I like my penis. He’s provided a lot of joy during my life, taken me on many adventures, provided me with a daughter and, last I checked, not too many complaints from the ladies. But in early 2021, it seemed my little buddy and I were on the verge of an unexpected and very much unwanted breakup.
“Lie down here on your side,” the nurse said, prepping me so the doctor performing the biopsy could stick a sonograph up my ass.
“I’m going to pretend I’ve been abducted by aliens,” I said, sliding onto the table.
“Whatever gets you through it,” she replied. When the procedure commenced the pain wasn’t bad but, as the doc cored out samples out my prostate gland, it sounded like a staple gun going off. “Almost there,” he said. “Just a couple more.”
“Do your worst,” I said. “I’ll never give up the location of the rebel base.” The doctor didn’t laugh, probably because he’d heard it all from hundreds of shit scared men before. When we were done, he said it’d be a week until I got the results and, bleeding out my butt and told I’d be ejaculating crimson for a while, I went home, shell shocked. When the phone call finally came, it was bad news – prostate cancer, Gleason Scale 7.
“Am I going to die?” I said, grasping my office phone tightly.
“Oh no,” the doc said. “Eleven of the samples were clear and there was only 10% cancer in the last one. We caught it early.” Then he gave me the phone number for a specialist and told me to make an appointment. For a man who just learned he had cancer I was fairly calm, so I went home, told my wife, and did what everyone in my family does when they get bad news – head for the nearest restaurant.
A couple of weeks later, I was ushered into one of the specialist’s exam rooms and, sitting on a parchment papered table inhaling the scent of Lysol, looked at all the diagrams of the human reproductive system on the wall. The prostate, which produces semen, was a walnut shaped gland snug hard against the bladder. Lots of tight tolerances down there. Then the specialist stuck his head inside the door and said, “Come with me. We’ll talk in my office.” Right then I knew I was screwed. The only time you see patients talking in a doctor’s office is in cheery pharmaceutical commercials.
Sitting in a leather chair, I examined the doctor’s diplomas and certifications hanging on the wall and could tell from his demeanor he was well practiced lowering the boom on patients. “I think your cancer was caught early,” he said and then launched into all the ways we could treat it. “But you’re a still a young man,” he said, “And the best chance for your survival is to get a radical prostatectomy,” which basically meant cutting out my prostate and all the plumbing associated with it, adding, “It’s the best bang for your buck.” But when he started discussing the possible side effects of the procedure, that’s when the fun began.
No one wants to get cancer, but prostate cancer is a double-whammy. Not only are some malignant cells in your body gaming to kill you, but the prostatectomy the doc was suggesting carried the risk of life-long impotence, possible urinary and fecal incontinence, playing havoc on your relationships, nixing any chance of having more kids, and fucking with your head in a big way.
“If I can save the nerves governing sexual function,” he said somberly, “I will. But my job is to save your life and, if I have to, I’ll take them out. All it takes is for one cell to be left behind. One cell.”
Still sensate at this point, I asked what treatments were available if my little buddy was rendered nonfunctional but, when the doc started regaling me with talk of penis pumps, vacuum tubes, and implants, my soul left my body. Suddenly floating above the room and looking down, I could see myself listening to the doctor, but his voice sounded underwater and far away. Seeing I’d mentally checked out the doc called my wife who, because of COVID precautions, couldn’t come with me.
Snapping out of my dissociative estate, I listened to the doc and my wife talking as the room spun at 1000 RPM and shut my eyes. Then the ruthless part of my brain, that cold blooded shadow who’s always been inside me, began to talk. “You have a seven year old girl and a wife who need you. Don’t be a whiny bitch. Do what must be done. Do not hesitate. Show no mercy.” Agreeing to the procedure, I walked out of the office with a bunch of pamphlets, an admonishment to get a second opinion, a script for a bone scan, and went home. I don’t even remember the drive back. That was, hands down, one of the toughest days of my life.
Waking up in the recovery room a few months later, ironically on the morning of my eighth wedding anniversary, I didn’t hear the doc saying the surgery was successful, that the cancer had been encapsulated and contained to one side of the prostate, all the nerves involved with erections and continence had been spared, and that my prognosis was very good. All I remember was my wife’s presence and nothing else. When I came to a bit later, I knew who I was, where I was, what had happened and, floating in an opiate haze, didn’t much care. “You made the right decision,” my shadow whispered.
“Fuckin’ A right I did,” I replied.
“Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Thanks Darth Steve.”
