THE SIZE OF A WALNUT: How Prostate Cancer changed our lives - In a nutshell

By BARBARA EDMISTON

Prostate cancer sneaked into our lives, boots and all. This memoir recalls a personal journey, our story. Through these life-changing experiences, we've laughed, cried, and fretted. If this book helps, encourages, or even produces a smile, then it was worth the writing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walnut Publishing
• Release date: Jul 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9780648368113

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The Journey Begins

Some really good things happened when my husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I suddenly loved him a whole heap more, and the things that really drove me crazy about him were at least nine percent less irritating. It was sort of a double whammy event. Being told that my (obviously not) infallible old boy had a cancer growing inside of him completely freaked me out. He looked great and felt normal, whatever that means, at his diagnosis, after which we were both stirred and shaken - a vodka martini moment but no 007 to our rescue, not a sniff of James Bond.

It all started casual enough.

Well, Mike, we've found a little bit of cancer in that tissue we took from the biopsy.

Dr H points to a bright screen.

It’s right here in the prostate gland, and it was in that dark spot we talked about on the MRI a few weeks ago. Remember?

I gasp air in but can’t breathe it out. Maybe my head will explode first and then my heart. I'm gutted. Just a little bit of cancer. How does that work? Like having just, a little bit of Ebola?

Outside the hospital, we eyeball each other, and I struggle to find encouraging words. A diarrhoea burble of solace-less rantings pour out from my lips. Eventually, I run out of unhelpful things to say. Mike takes my hand, and home we go. It’s started.

Houston, we have a problem. Affirmative, I repeat affirmative. We have found a dodgy walnut. Copy that.

Damn. Damn and more damn. Now what? Both in our later sixties, living on the Sunshine Coast, Queensland, Australia. We are living our life with a hoard of others who have decided to settle or end life here. It’s a popular spot. It’s a beautiful spot.

There is nothing extraordinary about either of us. I’m a filer of underpants, hoser-down of balconies, idiot, wife, listener, lover and all that. I met Mike over a greasy meat pie and a warm ale in a London pub during the seventies. He fronted up as a fine-suited (oil-slick) salesman, but underneath the facade of those fancy leather shoes, I found that he was kind, generous and a complete sexpot. A narrow, freaky white streak of scalp hair only added to my attraction to him. Tall and vaguely foreign-looking, with brilliant blue eyes, he was a wild-looking mix. Handsome is as handsome gets. He still is. Very soon we were in love. He’s still my addiction, and yes, I do love him a whole lot more now he has had a cancer diagnosis.

It’s the fear of losing him, even though we know one of us has to fall off the perch first. But cancer? We thought it more likely that one of us might be electrocuted either by our dodgy rice cooker, or more likely, by sticking a knife in the toaster. Wretched cancer, the big C word, just as scary and just as daunting today as it always was. A single word that means a bunch of random body cells have gone haywire. Much like the Asian Boba and bubble tea, a collection of frogspawn-looking pearls of tapioca have formed a blobby growth, as some stick together and others float free, some on a free fall until they clump together. Cancer.

CHAPTER 2

Going Nuts in May 2016

We are sitting in bed, enjoying a lethally strong coffee, attempting to chill out. Mike is reading about the latest camera reviews, an ongoing saga in the financial world and a yucky article on meat glue. For me, it’s Wikipedia research on the prostate cancer marker ‘Gleason 7,’ which has come back on Mike’s prostate biopsy pathology report. At this point, I’m not sure what any of it means. All I know is that he definitely has prostate cancer. Thank you, Mr. Gleason.

The Gleason grading system is used to help evaluate the prognosis of men with prostate cancer using samples from a prostate gland biopsy. A Gleason score is given to prostate cancer based upon its microscopic appearance. Cancers with a higher Gleason score are more aggressive and have a worse prognosis. Pathological scores range from 2 through 10, with higher numbers indicating greater risks and higher mortality.

I am a mum, grand-mum, friend of some, enemy of others and a Jill of all trades. I unblock drains, bait crab pots, prepare copious amounts of food and may respond to ‘Polly, put the kettle on’ if humoured. I wear pink lipstick, because Mum said a little lipstick shows that you care about yourself. I’ve never been described as dainty, but lately I feel that I’ve lost what little poise I had. Noticeably, sales assistants now call me ‘honey,’ ‘darling’ or ‘lovely,’ an implication not of how much I’ve aged in the brutal Australian sunshine, but that my shape is nearer the three score years and ten mark.

Adamantly, fluff-ridden dressing gowns or beige elasticated-at-the-waist pants won’t be my scene. Resort gear is good, not exactly high-end fashion, but what the hey? Bad manners are a no-no to me, and women’s hairy armpits and dirty nails totally freak me out. Christmas is my safe place. Wild storms and a glass of earthy Shiraz as the lightning thrills make me almost complete - but not without my husband. Home is derelict when he's not in it, and now I’m faced with scary thoughts about him carking it.

