Battling Cancer: A New Strategy

Here is a statement of fact: When a man reaches a certain age, he will no longer throw underwear away, ever. These garments might be ripped, worn, moth-eaten, stained, shrunken or bagged out, and rendered elastic-free by too many washes.  No matter. We will keep--, no, we will hoard them, greeting them in the morning like old friend, Cloroxing them once or twice a year in a vain attempt to regain whiteness but actually only weakening the fibers.

What occasionally occurs, if a woman lives in the same space, is that she will throw them away when the man is not home. If she has a kind heart, she will replace them with new jockey shorts or briefs, again, when the man is not home. He may, or may not, notice the changing of the guards but in any case, the exchange will be wordless.

Today I have made a small step for mankind and a giant step for men by getting rid of every single pair of jockey shorts and boxers that have been in my possession for years, and perhaps decades, and replacing them with 15 pairs of brand new, assorted color undies from Target and Walmart. And while I’m on the subject, I will say openly that Costco deeply disappointed me with its extremely limited selection of men’s underthings, which occupied less than a third of the floor space devoted to women’s vibrantly colored and designed panties and stuff. There may be room for a discrimination suit here.

Anyway, the deal is that I have come to the conclusion that my bladder cancer was probably caused by my underwear. At least partially.

As readers of this blog know, two years ago this month I was diagnosed with this nasty disease. Since then, I’ve undergone a number of surgeries to remove recurring malignant tissue, generally followed by a form of chemotherapy called BCG. The Bacillus Calmette-Guérin treatment relies on the direct injection into my bladder of a solution containing sheep tuberculosis. On average, BCG eradicates cancer in 70 percent of those treated. I haven’t been among that 70 percent yet, but I’m still hopeful.

I might add here that I have not smoked or drank alcohol in a couple of decades. In the past six months, I have just about given up eating meat. I am juicing organically produced veggies and fruits daily and drinking the vile concoction in one, long draught. I no longer use artificial sweeteners, caffeinated coffee or tea, or any number of ‘white’ products: rice, flour, pasta, refined sugar. I have given up my membership of the California Sun Tanning Center.

What does this have to do with the wholesale trashing of an entire drawer of undies? Everything.

Giving up all these things, along with the BCG, should’ve banished my cancer for good. I was thinking that all this nasty stuff happening in my midriff should have ended by now, and as I pondered, I came to the realization that what encircled my loin(s) had remained unchanged for years! The underwear, by crikey!  The underwear!

Throwing out the old stuff was surprisingly painless. I packed everything in a trash bag and dropped it in the big outdoor garbage can without so much as a whimper. As I write, my new undies are bouncing around in the dryer, getting to know each other, and I’m hoping alliances might form in the chest of drawers.

I’m pleased because the entire process was a lot less painful than was surgery and BCG. I’m pretty sure this will work. It sort of has to. I don’t have anything else to throw away.   

A Year Later

So yesterday marked the end of the cancer treatment phase where a virus (really, not a virus, it was a bacteria; there was some confusion there but it turned out to be the latter) was injected into me by means that reverse natural functions. A collection of different medical people did the deed, some of whom were more gifted than others.

Every Monday for the last six weeks, I have gone to the office of my health care provider, dropped trou and traded witty comments with folks—all women nurses—whose senses of humor were strangely missing. This may have to do with the chore they were performing. I do not imagine that there is much joy to be gained from it, at either the giving or receiving end.

My understanding is that whatever live little thingies were forced up my urethra went into pitched battle with the cancer cells.  Hopefully the former won and I will emerge from the experience a better man.  But I’m not sure yet. There are more tests scheduled for the future.

It’s been an interesting year. I was diagnosed with bladder cancer eleven months ago after a pretty long period where I complained almost monthly of recurring UTIs (Urinary Tract Infections) and was given varying doses of antibiotics that seemed, at least temporarily, to do the trick.  

Then one morning, a fleeting expression crossed my GP’s face as she brought up the results of blood tests done the day before. “I’m going to send you to the urologist,” she said. The she smiled, hit Escape on the keyboard and the screen went blank.

It took three weeks to get an appointment, and two more before The Good Doctor there (TGD) did a cystology. This is not a fun test. Basically, a long tube with an attached camera is snaked up the urethra to inspect the area. I was lying down with a television screen overhead showing what the inside of my bladder looked like when I heard TGD says, “Uh ho.” He manipulated the camera and I clearly saw three small tumors, pale little raised things that obviously did not belong in my bladder.  Then TGD added, “I’m going to have to biopsy that…”

Silly me. I thought he could do it on the spot, maybe with a clever pair of little scissors attached to the snaky thing, snip-snip and we’re done, but no…

Another two weeks and I am in the pre-op room, needles and tubes coming out of the crook of my elbow and the back of my right hand. I am scared. In fact, I am downright terrified. Cancer runs in my family. My mother, my father and one of my half-sisters all had it. I am told by the anesthesiologist that the medical facility will not be responsible if my capped teeth are somehow dislodged during the procedure. I remember that when I was interning at a rehab for medical personnel, anesthesiologists were our prime clients. They have a high rate of addiction to the controlled substances they routinely handle; this does not inspire confidence. Will my guy maybe sneak a little toot before the procedure and forget to turn one of the valves on or off?  

I sign a form acknowledging that the facility is really not responsible for anything that may happen to me while in their care, up to and including death and I think this is beginning to appear less and less promising. TGD makes an appearance in full surgical gear and asks how I am feeling. Peachy keen, I say. He nods, “Good, good.”

Sometimes later I wake up. There is a catheter in me, attached to a bag that is strapped to my leg. My friend Paul drives me home, asks if I’m OK and I say yes, more or less. My innards hurt.

I have been given two bags into which my urine will drain, because my bladder has been poked and sliced and is in no shape to do its duty. There is a large home bag that holds, like, gallons, and a much smaller traveling bag good only for a couple of quarts. With this smaller attachment I am supposed to be able to go shopping, eat with friends, be social, but I am thinking I will never leave my house again, ever.

My entire body is sore; I feel just like I did after a motorcycle accident of years before. Joints and muscles and even bones are unhappy and complaining. Peeing—something I have admittedly taken for granted my entire life—is now excruciating.

Life is not good right now…