A Manual for Wives that need to deal with their partner's prostate cancer side effects

PART ONE:

The Wife’s Handbook to Understand and Deal with Her Partner’s Prostate Cancer Treatment Side Effects
An irreverent survival guide to the hormonal hurricane formerly known as your husband

Foreword
So, your husband has prostate cancer. And while I wouldn’t normally say “congratulations,” I will say, welcome to the show. Not because cancer is a gift (it’s not), but because you’re about to witness a spectacle so hormonally charged and medically surreal, it really should come with a trigger warning and a two-drink minimum.

This isn’t just illness; it’s performance art. Picture a nature documentary, except the alpha male lion has been chemically neutered, can’t find his testicles, and now weeps uncontrollably during commercials featuring abandoned puppies and soft cheese.

Welcome to Androgen Deprivation Theatre. You didn’t buy a ticket, but the universe reserved you a front-row seat. Popcorn optional. Hazmat suit recommended. Your husband is about to transform into a tender, irritable, damp emotional pastry with a smell that says, “I’ve stopped trying.”

You don’t get off easy either. Radiation may be aimed at his pelvis, but the fallout is household-wide.

You, dear wife, may soon experience:

• Chronic Symptom Interpretation Fatigue, brought on by deciphering statements like “my anus feels electric, but emotionally.”
• Olfactory PTSD, due to mysterious new body odours that combine despair, hospital air, and expired mustard.
• Bathroom Trauma, featuring sudden sprints, gastrointestinal diplomacy, and a marital bond forged in shared proximity to disaster.
• Verbal Overprocessing Syndrome, where he monologues at midnight about the metaphysical implications of pee.
• Empathy Burnout, in which you contemplate arson while smiling supportively.
• And finally, a deep and irrational hatred of urologists, all of whom seem to think this circus is “within normal limits.”

This is not a journey. It is a forced expedition into the absurd, the hormonal, and the vaguely moist. And yet, here you are. Brave. Resilient. Slightly unwashed. Possibly drunk.

Welcome to the handbook. You're going to need it.

Chapter 1: The Vanishing Penis and Other Party Tricks

What You’ll See:
One day, you’ll glance over and realize your husband’s equipment looks... withdrawn. Shrunken. Disheartened. Think “scared turtle in winter.” Combine that with a libido flatter than hospital Jell-O, and you’ve got yourself a Grade-A eunuch-in-progress.

How to Deal with It
Do not take it personally. This is not about you. This is about testosterone—or more specifically, the chemical absence thereof. Have a frank, shame-free conversation about what intimacy looks like now. Recalibrate expectations. Consider alternate forms of closeness: holding hands, cuddling, mutual complaining about the medical system. Or get matching robes and just... give up together in style.

Chapter 2: Mood Swings: Now With More Tears

What You’ll See:
Your previously stoic husband, who used to cry maybe once per decade (and only for tax reasons), now breaks down because the toaster burned his bagel. Or because a goose looked at him funny.

How to Deal with It
Treat this as temporary emotional weather. Do not ask, “Are you okay?” unless you’re ready for a 90-minute monologue on the meaning of time. Validate his feelings, then change the subject to something neutral, like grout. If it gets extreme, remind him gently (and sarcastically, if needed) that “being sad is valid, but we still need groceries.”

Chapter 3: The Muffin Top Manifesto

What You’ll See:
The man you married is slowly inflating. His belly now precedes him into rooms like royalty. Muscle tone? He left months ago with his dignity.

How to Deal:
Buy stretchy pants. For both of you. Encourage movement—walks, light chores, emotional pacing—but don’t push too hard. This isn’t about beach bodies. It’s about staving off complete collapse. And if he complains about his muffin top? Offer to name it. Something noble, like “Sir Pudgeworth.”

Chapter 4: The Hot Flash Chronicles

What You’ll See:
He’ll wake up drenched. He’ll throw off the duvet in January, then demand it back five minutes later. He’ll turn your home into a thermostat battleground.

