Post 6: First Day Nerves
I wake at 5:23 a.m. with My Darling’s worried little hand reaching over to my forehead, checking I’m still there—still alive.
Immediately, I become aware of my whole body and, lying beside her, I silently check if I’m okay myself.
My mid-spine, where the worst lesion is, feels fine. No pain. Same with the pelvis.
It’s no surprise, I suppose, as I’ve never felt any pain around the offending bone, nor have I had any symptoms that would’ve made me go to the doctor with any real concerns.
I know it’s common for things to be like this, but I can’t help feeling people around me think I’m being economical with the truth. My Darling, the nurses, the doctors—I bet they all wonder the most; am I lying?
This might be a good time to explain how I ended up here, lying in bed with silent, invisible metastatic prostate cancer.
I’ll try to be brief and stay on topic… but that’s probably not going to happen. 
Bear with…
My dear mum—who I’d been the main carer for over the previous five or six years since my stepdad passed away, (leaving her both financially and personally in the mire 125 miles away)—died peacefully in My Darling’s and my tired, sad hands, in a wonderful local care home.
The cremation and funeral were perfect, and we’d arranged a reception within walking distance for afterwards.
I wasn’t driving home, so I was bought medicinal and therapeutic ales to help me through the day.
Obviously, after many chats and many beers, the time came to unpack my overfilled bladder, so I headed for the gents.
This very modern loo was in the middle of the building and had no windows but automatic lights—which I approved of.
I was doing my thing, staring at the wall, on my own, thinking that with only family and a few good friends remaining, the main work of the day was satisfactorily over.
But before I’d finished, the lights went out. Oh!
I did a sort of confused Dad-dance waving-thing to get the blooming lights back on.
After cursing the automatic timer settings, I went on my way and thought nothing more of it.
A few drinks and coffees later, as the last guests disappeared, I popped back to the lovely water closet—and sure enough, while in-action the light went out again. Bugger. I really needed a word with the blooming electrician.
I relayed what happen to me to a few lads, but no one else had the same issue. Was I just unlucky?
Two days later, with My Darling at work, I had a nagging feeling about my waterworks.
After arguing with myself about whether I’d be daft to mention anything to a medic, I decided maybe the light timings weren’t to blame after all.
I grabbed my phone and—since it was a Sunday—opted for the lesser of all weevils and tried the much-maligned NHS 111 online service for the first time.
After a surprisingly long 15-minute Q&A, I was processed. Great! Now I could forget all about those blooming lights.
But the next morning, the GP practice rang.
After the usual security stuff, they told me I needed a blood test on Thursday.
“Why?” I asked.
“You filled out an online form,” she said. “Now you need a blood test.”
Ok. Whatever.
So the NHS111 is not broken after all.
I had that simple blood test—and my PSA came back as 90.
I was immediately referred to urology.
The rest, as they say, is history.
I could say Mum was looking down on me and looking out for me…
But I’d rather tell her she had no right to pass her cancer battles down to me. Bloody cheek!
(Mum had three cancers, and even though she never smoked, lung cancer got her. The throat cancer was the worst—over 30 rounds of radiotherapy wearing a head mask. That was hard on her)
I’m still in bed. My Darling is muttering in her sleep beside me—probably working out what we’ll have for breakfast.
She’s always thinking or talking about food—even in her sleep, apparently.
I keep checking and rechecking my vitals in my mind. Is that normal?
I suppose it’s because we’re told by all the medical staff to speak up if any symptoms change. I guess I’ll settle down as time and tricycles progress.
I feel like I’m on a new bus now—the Tri-Cycle Loop route.
And I’m not getting off.
My Darling wants me to hold her hand for as long as practically possible, so hopping off isn’t an option anymore.
Yesterday’s PSA of 133.10 was sort of expected, but considering it was just 16.22 six weeks ago—it’s shaken my world.
I’ve always distanced myself from being “a patient,” rarely told people about the PC, and since I’ve still got my (receding) hair and don’t look ill, I’ve been lucky.
But now, I’m officially in a “cautious, obedient patient” mode. Boo hoo.
Lastly—yes, at last, you’re probably thinking—if anyone’s still awake reading this ramble, I should just say:
You being there really helps.
I’m not after ego polish. I’m not trying to be clever or funny.
It’s just me, warts and all.
Thanks for your distant, but valued support.
My Darling drove home yesterday—no tears, no worries to speak of, just life to continue with.
She went shopping, I cut up a melon, we had a lovely dinner of homemade wedges, beans and snorkers, and cuddled up on the sofa watching telly for the night.
Job done. For now.
I’m on the Loop.
I’m not hopping off.
I’m happy to stay on route—for now