Discharged and home the next day with a catheter hanging out of my weenie, I refused take my pain meds in a misguided macho attempt to gut it out with Tylenol and turned into a raving miserable bastard. Luckily, my wife planned for this and stashed my daughter at a friend’s house, ensuring Natalie didn’t have to hear me moan, groan and yell for my wife to empty my urine collection bag which, when it backed up, sent backpressure into my kidneys. Two days later and finally strong enough to get out of bed, I strapped a collection bag to my inner thigh and started taking my doctor prescribed walks around the block. Because my right thigh had gone temporarily numb, however, I needed to use a cane so I wouldn’t tip over. When one of my neighbors saw me, he said, “What happened to you?”
I didn’t tell many people I had prostate cancer but, in that moment – exhausted, scared, and needing words of support – my filter slipped and I told my neighbor what had happened. “What?” he exclaimed. “I don’t want to hear about that kind of stuff!” and then scurried back into his house. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Prostate cancer, while very common, is very threatening to us men because it strikes at the core of who we think we are, but that didn’t stop me from thinking “Thanks motherfucker.” After that, I kept my own counsel, which was very isolating. There are all sorts of support groups for other cancers but what color was my ribbon? Was there even one? Sadly, because this stuff is about sex, conceptions of manhood, and your private parts, most men suffer in silence – which is bad.
Now we’re gonna talk about my dick. Buckle up folks.
To say my penis was out of commission would be an understatement, like it had said, “Fuck this” and retreated back into my body to hide. One time I couldn’t even see it was there, only a catheter coming out of where it used to be. When the cath came out eleven days later, my little buddy eventually peeked out to take a look around, but felt like a cold, flaccid noodle. “You have to give it time,” the surgeon said. “The nerves are fine but it’s like they’ve been hit with a baseball bat. They’ll take a long time to recover.” How long? The best answer I got was about a year. To help keep the blood flowing into my defunct unit, I was put on a daily 5mg dose of Cialis and told when my urethra – which had been bisected to remove the prostate – had healed, I could lightly play with it. Not content with my aftercare instructions, I launched into an ad hoc penile rehabilitation program for which I’m going to file a patent.
“What are you looking at?” my wife asked me one morning as I sat with my computer in my lap.
“Porn,” I said, matter-of-factly.
“What?”
“Some naked chicks in high heels dancing around a pool.”
Laughing, my wife said. “Is anything happening?” Since the surgery, my little buddy hadn’t evinced signs of life and, despite the pixelated vixens writhing sensuously on the screen before me, that day was no different. But I had plan.
“Nothing’s stirring,” I said. “But my brain’s stimulated and, even though nothing’s happening down there, I’m hoping the nerves pathways are still getting a workout.”
“Kind of like physical therapy,” my wife said.
Smiling, I replied, “Build it and they will cum.”
“What would the nuns say to that?”
“I think if I went into the confessional with a note from my doctor I’d get a free pass.”
After a couple of weeks of this, my doctor gave me the all clear to start lightly resuming sexual activity via masturbation. “You can still have an orgasm even if you don’t get hard,” he said, “But don’t beat up on it.” So, when I had the house to myself for a spell, I gave it a go and achieved a kind of liftoff. Since I could no longer produce semen, the orgasm was “dry”, but it was like no other climax I’d ever felt – weird and kind of disappointing. “If it was like a sound,” I told my wife, later. “It’d be like a kitten sneezing.” But, despite the letdown, I was reassured by the fact that the nerves were still firing. Then the next day I woke up with half a chub. When I told my doctor he said, “So soon after surgery? That’s wonderful news. You’re going to be okay.”
At this point, I want to clear something up – you can’t enjoy sex if you’re dead. My primary focus in getting a prostatectomy was to ensure Natalie would grow up with a father and prevent my wife from becoming a widow. As far as the sex stuff went, my wife said, “We’ll deal with it.” Thank God she believes in all that “better and for worse” jazz but let’s be real – the threat of not being able to sexually function as a normal man again is very upsetting stuff. Sometimes, focused on helping you survive, doctors give fact short shrift to that fact. But what happens to your little buddy is also important and, no matter the outcome, dealing with that psychological reality is part of the recovery too. After a few months however, despite my surgeon’s confidence and my consuming more porn than is healthy, I was still not achieving my former glorious turgidity.
“What were the quality of your erections before the surgery?” my urologist asked during a follow up visit. “On a scale of one to ten?”
I knew why he was asking the question because I’d read the pamphlets. If you’re having good erections prior to surgery, the odds are good you’ll have a better recovery. Flagging as often happens in middle aged men? Not as good. “I’d say I was about a ten,” I replied.
“A ten?” the doc said, looking like he didn’t believe me.
“Oh no,” my wife chimed in, kind of wistfully. “He’s not exaggerating,” That’s right baby – like a hammer to a nail.
