One recent morning my wife Dede said I’d been honking like a goose during the night. She wasn’t wrong.
A week and a half ago, after visiting our toddler granddaughter who was going through a green booger phase, I was visited by the Cold and Flu Fairy. She touched me with her germy wand and my nose ran, my throat turned scratchy and naps took on a desperate quality.
The fairy uses subcontractors for specialty work, like the Achy Trolls who roughed me up a little. I was already getting the full treatment when one night a Cough Goblin joined the crew.
I had retired to another bedroom due to my sorry state. Something about lying down brought on ferocious coughs. What felt like every few minutes a honk rang out, rattling me awake. This went on for some time, gradually with less frequency. Near dawn, several blasts resembled the bark of a seal. Dede couldn’t say if it was more of a gray seal or a harbor seal.
I feared our neighbors would report me to the Animal Rescue League, but fortunately they either slept through it or discreetly didn’t ask about wildlife in our home. What happens in West Lebanon stays in West Lebanon.
As of this writing things are slowly getting better and by publication day I trust all will be well. Have I exaggerated a bit? Yes, and that is my right in my condition.
I was taken aback by my recent cold, since I’ve had so few in recent years and decades. I credit daily brisk walks and the mysterious healing waters of the Lebanon municipal water system.
But still, you never know. Just prior to my cold outbreak, I finished five radiation treatments at Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center for highly treatable prostate cancer. I didn’t lead this column with that because the cancer was localized and not aggressive and the odds are that I will almost certainly die of something else. Yay!
Yay? It’s not like I got a money-back guarantee.
I watched dozens of YouTube videos to prepare and read online discussions. The doctor was generous with his time when I peppered him with questions like a cub reporter. I even put biopsy results into ChatGPT, which did an excellent (although not perfect) job of explaining the data and options. I should be wary of doing that, but I am 73 and will probably be dead or something similar before AI crushes us humans.
My decision came down to surgery vs. radiation. Both are said to be equally effective but can have differing side effects, possible urinary incontinence, erectile dysfunction, bowel troubles. Even brave men wouldn’t take those lightly, and I am not all that brave.
I chose radiation, which I’m told is greatly improved by advances in imaging and precise radiation delivery — all beyond the understanding of a science dolt like me. I was relieved when they said five sessions would do it, and I would not need hormone blockers, which even the Mayo Clinic says are no picnic. Most men have 20 to 28 radiation sessions. Mine went smoothly and side effects have been minor.
Sure, I’ve had fatigue, but I’m retired, have the support of a good recliner and I am not too proud to go to bed early.
A PSA test in six months will let us know what’s what. For now, I’ve decided it’s no ultra marathons for a while. No getting on one of those Texas roadhouse mechanical bulls, either. I’m going to take a summer off from serious jackhammer work. I am accepting this with grace and forbearance.
On a more serious note, sometimes life provides lessons in perspective. I know some men with prostate cancer have a much tougher go of it. They are “cured,’’ but have a reduced quality of life, even crummy. Their stories worried me, but I also believe in odds (in my case favorable).
Over the course of my hospital visits I saw a couple of children awaiting cancer treatment. One was being fussed over by staff on his last day there. How could I feel sorry for myself?
I don’t necessarily believe the universe is trying to send me messages, but during the last two sessions I listened to random ’60s music with headphones as the technicians and machines did their thing. Both started with melancholy tunes but session No. 4 ended with the incredibly peppy “Your Love Is Lifting Me Higher” and No. 5 with “Spirit in the Sky,” a wondrous one-hit wonder that makes mortality seem kinda groovy.
I could have danced out of the treatment area, but that’s not really me (and the hospital Johnny is somewhat loose so you have to watch yourself).
Still, I’ll keep those songs on my playlist and we’ll see how it goes.
The writer lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.
