March 17 '01
Volume 250
Prostate
Biopsy Cold Facts Cold Feet
There is a history of prostate
cancer in my family, at least that's what my urologist cited, about
a month ago, as one of the reasons to biopsy my prostate. I wouldn't consider
it so much "history" as I would an occurrence, but maybe I'm getting into
semantics. However, physicians consider even one incidence of a disease in
one's family as "history."
Males are the only ones afflicted with cancer of the prostate gland. Females
have enough troublesome parts already, so God didn’t give them prostates
to add to their worries. Women get to fret over the possibility of breast
cancer, ovarian cancer, uterine cancer, colon cancer, or other cancer, but
not prostate cancer. The scales of cancer seem to be loaded up on the side
of females, which is one more reason I'm still glad I was born that other
gender.
About a year and a half ago, I had my fourth kidney stone. It was a stubborn
one that would not flush through my system. Instead, surgery was needed to
remove it. Never mind the fact that it was outpatient surgery, it was surgery,
and only the second time in my life I had to be put to sleep for an operation.
Well, I'm not counting the bone grafts to supplant the bone-loss due to a
periodontal disease, because I remained in a semiconscious state.
Two general practitioners had tried in vain to relieve me of my kidney stone.
Finally, my Pontotoc doctor referred me to a urologist in Tupelo. Little
did I know at the time (but would soon discover) that urologists practice
their work with the same diligence as their medical cousins, those dreaded
doctors known professionally as proctologists. From that experience and
subsequent follow-up visits to the urologist, I have concluded that the only
males who would find anything remotely pleasant connected with an examination
by either a proctologist or urologist would be those limp-wristed individuals
whom society labels as homosexual.
My "women friends" scoff at my aversion to such examinations, claiming, "Now,
you know how we feel with all that probing of all the orifices of our bodies
by doctors."
Actually, I don't know how they "feel," but from a violation/ invasion/
humiliation point of view, I can at least identify with their emotional distress.
Urologists have a number of options, when it comes to examining a male for
the possibility of prostate cancer, one of which is called, "a digital exam."
It involves the doctor inserting a digit (finger) into a patient's rectum
in order to feel for abnormalities of the prostate. I'm not so certain that
urologists use "digit" in the singular sense and have questioned, "Why the
latex glove?" if a digital exam refers to only one finger.
It was during my first visit to the urologist that he told me one side of
my prostate was larger than the other and that a section of my prostate felt
firm. He was concerned that the firmness might be indicative of cancer, but
did not recommend a biopsy unless the results of the blood work merited further
testing.
Urologists use a blood test to help in diagnosing prostate cancer. It seems
the prostate gland produces a particular antigen that has been identified
as Prostate-Specific Antigen or PSA, to use the medical acronym. My
PSA level was not elevated (How's that for sounding like a doctor?), but
my urologist said it was borderline.
Normally, urologists are content with seeing their patients once a year,
unless there is a reason to do otherwise. In my case, there were three reasons:
-
A region of the prostate felt hard.
-
A borderline PSA level.
-
A family history of prostate cancer.
Therefore, my visits were scheduled somewhat more frequent. I try to dismiss
the possibility that doctors sometimes perform unnecessary tests, simply
because the patient has good insurance, though such things do happen. I prefer
to think the physicians who "doctor" on me have my best interest at heart,
and if I happen to have a particular type of cancer, I figure the sooner
it can be treated the better my chances become of me outliving my wife.
After watching my PSA level remain about the same for a year and a half,
my urologist recommended a biopsy. I was not overly concerned with my situation,
but for his peace of mind as well as mine, I agreed to his suggestion and
the date of February 27, was selected for the procedure to be performed in
the doctor's office. I'll spare readers the details of the procedure, partly
because of the unpleasantness of the subject, and partly because, I'd just
as soon forget the whole ordeal (no pun).
Yet, I will share how the nurse asked me to strip from the waist down, wrap
myself in a paper sheet, and lie face up on the examination table, and how
I later wished I had kept on my socks and shoes. By the time the doctor came
into the room, my feet were like ice. There were other parts like ice, too,
but my feet were the most uncomfortable of said parts. Once, during the wait,
I sat up, Indian style, gathered as much of the sheet as I dared around my
feet, and held my toes in my hands. The idea was to warm my feet, but instead,
my hands got cold.
