Check Your PSA Today!
Posted: Sun Aug 14, 2011 10:39 am
Check Your PSA Today!
© Stephen Whiteside 13.08.2011
It started with a PSA.
The doctor said, “That’s fine today,
But come back in another year.”
I felt a rising tide of fear.
You can’t write poems when you’re dead.
The twelve months very quickly sped.
So then I had the test once more.
It showed a slightly higher score.
“Can’t avoid it this time, mate,”
The doctor said. I muttered, “Great.”
I knew he planned to perforate
With needles sharp my poor prostate.
‘The odds,” he said, “are still quite fair.
Just one in three there’s cancer there.”
I reached out wide for fortune’s cup.
Alas, my number still came up.
An open prostatectomy!
Imagine the effect on me!
I knew exactly what it meant.
Would I be incontinent?
I’d heard it turned some men to wrecks.
Would it spell the end for sex?
To dodge my death, I’d face the knife,
But what of quality of life?
I sit here now six weeks postop.
It’s been, I think, a quite fair cop.
I spent six days in hospital,
And day-time tele don’t enthrall;
A catheter for two full weeks,
The price for stemming later leaks.
A month off work is quite a blow,
But then, my energy was low,
And six weeks lifting nothing heavy
Seems a quite exacting levy.
The margins were reported clear.
Life has never felt so dear.
The future path, once straight, feels bent.
The surgeon, though, seems confident.
I’m mostly dry, though wear a pad,
And of that much, at least, I’m glad.
The old boy’s shorter half an inch,
And such things matter in a clinch,
But clinching isn’t really sound
Right now. He faces to the ground.
But hopefully (so people say)
It may not always be this way,
And sex can still be quite a blast
Without a firmly pointing mast.
I’ve reached a point where I can say
I’m glad I checked my PSA.
I’d say to all men, “Stem your fear.
Check your PSA each year.”
And women, if your man won’t budge,
Give a none too subtle nudge.
The images inside your mind
Are so much worse, I think you’ll find
Than straight reality. I say,
Please, check your PSA today.
© Stephen Whiteside 13.08.2011
It started with a PSA.
The doctor said, “That’s fine today,
But come back in another year.”
I felt a rising tide of fear.
You can’t write poems when you’re dead.
The twelve months very quickly sped.
So then I had the test once more.
It showed a slightly higher score.
“Can’t avoid it this time, mate,”
The doctor said. I muttered, “Great.”
I knew he planned to perforate
With needles sharp my poor prostate.
‘The odds,” he said, “are still quite fair.
Just one in three there’s cancer there.”
I reached out wide for fortune’s cup.
Alas, my number still came up.
An open prostatectomy!
Imagine the effect on me!
I knew exactly what it meant.
Would I be incontinent?
I’d heard it turned some men to wrecks.
Would it spell the end for sex?
To dodge my death, I’d face the knife,
But what of quality of life?
I sit here now six weeks postop.
It’s been, I think, a quite fair cop.
I spent six days in hospital,
And day-time tele don’t enthrall;
A catheter for two full weeks,
The price for stemming later leaks.
A month off work is quite a blow,
But then, my energy was low,
And six weeks lifting nothing heavy
Seems a quite exacting levy.
The margins were reported clear.
Life has never felt so dear.
The future path, once straight, feels bent.
The surgeon, though, seems confident.
I’m mostly dry, though wear a pad,
And of that much, at least, I’m glad.
The old boy’s shorter half an inch,
And such things matter in a clinch,
But clinching isn’t really sound
Right now. He faces to the ground.
But hopefully (so people say)
It may not always be this way,
And sex can still be quite a blast
Without a firmly pointing mast.
I’ve reached a point where I can say
I’m glad I checked my PSA.
I’d say to all men, “Stem your fear.
Check your PSA each year.”
And women, if your man won’t budge,
Give a none too subtle nudge.
The images inside your mind
Are so much worse, I think you’ll find
Than straight reality. I say,
Please, check your PSA today.