Mike has the warmest hands, and when he stretches out both arms wide, and says he loves me ‘this’ much, it feels really good. He’s still my sexpot, simply an older, greyer version. To his advantage, he’s an amazing photographer, having captured thousands upon thousands of perfect digital images from locations all over the globe. Almost stopping the clock with a click of the shutter, beautiful moments he freezes in time, facial expression that cannot lie, surfers caught in the curl of a wave. They are better than best, brighter than brilliant, clearer, sharper, bolder, and more perfect than any images I have ever seen. We live with a mass of cameras and a gob smacking load of photographic accessories. Romantic lunches often include F-stop discussions and apertures, but only in a photographic sense.

Our bedroom doors open onto a watery view, both blissful and bleak. We feel a lot of weather, see the river and the ocean with a zoo of noisy marine life. Low tide brings in stinky wafts of rotting mullet from exposed crab pots, and monster-sized globs of osprey bird poo set like concrete on our windows. Nearby Mount Coolum changes from moody green to purple in exquisite clarity before the sea mist smothers and it becomes a hazy, smoky volcano. Our future is hazy, too. Our life has suddenly, silently and mysteriously changed. Normal life has been put on hold for a while.

Reading the biopsy report summary, I see that out of the twenty-two cores of tissue that made up the thirteen prostatic specimens, there were confirmed prostatic adenocarcinomas in four. The Gleason scores were 6, 6 ,7 and 7. Bingo - almost a full house, babe. In red was typed ‘to recall the patient.’ He was definitely recalled.

I have always had a lot of inner conversations with myself.

So, are you scared of this prostate cancer diagnosis, Princess?

You bet I frigging well am. I’m not even sure what we are facing.

The prostate is a walnut-sized gland located between the bladder and the penis, just in front of the rectum. The urethra runs through the centre of the prostate, from the bladder to the penis, letting urine flow out of the body. The prostate secretes fluid that nourishes and protects sperm. The prostate gland produces seminal fluid, even after a vasectomy. Well, we certainly don’t have any sperm threats. Mike had a vasectomy when we felt our nest was full. I nearly bought him the TOFB tie just for fun, until I found out that not only did it stand for ‘This One Fires Blanks,’ but that it was a prize neckpiece for any guy who wanted a bit of floozy on the side. Wearing the tie was an invite for an easy bonk with no surprise babies. It was a sophisticated version of a ‘kiss me quick’ hat.

I shoot a glance at Mike as he is sitting in our bed. A familiar face, a lovely face. A slight curl at the end of his left lip. He has a deep top lip scar where he toothed it through a glass door, well before drinks, a long time ago. Everyone has blemishes, visible or not. Life events, be they emotional or physical, have to have an impact somewhere, even when we try to cover them up. Makeup can fail. It’s what makes the human foible. I also have battle scars from life, and only a few from mud crabs.

Reading jokes sent by an old mate, he doesn’t give too much away. My mind, on the other hand, is like a firecracker ready to explode. My heart skips a beat when simply looking at him, just thinking about this cancer dilemma. I’m scared for him now and me too. I don’t want change. More than ever, I want to turn the clock back. I need some sort of human-style reset button to restore him back to factory settings. Turn off, unplug at wall, plug back in and hope normality has returned. Reset failure. Anxiety makes me want to vomit. Damned prostate cancer - just a tiny corruption in a walnut-sized gland, but one that might wreak havoc. How long does a person need to accept, reflect and act on all this news, as I feel it hasn’t all sunk in yet. What we need the most is a real prognosis, soon.

During the night, I slide my foot under the bed covers over to Mike to feel the warmth of my skin on his flesh. Rubbing my foot up and down his hairy leg, I enjoy the feeling of being safe. The simple connection between our skin is soothing. I couldn’t imagine my foot searching and not finding his there. I began to hate prostate cancer. Did anyone hear me scream on the inside? It was awfully loud in my head.

CHAPTER 3

The Nest

Our bed is a cosy place. We used it for everything from - close your eyes - the luxurious making of our children to the sooth of long sleepy cuddles, my warm boobs pressed into Mike’s back. Of course, there were some frosty, angry nights as well, back-to-back with a deep, chilly void in the middle. It is also the spot for playing chequers in, watching movies, recovering from a hangover, or simply blobbing out in. Bed; a safe place of escape and refuge. Suppose it could - and likely might be - a sick bed, too. I mean a real sick bed, not just the flu recovery variety. Could it even be a death bed for one of us? The thought of a ‘womb to tomb’ bed is creepily disturbing.

Never thought about it this way before. Could this be where I take my last gasp? Mouth hanging open, with undignified chin hairs sprouting? Leave our kids to say goodbye to my gooseberry face? Not sure I even want to be seen dead any which way. Who would save me from fetid breath or body stink? Hopefully, my body won’t leak before they take it away. The acrid, horrid stench of gangrene still haunts me from a previous nursing job, because some things you can never forget.

Or would I awake one day to find my husband dead in this bed, cold, blotched and blue? Do you call an ambulance? Or what is the protocol is such situations? Hopefully, we’ll nurse each other with soup and sustenance until we both fade away together, but what chance? If only we could leave