As I prepared to leave the office of the urologist, the doctor shared his
initial findings. My prostate was enlarged (roughly twice the normal size),
and the ultrasound revealed a high concentration of calcification, but he
saw nothing on the ultrasound printout that looked suspicious. He further
shared that I could expect to see blood in both my urine and my stools for
a few days and advised me to drink plenty of water for the next day or so.
I forgot to ask about the ride back to Greenville but assumed since he did
not mention bed rest that I would be okay. However, before our car had wound
its way down to the ground floor of the parking garage at North Mississippi
Medical Center, I had felt every crack in the concrete ramps. I could have
counted every bump on the road from the hospital to my house in Pontotoc,
because I felt all of them too.
By the time we arrived at our Pontotoc home, I was in no shape to think about
leaving for Greenville any time soon. Fortunately, after lying on the bed
for an hour or so, the swelling sensation subsided, and I announced my readiness
to leave for the Delta shortly after 4:00 p.m.
Prior to the biopsy, I had resolved not to worry about the possibility of
my having cancer. Believing there was nothing to be gained from worrying
unnecessarily, I reasoned that if the results of the biopsy proved the existence
of cancer, then there would be plenty of time for worrying and planning the
best course of action.
Six days later, the lab results were given to the urologist who phoned me
to say everything was fine and no cancer cells were found in any of the tissue
samples. He seemed to be relieved but still asked to see me every six months
for the next year to make sure my PSA level doesn't get out of hand.
For me, the most positive outcome of the whole episode was to hear a doctor
tell me that a part of me was twice as big as normal. So, what if it was
my prostate; I'll take it.
Spring Erupts
Bradford Pear Appreciation
It's been more than six weeks since Poxotomney Phil saw his shadow and ran
back in his groundhog burrow. Winter is rapidly loosing its grip, here in
the Deep South. Almost a month ago, I was in Hattiesburg on February
22nd, and the colors of spring were everywhere. Redbud trees were
blooming, and the white blooms of Bradford pears heralded spring at my every
turn.
I had driven through Yazoo City, MS, on my way to Hattiesburg and noticed
the magnificence of the Bradford pears that line one of the main thoroughfares
and thought I must be still asleep, for I had not seen any signs of spring
in Greenville. Neither had I noticed whether or not the Bradford pears that
border the entrance to Supervalu in Indianola were about to bloom.
In the weeks since, spring has crept gently into the Mississippi Delta, and
I'm happy to report that Pontotoc shows similar signs. For New Englanders,
the groundhog event is a predictor of spring. For Southerners, the arrival
of "Robin Redbreast" is a sure sign. Bradford pear blooms may be less accurate
over the long haul, but they provide strong clues that spring is near.
The first weekend of March was a wet one in the northern part of our fair
state, but it did not keep me from admiring the infant blooms of the Bradford
pears scattered around Dogwood Circle and especially the one in front of
our guesthouse. The second weekend of March was sunshiny and beautiful, though
the air had enough of a chill to make a windbreaker feel good. My pear tree,
shown at right, was resplendent and in full bloom. However, the brown grass
beneath the tree and the leafless oak tree in the backyard serve as reminders
that winter has not completely loosed its grip on the plant kingdom.
If there is an advantage in having to travel the length and breadth of
Mississippi, surely it is found in observing the extended beginnings and
endings of the various seasons. Spring arrives earlier in the southern portions
of the state, so we who reside in the northern ranges and are privileged
with travel opportunities can enjoy longer seasons than those not so amply
blessed with travel privileges.
I don't know those persons who helped popularize the Bradford pear as an
ornamental or decorative addition to lawns and roadsides, but I thank them
for their service. The fruit of the tree is inedible, as far as I know. If
it were edible, one would have to collect every pea-sized pear on a typical
tree to make a quart of preserves.
Bradford pear trees are "shade trees." They are not only beautiful in the
springtime, but they produce colorful "shades" of red in autumn. In the summer
months their abundance of leaves produces a refreshing "shade" from the sun,
and their immature leaves in spring are a stunning "shade" of lime green.