How to Deal:
Separate blankets. Or better, separate climate zones—Canada Goose on one side, nudist colony on the other. Keep a fan near his side of the bed and a cold compress in the freezer. If you’re feeling generous, refrain from screaming when he adjusts the thermostat for the fifth time before sunrise.

Chapter 5: Rage, Weep, Repeat: The Emotional Spin Cycle

What You’ll See:
One minute he’s Zen, the next he’s reenacting a scene from The Exorcist because the pharmacy didn’t have his brand of magnesium. It’s not mood swings—it’s mood whiplash.

How to Deal:
Don’t match the chaos. Think of yourself as the emotional seatbelt. Validate, de-escalate, distract. And when in doubt, offer snacks. Nothing defuses irrational fury faster than carbs. Unless he’s constipated, then proceed with caution.

Chapter 6: Words You’ll Hear Too Often

What You’ll See:
He’ll repeat the same five phrases like a broken NPC in a badly coded video game:

• “I’m just tired.”
• “It’s the hormones.”
• “Do I look different?”
• “It’s probably cancer again.”
• “This isn’t what I expected.”

How to Deal:
Respond with a mix of compassion and strategic emotional deafness. Rotate your replies between:

• “Understandable.”
• “Would you like tea?”
• “Want to watch a show about people worse off than us?”
  Also, consider recording his top ten complaints and playing them back to him as a remix. Humor is your secret weapon.

Chapter 7: The Sacred Ritual of the Medical Appointment

What You’ll See:
He’ll obsess for days before. He’ll forget every symptom when asked. He’ll misquote every specialist after. Your role? Medical project manager with zero pay and unlimited overtime.

How to Deal:
Bring a notebook. Ask the real questions. Translate the answers into words your husband will understand—preferably using metaphors involving sports, food, or bowel movements. Then write everything down again, because he’ll forget it all by the time you’re in the car.

Chapter 8: The Existential Crisis of Choosing a Car Color

What You’ll See:
He will agonize over the color of the new car with the intensity of a hostage negotiation. "Graphite is too gloomy.” “Red feels aggressive.” “Blue might mean I’m in denial.”

How to Deal:
Realize it’s not about the paint—it’s about control. Cancer stripped him of agency, and now he’s projecting it onto metallic finishes. Let him rant. Let him “test-drive” his feelings. When he finally picks “Starlight Mist,” tell him it’s perfect. Then pour yourself a drink and go stare at something still, like a brick wall.

Chapter 9: You’re Not Crazy. He Just Has Cancer.

What You’ll See:
You, unraveling in slow motion. Because you’re managing your own grief, fear, exhaustion, and rage while also pretending to be a supportive, compassionate partner to a man who now has more estrogen than your book club.

How to Deal:
Normalize your frustration. You’re not heartless—you’re human. Find support, preferably outside the house. Laugh darkly. Scream into throw pillows. Build a shrine to wine. Know this: your patience is heroic, your anger is earned, and your ability to stay married through this mess is proof that sainthood is underrated.

Chapter 10: Dealing with Male Tits (or: The Rise of the Moobs)

What You’ll See:
At first, it’s subtle—a gentle swelling, like his chest is just trying to feel something again. Then one day, he turns sideways in the mirror and gasps, “Am I… growing boobs?” Yes. Yes, he is. Welcome to the phenomenon known as gynecomastia, or as you’ll soon call them, Hormone Hooters.

You’ll notice he starts crossing his arms more. His T-shirts fit…differently. He may even develop a strange attachment to loose hoodies and phrases like “It’s just water retention.”

How to Deal:
Step one: Do not laugh when he jiggles. At least not in front of him.
Step two: Treat it like puberty in reverse. He’s confused. Vulnerable. Full of estrogen and deeply conflicted about his own nipples. Reassure him, but skip phrases like “they’re kind of cute.” He’s mourning his masculinity; he doesn’t need a compliment on his cup size.

If he gets self-conscious during intimacy, offer to turn off the lights or wear a blindfold. Tell him it’s “kinky.” He’ll believe you. He's desperate.

Also, resist the urge to suggest a bra. Unless it’s a matching set. In which case, go big.

