"They probably just want to go through the result and tell us that it needs monitoring;"
"It's going to be an all-clear - I can't have prostate cancer because I feel so great;"
"If it is prostate cancer, then it's been caught early and if treatment is needed, they'll get on with it quickly."
Amazing how the brain rationalises the situation, isn't it?
So, that evening, Gloria and I set out to the hospital. She insisted on driving - not unusual - but she didn't bring her laptop. Whatever is happening?
The waiting rooms were as before in the same building of the Urology department and, when we emerged into the second one it was standing room only. These doctors and nurses take their time - not because they're idle or slow, but because they are dealing with heart-in-the-mouth situations, telling people bad news and helping through the first stages of coping with the shock.
I was to be no different.
When we walked into the consultant's room - a different guy this time, not the one with the fat fingers - we could tell something was up because there was a very sympathetic nurse sitting in the corner and the doctor had an earnest look on his face.
"Well, Mr Rod," he peered at me and glanced at Gloria, "the results of your biopsy are back and they indicate that, um, yes, you do have some prostate cancer."
Cue rushing noise in ears, blank stares from each of us and a general gripping of each others hands. There's always a danger in this situation that you don't hear a thing after the initial concussion of being told you have cancer. That's why having a Gloria along with you to the big reveal is a great idea. And she was listening intently.
Strangely enough, so was I and the doctor listed the various types of therapy for this condition and repeatedly told me that the urology cancer nurse would talk to me about the details. He wanted me to go for brachytherapy - more of that in another post - and he shook my hand warmly, apologised for being the bearer of bad news and ushered us out in the company of the nurse.
We found a room that was free and the three of us sat down to discuss where we went from there. Those forks in the road! Such a hazard! This one was a doozy because now, all of a sudden, our lives would consist of thinking about, discussing, researching, considering and mulling prostate cancer and its treatment. Our nurse gave us a great primer.
The first surprise was that she had annotated the very helpful booklet from The Prostate Cancer Research Centre, which had been compiled in conjunction with The Royal College of Surgeons. It outlines a whole raft of information in a clear and concise fashion. She'd included the results of my PSA test and also written up how the Gleason Score (again, more of this in the next post) to measure the cancer's aggressiveness had been calculated.
Then we talked through all the therapies and she gave me a further booklet, written by the hospital trust, that gave more detail on brachytherapy - this was ultimately to be my treatment of choice.
Over an hour we spent with this wonderful lady. She gave us chapter and verse on all aspects of the treatments available, answered our questions and suggested some we had not thought of. Now it really begins to hit home and you start to realise that you've been fed into a machine that is going to do its very best to make you as better as it can.
In the car returning to home, Gloria and I were quite quiet. We had had a big hug outside the consulting suite and then walked back to the car park, musing on how different our lives would become in the future. For a start, our planned holiday to Cambodia and Thailand was off the stocks - claiming that lot back was going to keep me occupied!
The process had begun and now, I had to decide which therapy to choose and let them know. The moment I did that, the starting gun had been fired.
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