I didn't realize just how popular the ornamental pear had become in my
neighborhood, until last weekend when I counted those planted in the lawns
bordering Dogwood Circle. From dead center of the big meadow inside the circle,
no fewer than thirty Bradford pear trees are visible. It's easy to understand
why residents of the subdivision appreciate their surroundings, and when
you toss in the dogwoods that will soon be blooming you get an even better
picture of that which they have to appreciate.
After The
Storm Banked Boat Battered
Pontotoc citizens continue to make progress in their efforts to pickup the
pieces of their fractured lives and possessions in the aftermath of the deadly
tornado that ripped through on February 24th. Clean up along
10th street is in full swing. The hilltop, now without houses
and trees, affords passersby a spectacular view of Nature's wrath.
I reported earlier that my family and our possessions were safe and sound,
but that was before Joel Hale told my sister that I needed to check on my
boat insurance. For the past several years, my fourteen-foot aluminum boat
has kept a patch of grass from growing on the levee of Joel's pond. I had
heard that Joel's house received some damage caused by falling trees during
the storm, but I had not even thought about my boat, moored nearby.
Sarah and Joel are choir members, thus Joel passed her a verbal note to share
with me. Joel told her there was a tree lying across the boat, but he didn't
believe the damage was serious. I've not yet seen the damage, so my assessment
will have to wait for the weekend, when I plan to check on the boat.
Bodock Beau It's
Irish
In honor of St. Patrick's Day, readers are bidden to enjoy the following
submissions by Ken Gaillard and Larry Young.
Irish Prayer
Murphy was staggering home with a pint of booze in his back pocket when he
slipped and fell heavily. Struggling to his feet, he felt something wet running
down his leg. "Please Lord", he implored, "let it be blood!!"
Irish Shopping
McQuillan walked into a bar and ordered martini after martini, each time
removing the olives and placing them in a jar. When the jar was filled with
olives and all the drinks consumed, the Irishman stood to
leave.
"S'cuse me", said a customer, who was puzzled over McQuillan’s actions,
"what was that all about?"
"Nothin', said the Irishman, "my wife just sent me out for a jar of
olives!"
You've Been Out Drinking Again
An Irishman had been drinking at a pub all night. The bartender finally said
that the bar is closing. As the Irishman stood up to leave, he fell flat
on his face. He tried to stand one more time with the same result. He figured
he'd crawl outside and get some fresh air and maybe that would sober him
up.
Once outside, he stood up and fell on his face again. So he decided to crawl
the four blocks home. When he arrived at the door he stood up and fell flat
on his face. He crawled through the door and into his bedroom. When he reached
his bed, he tried one more time to stand up. This time he managed to pull
himself upright, but he quickly fell right into the bed and was sound asleep
as soon as his head hit the pillow.
He was awakened the next morning by his wife standing over him, shouting,
"So You've Been Drinking Again!"
Putting on an innocent look, and intent on bluffing it out he said, "What
makes you say that?"
"The pub just called; you left your wheelchair there
again."
I've Lost Me Luggage
An Irishman arrived at J.F.K. Airport and wandered around the terminal with
tears streaming down his cheeks. An airline employee asked him if he was
already homesick.
"No," replied the Irishman. "I've lost all me
luggage!"
"How'd that happen?"
"The cork fell out!" said the Irishman.
Water to Wine
An Irish priest is driving down to New York and gets stopped for speeding
in Connecticut. The state trooper smells alcohol on the priest's breath and
then sees an empty wine bottle on the floor of the
car.
He says, "Sir, have you been drinking?" "Just water," says the
priest.
The trooper says, "Then why do I smell wine?"
The priest looks at the bottle and says, "Good Lord! He's done it again!"
The Brothel
Two Irishmen were sitting in a pub having beer and watching the brothel across
the street.
They saw a Baptist minister walk into the brothel, and one of them said,
"Aye, 'tis a shame to see a man of the cloth goin'
bad."
Then they saw a rabbi enter the brothel, and the other Irishman said, "Aye,
'tis a shame to see that the Jews are fallin' victim to
temptation."
Then they saw a catholic priest enter the brothel, and one of the Irishmen
said, "What a terrible pity... one of the girls must be quite
ill."
Irish Blessing
May the roads rise to meet you,
May the winds be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields,
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.
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