Return to Seidman Cancer Center

Seidman Cancer Center
Beachwood, Ohio

April 25, 2019; 9 a.m.

It’s that time again. In about a half-hour Joyce and I will head up to Seidman Cancer Center for my quarterly visit with the oncology team that’s been following my struggle with prostate cancer, a journey that commenced more than fourteen years ago. (My initial diagnosis was late in 2004.)

I had surgery in June 2005–didn’t work. Radiation in 2009–didn’t work. Since then I’ve undergone other procedures—hormone deprivation (Lupron, then Trelstar), immunotherapy, and, late last summer, yet another course of radiation treatments—this time to my spine. The cancer, you see, has metastasized into my bones.

Before my last radiation treatment, my PSA (Prostate Specific Antigen) had risen to over 20. This was alarming because it meant that the cancer was active again. I have no prostate gland now—but prostate cancer cells also reveal themselves in PSA.

Post-radiation (#2)—this time—is yielding better results. The graphic below shows my scores in recent months.

6 August 2018	20.13
12 September 2018	11.98
16 October 2018	3.36
9 November 2018	1.93
15 January 2019	1.07
18 April 2019	0.33

I am, of course, pleased about those scores—but I also know they are temporary. I am, at this point, incurable, and we’re in a battle of delay, not victory. One of these days my cancer will reawaken—my PSA will start to rise again—and we’ll be moving on to other remedies of delay.

I’ll add to this post later today (or tomorrow) when I get back from Seidman.


April 26, 1:00 p.m.

We were at Seidman for about two hours, but we were actually with medical professionals for only about fifteen minutes. So it goes.

Check in. Wait. Back for vitals check. Wait. Nurse Practitioner arrives and interviews. Wait. Nurse arrives with shot of Trelstar (inhibits testosterone—the food of prostate cancer). Shot in the rear. Ouch. Wait. Head out to the waiting area (!). Step to window to deliver my co-pay. Wait. Pay.

Then fly for home!

I didn’t see my oncologist this time. But the NP went over my recent tests, did some checking of heart and lungs. Is happy that I’m working out regularly (at least someone is!). Tells me I’m doing well.

And that, of course, is comforting to hear. But, of course, I also hear in the room the echoes of the darker news that other patients have heard—today, other days—and I know that I will one day hear the same sort of thing. Such knowledge subdues any celebration, replaces it with humility. And gratitude.

So—of course I’m pleased for today, for the recent test results, for the efficacy of my meds, my lifestyle (eating sensibly—except for an occasional crunchy-peanut-butter binge), exercising—oh, do I despise it now: It’s just so much harder without that “push” from the testosterone I no longer have).

Joyce keeps me sane, keeps me hopeful. More time with her, you see, is priceless. And that thought is ever-present in my head, ever dominant in my heart.

I can’t imagine going through this alone, and Thursday, in the waiting room, I saw several people doing precisely that. Heading back, alone, for chemo. Heading back, alone, for consultations and other treatments. Some limped, used canes or walkers. Alone. I simultaneously feel so sorry for them—and admire the strength that animates them, that keeps their hope alive.