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January , 1999
— Like most older men I had avoided the annual checkup for years. The proverbial ostrich with his head stuck deeply into the sand of the workaday world. I felt fine so why bother? Of course, what really kept me out of the doctors office was the thought that he just might find something wrong. Strangely, running parallel with this is the fact that I am also a closet hypochondriac. A psychological disorder that comes in two varieties -- I've been both. Under forty, I ran to the doctor over every imagined symptom. "Ric, if you'd stop handling your pancreas it wouldn't be sore" -- over forty, becoming the aforementioned ostrich. "What I don't know won't hurt me."
— When I turned 69, wife finally forced me to go in for a general checkup. I can remember Doctor Kennedy, a neat old guy, saying: "Well Ric, you have become pretty crotchety so, just to be on the safe side, I think we'll do some run-of-the-mill blood work. Check for Diabetes, do a PSA, etc. If the results turn up anything negative I'll call you." He never called. Whew!
— Eleven months later, I developed this pain in my groin that, in time, put me on a cane. After ducking the issue for a month or two I finally made an appointment with Dr. Kennedy. Stroking his chin he said. "There are no vital organs where you are hurting so it's probably just a pulled ligament." He prescribed a high powered anti-inflammatory and told me that he was going to be away for two weeks and if I wasn't better by the time he got back to come and see him again. Also mentioned, in passing, that I might go see a urologist as he had heard that kidney stones sometimes cause a pain in that region.
— Four days later the pain was growing worse. So I did go to see a local urologist. Got his name out of the yellow pages.
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February 15, 1999
THE DIGITAL EXAM
digital was such a sanitary hi-tech word
that is until my urologist sneaks up from behind
and gives me the bird
shocked and taken back
I try to ignore the painful experience
by pondering the conundrum of homosexuality
there had to be more to it than that
“You can get dressed now”
was the good doctor’s way of saying
“Pull up your pants, Dude,
and I’ll see you back in my office.”
but his casual manner seemed to exude foreboding
“There is a stiffness in the gland
demanding further examination.
I’d like to schedule a blood test,
ultrasound and biopsy.”
the doctor's lips kept moving
but I couldn’t hear him through the sheet
of white fear that guillotined between us
CANCER! The big C! Me?
I spent the rest of that day
up to my genitals in the grave I was digging.
Hamlet gazing full into the face of the skull
“Alas poor Yorick, I knew him well, Horatio.
Before scalpel took gland.
Back when he sang in a bass baritone.”
desperate to rise above my lower regions
I channel surf HBO
only to find that every selection that evening
bordered on pornography
so I turn to the illustrated brochure
the informative flier
detailing the upcoming procedure
where in the ultrasound and biopsy probe
resembled the head
of a black water moccasin baring its fang
“Dang!” says I jumping back
relief came 36 hours later
something about the PSA blood test
the prostate specific-antigen results
leading the doctor
to now suspect infection
prescribing an antibiotic
of course five weeks from now
the FOLLOW-UP APPOINTMENT!
and as the date approaches
tension will build
like in those Lethal Weapon Action films
when you know there’s a snake in the grass
and Danny Glover isn’t there to cover your ass
+++
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April 2, 1999
— Unfortunately, the follow-up appointment did lead to the dreaded biopsy followed by a bone scan and as it turns out I do have incurable prostate cancer (notice I said incurable, not terminal). The scan revealed that the disease has already invaded the pelvis bone. The horses are out of the barn so to speak - no point in closing the door now. Of course Dr. Goldman is most optimistic about all the new and different treatments etc. etc. But before I go into that I want you to know that even before the treatments begin I find myself experiencing a strange and wonderful kind of peace. Hell, I’ve lived 70 years already, and done exactly what I wanted to do with my life. Every worthwhile dream has come true. Made my living since 1968 as a "performance poet" - Billie Barbara and I have been together for 47 years and are growing closer with each passing day. I have four great kids, five neat and nifty grandchildren. Really, when I think about it, I’ve been truly blessed and whether it turns out that my departure date is next year or 15 years from now I’m determined not to wreck my life by doing a lousy job with my death.