“Then I think we need to jumpstart things,” the urologist said. “I want you to start injecting Trimix into your penis.”
“What?” I gulped.
“It’s like Viagra,” the doc said. “But on steroids. I’ll teach you how to inject it directly into your corpus canoverssum.” So, a few days later, I found myself in the urologist’s office with my pants down, one hand holding my wang, the other holding a needle, and my wife waiting breathlessly – or so I like to think – at home. “I can’t do this,” I said.
“Don’t be a baby,” the urologist said. “Stretch it out, hold it against your thigh and inject directly into the side.”
“Uh….”
Taking matter into his own hands, the doc grasped my penis, pulled it tautly to the side of my left thigh and said, “Do it now.” And I did.
“Okay,” the doc said. “It’ll start working soon. Go home and have fun.” Shuffling out of the exam room, I could feel my penis starting to stiffen as I walked past the receptionist. Did I mention I was wearing grey sweatpants? Oh yeah…
“How it’d go sweetie?” the receptionist asked.
“My penis hates this place,” I said.
Laughing she said. “I’m going to print that one up and post it on the break room fridge.”
What happened afterwards, I will admit, was not my finest performance, nor was the time after that. Frustrating? In extremis. But who could blame me? Just picture yourself plunging a needle into your dick while crying on the toilet as your love awaits in the boudoir for some fun time. Romantic it is not, but the doc was right, the Trimix did jumpstart things. Eventually the needles went bye-bye and became a story to make my guy friends double over and things started to return to normal – but it was a new normal.
“You’ll always need some pharmaceutical assistance,” my urologist said, writing me scripts for ED drugs. “Just the way it is. Use the Cialis when you think it might happen and Viagra when you know it’s gonna happen.” But when I went to fill the scripts, I got the shock of my life.
“That’ll be $758.25.” the pharmacist said.
“I like my wife,” I said. “But I don’t like her that much.”
“Cash or charge?”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Later, on the horn with my evil insurance company, I was told ED medications were “lifestyle drugs” and not covered under my plan. “But I had prostate cancer,” I said. “I didn’t choose this. This isn’t a lifestyle choice.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the rep said.
“So,” I said. “I have to be rich to enjoy sex now?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’re not sorry!” I said, picturing the rep being flayed alive by grotesque serpents in whatever circle of hell insurance people are damned to. “You’re not sorry at all!” That was a bad day. “What the hell?” a friend of mine said after I related the story of my erectile penury to him. “Just use Good RX.”
“That’ll be $28.95,” the pharmacist said the next day.
“How the hell can it be $758.25 yesterday and $28.95 today?” I almost yelled. “And why didn’t you tell me about Good RX? Or my doctor?” The pharmacist just shrugged.
“Just don’t use both these pills at the same time,” he said.
“No shit, buddy.”
The lesson here men, if you’re ever in my situation – or just want a better hard on – use Good RX for all your putting lead in your pencil needs. See? Reading this blog does offer some benefits. Now, sometimes I need those drugs and sometimes don’t, but I’m not going broke buying them. And the doc was right; it took about a year before things were back to full schwing.
Some men are not as lucky as I am. When I went for my pathology report a couple of months after my prostatectomy, the surgeon said, “I operated on three men that day and you’re the only one who’s going to make it. There’s a 90% chance this will never bother you again. The hell you went though was worth it.” Despite feeling relieved, I found the doc’s words sobering. It could’ve easily gone the other way and, when you consider I’ve now been cancer free for four years and can still do the horizontal mambo, I had what’s called a perfect surgical outcome. Lucky indeed.
It haven’t written about my experience so far because it took me a long time to wrap my head around it. But I didn’t share this story to give anyone advice. Every man’s prostate cancer journey is different. What I did may or may not be what you should do. Nor do I have any profound wisdom to share. The experience didn’t promote any deep spiritual insights or make me a better person. If anything, it made me less patient putting up with people’s penny-ante bullshit. I still am, as my wife will attest, the same asshole I was before. But thanks to faithfully getting an annual digital probe and PSA test, really good doctors, a devoted and very patient wife, supportive family, friends, coworkers, and just plain luck, I came out the other side – different to be sure – but still very much alive.
“Right now,” a doctor told me when I was at my worst, “You think everything’s changing and not for the better. But when the dust settles in a year or two you’ll adjust, this will all be in your rearview mirror, and your life will go on.” And he was right. So, if any of you guys find yourselves in the same boat I was, find a support group of men who’ve been through it or just drop me a line. You don’t have to go through it alone.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a patent to file. Hello, Porn Hub? Have I got a marketing opportunity for you.