I
watch a lot of sport on Sky TV, particularly, Rugby League and the odd final
score (small f, the BBC have the capital F version) and most of the presenters
wear a lapel badge of a little man with little men drawn on it. This is a
prostate cancer awareness charity pin and I bought one years ago and wore it
with pride until my fiftieth birthday when it became hypocritical to wear it,
because the advice is that you should be checked once you’re fifty.
I
didn’t feel that I had any symptoms, so I’d been putting it off until we
watched Celebrity Bake Off featuring Bill Turnbull. The show has them bake
their cakes with a lot of fun and laughter with the odd serious message about
cancer interspersed. Should I admit to fast forwarding through those bits? We
give most of our charitable giving to Cancer Research so I don’t really feel
guilty. At the end of the show instead of the credits rolling we got a message
saying, “Since the recording of this show, Bill Turnbull has been diagnosed
with prostate cancer.’ The following personal message was extremely upsetting. He
didn’t think he had any prostate cancer symptoms either, he just thought he had
rheumatism in his legs because he was getting older.
I
started with a search on the web and was surprised to read that we don’t have a
routine screening programme in England. The only place to turn was the doctors.
I told the receptionist that I wanted to know about having a routine prostate
exam. She said, ‘so you want an appointment with a doctor?’ ‘You tell me, I
don’t know.’ I didn’t say that, ‘yes, please,’ I said. She then asked if I
wanted a male or a female doctor. ‘I don’t mind. A finger’s a finger.’ I didn’t
say that last sentence either. Finally, she said ‘we haven’t got any pre-booked
appointments, but I can give you an appointment on Thursday next week.’ What?
They didn’t have any appointment appointments but I could have an appointment!
What’s the difference? I left with an appointment to see Dr Khan, a lovely
female doctor that I’d seen before going on holiday last year.
When
the day of the appointment finally came, I had a big nervous shit and headed
off. Not the best preparation – had I wiped enough, had I got it all out, etc.
etc.
The
first thing she said was, ‘hello, I think we’ve met before.’ I wanted to say,
‘yes. And this visit will be more memorable for at least one of us.’ I nodded
and took a seat.
She
said the current advice was to start with a urine and blood test and do the
exam once the results were in. She also said whichever way the results went it
could be wrong – seemed a little pointless but I went along with it.
She
asked me lots of questions about symptoms first. Do I have any pain when going?
No. Do I dribble? No (except for the odd Wimbledon[1]). Do I go more often than
I used to? No, except in the middle of the night.
She
then asked me to go and create a urine sample. I said I wasn’t sure I could
because I’d been to the loo a few times before coming due to nerves. She asked,
‘what are you nervous about?’ ‘What I thought you’d be doing.’ ‘There’s nothing
to worry about,’ she said. Easy for her to say, she doesn’t have a prostate.
I
managed to squeeze out a small sample and she tested it immediately. All fine. After
giving blood, I left after making a repeat appointment to get the result.
On
my return, she asked me a few more questions and told me about my blood test.
My phosphates were a little low, but only marginally. My cholesterol was high
at 6.6 when it should be 5.0. But other than that, everything was fine.
I’ve
been married for 25 years and one thing my wife has taught me is that a naked
man in his socks is not very sexy. So, I couldn’t help wondering if I should
take my socks off!
I
was also worried about whether she had given the other doctor forewarning, I
didn’t want to be lying here until she’d finished with another patient.
I
needn’t have worried the two doctors were back before I knew it and after Dr
Khan asked me to raise my knees a little higher, she put a gloved, gelled
finger in for a rummage around. After a short commentary for Dr Nathan it was
all over. She gave me four squares of toilet paper and left me behind the curtain
to clean up.
It
wasn’t panful. It wasn’t humiliating. No idea what all the fuss was about. I
was on my way before I knew it, with the relief that I was fine. Except for the
high cholesterol, for which I have a low-fat diet sheet.
If you’re over fifty
and haven’t been checked, then please go now. It’s not that bad, and could just
save your life.
[1] The Meaning of Liff. Wimbledon: The last little bit that, no matter
how hard you shake, always goes down your leg.