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LIKE HAROLD / LIKE HOWARD
like Harold
I don't want to blow my death
I don't want to see a lifetime of pluck and courage
rubbed out by five weeks of whiny fractious behavior
granted Harold's was a scary way to go
from diagnosis to last breath
the cancer moving fast
but five weeks of bitching and moaning
was more than enough to erase every trace
of a man I have wanted to emulate
his wife sending word
that even she can't remember what he was like
before his undignified departure
no —
I don't want to go like Harold
like Howard
let me come swimming up out of the deepening coma
face serene as if seen through undisturbed water
breaking the surface to eagerly take the hand
of bedside well wishers
unexpected behavior I must admit
as Howard has always been
a world class hypochondriac
second only to me
the two of us able to sit for hours discussing
the subtle shade of a mole
turning each other on with long drawn out
organ recitals
in the end
one would have thought such a legendary
self-centered soul would cower
and fold up completely like Harold
but no —
when my time comes
let me go sweetly
like Howard
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April 14, 1999
A couple of days after the operation—
— The Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula is referred to as CHOMP, and the afternoon of April 12th I must say this august institution certainly lived up to it’s name.
— The waiting room in the Out Patient Wing is an event unto itself. Patients huddled together with friends and family, everyone speaking in hushed voices. The doomed keeping a wary eye on the ominous swinging doors, where a big tough looking nurse appeared from time to time shouting: NEXT! Actually the woman was quite sweet and mild mannered, enunciating each patient’s name in a calm friendly manner. But waiting to have done to me what was going to be done to me - the chilling word "NEXT!" is what I heard and "Out Patient Wing" certainly seemed a misnomer to me. Wasn’t the "Out-Patient Wing" where you went to have splinters removed? Of course I knew better, because in the pre-op interview the young interviewer, upon reading "Bilateral Orchiectomy" winced visibly, exclaiming under her breath "Bummer!" I recently came across this haiku.
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bilateral orchiectomy
the sound a patient makes
when he learns what it is
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— Our daughter April lives in New York and couldn’t join the Waiting Room rooting section so as her stand in she sent her best friend Molly Williams. Now, Molly works as a veterinarian in a local animal shelter and a when I told her my operation was supposed to take no more than half an hour, she laughed: "Heck Ric, I’ll do it in five minutes and not even use gloves."
— NEXT! My turn to be led through those swinging doors, pitifully looking back over my shoulder. Wife, family and friends, bravely giving me the thumbs up. Things blur and run together after that. I do remember telling the nurse who was prepping me that I was afraid of being put to sleep. "Not to worry" she said, I’d have a chance to express these fears to the anesthetist before the operation would begin. And as promised the man did drop by to assure me that I would get a little something to ease my anxiety before he put me under. When the moment finally arrived, he said that I might feel a slight prick as he gave me the relaxant. Of course, that is the last thing I remember - the prick! Obviously, I‘d been suckered in by the mask man’s modus operandi.
— On the other side of this I surface to begin the waiting. WAITING for the catheter to be removed — for the incision to heal — WAITING to see if the pain subsides and I can loose the cane — WAITING to learn if my PSA will respond to treatment. Waiting—waiting—waiting—and I’ve never been a cheerful waiter.
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July 12, 1999
GOOD NEWS
I once complained to an astute
and insightful writer friend of mine
about being bogged down
in a torturously long
and nonproductive dry spell
gravely he considered my sad situation ...
then with great compassion
and empathy said:
"So life is treating you that well, is it?"
familiar with my poetic dependence
on the down syndrome
my sister is convinced
that the recently diagnosed
advanced case of prostate cancer
developed spontaneously
to give me something new
and exciting to write about
and I did
rake a choice chestnut or two
from the fire of that dire diagnosis
but what do I do with the good news
delivered by a beaming Dr. Goldman
"Your PSA has dropped from 81 to 0.2!
Practically non existent!
Response to treatment couldn't be better."
now there is a metaphor stifler
if there ever was one
nothing dark and riveting can come
from a smiley face statement like that
and if it hadn't been for the doctors
casual off the cuff remark
“That over time, for most men
prostate cancer learns to grow
on its own."
Without that heart stopper
these lines and clauses
would never have been written
all of which gives me
a man in his seventies pause
if the end is the end
why is "terminal cancer"
such an attention grabber
while "died of natural causes"
so snug
and comfortably benign?