Chapter 11: Dealing with Muffingut (The Belly That Time Forgot)

What You’ll See:
You thought you were prepared for weight gain. You were not.
This isn’t fat, it’s muffingut: a dense, hormonal, unyielding slab of abdominal rebellion. It protrudes with conviction. It jiggles with menace. It ignores every law of physics, diet, and decency.

Gone is the flat-ish dad bod. In its place stands—nay, sags—a doughy tribute to metabolic collapse. He may blame the steroids, the lack of testosterone, the radiation, or you, for buying snacks.

How to Deal:
First, name it. This gives you psychological leverage. “Sir Crumpet,” “The Dread Gut Roberts,” or simply “The Situation.”
Second, adjust expectations. He is not “letting himself go.” He is being taken by medical science, one stubborn abdominal cell at a time.

Try suggesting light exercise, framed as “movement therapy” or “rage-walking.” Cook healthier meals, but hide the kale in something that tastes like despair with a hint of cheese. And for the love of all that remains sacred in your marriage, do not mention it jiggles when he brushes his teeth. He knows. Believe me, he knows.

If he starts lifting his shirt and shaking it in protest, join him. Solidarity is key. And when the moment comes that he catches a glimpse of his reflection, sighs deeply, and whispers, “What the hell happened to me?”—wrap your arms around the Muffingut, press your cheek into its warm doughy curve, and say:
“We’re just aging… out of spite.”

Chapter 12: How to Flatter a Man Who Has Lost His Sex Drive, His Abs, and Most of His Dignity

What You’ll See:
Your husband is now a hormone-soaked, puffy, tear-prone version of his former self, and he knows it. Gone are the days of confident strutting, spontaneous groping, and that smug post-shower pose he thought was sexy but mostly just fogged up the mirror.

Now? He stands before you like a damp, confused croissant, muttering phrases like:

• “I used to look decent.”
• “You don’t have to say anything… I know I’m gross.”
• “What even is a man anymore?”

This is your moment. This is when you lie, cheat, and emotionally manipulate your way through the hormonal apocalypse with the art of strategic flattery.

How to Deal (aka: Complimenting the Uncomplimentable):

1. Focus on the “Still.”
   • “You still have such kind eyes.”
   • “You still make me laugh.”
   • “You still smell like you… just, you know, after a shower.”
     The word “still” creates the illusion that nothing’s changed. Even though everything has.
2. Praise his Resilience (Code for: Endurance Through Hell).
   • “I’m amazed at how you’re handling all this.”
   • “You’re strong in ways that matter now.”
   • “I don’t know how you do it. I’d be a wreck.”
     This appeals to the last flickering embers of his masculinity.
3. Objectify Him (Selectively).
   • “Your arms still feel strong when you hug me.”
   • “I like your scruff. It’s rugged… in a ‘post-apocalyptic survivor’ way.”
   • “Your belly is weirdly comforting. Like an emotional support pillow.”
     He doesn’t need to feel sexy. He needs to feel seen as touchable.
4. Lie. But With Style.
   • “No one would guess you’re on hormone therapy.”
   • “You look better than half the guys your age.”
   • “Honestly? I kind of like the sensitive version of you.”
     Lying is love in this context. If you’re going to fake anything, make it affectionately believable.
5. Redirect the Spotlight.
   • “We’re both changing. That’s life.”
   • “I’m just glad we’re in this ridiculous mess together.”
   • “I didn’t marry you for your abs. God knows that.”
     Mutual mockery is the highest form of intimacy.

Emergency Flattery Kit (Use Sparingly):

• “I still want you.” (No specifics needed. Vague is your friend.)
• “You’re more than your body.” (Because let’s face it, his body is… complicated.)
• “You’re doing the best you can. And that’s enough.” (It probably isn’t, but the sentiment lands.)

Final Note:

The truth is, he feels diminished. Useless. Soft in all the wrong places. But your words still matter. Your opinion still holds power. Wield it wisely—like a weapon. Or a hug with teeth.

Because someday, when he’s emotionally stable and physically upright again, he might just look at you with awe and say, “Thanks for sticking around… even when I cried because my nipples tingled.”

And that, my dear, is love. Or at least trauma bonding with benefits.