Early in 2004, when I was 58, I went to see my GP about my twice nightly visits to the toilet. I knew that it is a common occurrence amongst men of my age and expected to be referred for ‘a simple procedure’ to the prostate gland to fix the problem. First, as a routine, I was asked to have a blood test. A few weeks later, I happened to be at my local surgery seeing the nurse for something trivial so mentioned I hadn’t had the result of the blood test. “No problem”, she said, “let’s look at your computer record”. As she looked at it she said everything seemed ok, blood sugar was normal, cholesterol was low...psa was a bit high, nothing else of note. She said that the psa reading was 4.1, whereas the normal reading is between 3.5 and 4. “What’s psa?” I asked. “Oh, that means prostate specific antigen. It’s a test to see if you might have cancer.” That was the first time anyone had uttered the ‘Big C’ word to me.
After a swift meeting with my GP, I was referred to a consultant at my local hospital. An internal examination confirmed that there was a growth. My first reaction was to tell my twin brother that I had been diagnosed with possible prostate cancer, and told him to follow up with his doctor. Further blood tests over the next 3 months showed the psa rising to 4.2. I was sent for a biopsy, which confirmed the diagnosis. The cancer was 4+3=7 on the Gleason scale, medium risk, although the growth was extremely close to the prostate wall. I had to choose between surgery and radiotherapy.
The surgeon was confident and wore a shirt and tie, like me, so inspired confidence. He was direct. Surgery would involve virtually total removal of the prostate and a vasectomy; ejaculation would be a thing of the past and erections extremely problematic, although “there were options for help in that area”. A week after seeing the surgeon, I met a senior radiologist, who was introduced to me as ‘Professor’. Later, I learned he was thought of as a ‘god’ in his field. However, he had an enormous beard and wore a white, laboratory coat which rather put me off and made my decision a lot easier.
My operation was set for February 7, 2005. I was to go in the night before and a pre-admittance medical was required to ensure that I was fit enough to withstand the operation. This included an ECG, which I knew would show that my heart was strong, as it always had been. The young, lady doctor (she looked young to me!) reviewed the printout. Then her brow furrowed and she put one hand each side of her head, like blinkers, to help her concentrate. “Hmm”, she said, “excuse me one moment” and went across to the nurse to discuss the printout. After some moments, the nurse, who was sharing the doctor’s concern, brightened. “Oh, that’s the wrong one. This Mr Dean’s printout”! At that moment, my pulse rate was significantly above normal.
On admittance the evening before the operation, I was given a bed in a pre-op ward, and soup and a sandwich. Before I settled down for the night, I was given a large dose of laxative. Next morning, I was given no breakfast but a further swig of laxative. By the time they came for me at 2.00 pm, the laxatives had done their work. About two hours later, I slowly came round in post-op to find my wife, May, sitting next to the trolley, waiting to speak to me.
