too much time... really, I waste time... thinking about sex (which is probably saying too much, but oh well).  Sex is a good thing, but it would be great to be able to turn the drive off...at will... because I think I could get a lot more done without it.  And I kind of miss the connection with my emotions that I had six months ago.

I was laughing at the end of that.  He wasn't. You should have seen the look of fear on his face.  Frozen fear.  But it's OK, really.  And the little rant I had there was good for me.  It showed me that there are many levels to being human, and physical, and there are times when I am not myself because of, essentially, chemicals.  Who is the person I was when I had testosterone levels of less than 20?  And, who am I now?  Ah... I think these questions are pretty silly, really, but it makes me wonder about the "me" I call me.  And it makes me wonder about how my spiritual experience is tied to the chemicals in my body that I have no control over.