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May 7, 1999
— The doctor tells me I must keep taking Casodex— one a day at eleven dollars a cap - for the rest of my life. And no more doctor freebees. No wonder the listed side effect of this pricey medication is depression. But the recent funk I’ve fallen into is much deeper than dollars and cents. In the past I’ve had my share of operations and illnesses and always during the recuperation I could look forward to being my old self again. But not this time .... Not this time.
— Funny bumper stickers can only hold reality at bay for a short while. And anyway Billie had me remove the homemade REAL MEN DON’T NEED BALLS bumper sticker from the back of our car — She didn’t like the dirty looks she got while driving around town alone. For the next few months I did the ostrich thing. Behaving as if I were cured. As a poet I only had to deal with being castrated -- trying to put a line of language around how that was effecting me emotionally.
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BILATERAL ORCHECTOMY
never could
look up words in the dictionary
in a high school assignment
writing an autobiography
I described my self as a unique person
scribbled in the margin
the teacher's correction fairly chortled
"unique" not "eunuch"
how could he have known
that one day I would actually become
a misspelling
backed against the wall
by advanced prostate cancer
I chose the operation
over the enormous ongoing
expense of chemical castration
"No big deal." I thought at the time
what’s the difference
they both add up to the same thing
but in the movies these days
during the hot gratuitous sex scene
I yawn…bored...
wishing they’d quit dicking around
and get on with the plot
and on TV the buxom cuties
that titillate around the products
certainly aren't selling me anything
I realize now that
although it would probably kill them
the guys who went chemical
still have an option
I don’t
philosophically I’m the same person
but biologically
I ‘m like the picture puzzle
our family traditionally puts together
over the holidays
the French impressionist rendition
of a flower shop interior
in all it’s bright colorful confusion
this season I didn’t work the puzzle
quite as enthusiastically...
and for good reason
this year I know pieces are missing
where the orchids used to be
"So?" says I to myself
"You’re still here to smell the roses."
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January 13, 2000
— The ostrich got some bad news last Friday at the third three month follow up. Even with the castration and the Casodex which I have been taking religiously the cancer is becoming active again. Very early stages of new growth. In the last three month my PSA jumped up from 0.2 to 6. It seems prostate cancer over time learns to grow on its own without testosterone, becoming hormone refractory. I knew this was going to happen but was told that it usually takes five or six years before the transformation. With me it has only been nine months. Yes, I'm a bit discouraged. Anyway, it is on to see a local Oncologist John Hausdorff. Checked him out and hear he is very good. My first appointment is on Jan 20th, this after I have another bone scan on Jan 13th. Don’t know what comes next. - a different hormone suppressant / chemotherapy / radiation / bullet to the head - etc. Everything on hold till then. My family Doc gave me some happy pills to help pass the time till the 20th. One thing for sure the ostrich has pulled his head out of the sand and is now looking around.
— Of course my far out sister rigged me right up with one of her "zapper" things last April when the cancer was first diagnosed. I showed it to a doctor friend of mine who is also being treated for prostate cancer. After looking it over he told me the gadget couldn't hurt me, probably wouldn't do me any good either but "What the hell. Who really knows?" I figured there might be a placebo effect if nothing else. So I put in the required 90 hours at an hour and a half a day. My PSA dropping from 85 to 0.2 as zapped away. Of course my Urologist is certain it was because of the Bilateral Orchiectomy and the drug Casodex that I take each day. But my sister takes full credit for the dramatic fall in my PSA number. So along with this new negative turn of events guess what I started doing again.
— How is this effecting me? Well when I got that bad news last Friday - that very evening I saw an incredible sunset, that in another frame of mind I might have missed. And I also did something else I have been putting off for too long. On Monday night I arranged and went for drinks with two good friends who don't know each other. Ron Cook and Reed Farrington. Ron has a talented 16 year old son and Reed is a gifted and successful artist. On Saturday I will be taking Owen, Ron's boy to meet Reed in his studio. Good way to pass the time don’t you think. And even more important the year of ostrich is over and in looking around I think I feel a new perspective coming on.
Click for Monterey County Herald article
by Kathleen Wong, January 14, 2000
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