The physician’s
assistant asked, “Mr. NeSmith, are you allergic to latex?”
“No, ma’am. Not until I hear it
snap on your wrist.”
Ladies, you know what I am
talking about.
Women, compared to men, have to
endure the most medical-exam indignities. As you are probed and mashed in the
pursuit of good health, I admire your courage. Trips to the gynecologists start
in your teen years.
Men—given the chance—will put off
their visits to the urologist for as long as they can. The most common reason is
the dread of that latex-glove-involved exam. The thought of the indignity of
that infamous digital rectal exam (DRE) is enough excuse for many men to delay,
delay, delay.
And, in my opinion, that is a
mistake.
The second-leading cause of cancer
death in men is prostate cancer.
Different urologists have
different opinions about the effectiveness of screenings, especially in older
men. Back-and-forth theories abound. Some doctors believe the treatments can be
worse than the cancer.
I am not a medical expert. But
even at my age, I choose regular exams. Prostate cancer is common in my family,
and I’ve been visiting a urologist for about 30 years.
But I digress.
In 1997, my dad was diagnosed with
prostate cancer. The disease was slow-growing and was being monitored. I’ve
heard doctors say that most older men will die with prostate cancer but not
from it.
But one Sunday afternoon, Big
Dink, 76, sneezed.
A rib cracked.
X-rays revealed that the cancer
had metastasized into my dad’s bones. His urologist said that what happened was
a rarity. I don’t remember the exact medical terminology, but radiation did not
halt the spread of the disease. Medically, everything possible was done. The
seven-week countdown had begun.
My parents moved into our home,
as did sisters Sandy and Sheila. Pam was a champion keeping meals on the table
and the house in order, as we rallied around our family’s patriarch. We
showered the man we all called Granddaddy with love and prayers. Our requests
to God were twofold: “Lord, we pray for a miracle. But if that’s not Your will,
please don’t let him suffer long.”
Eventually, hospice nurses joined the vigil.
On a Sunday afternoon,
Granddaddy’s urologist visited. He signaled the end was nigh. He advised that
we should be diligent with our goodbyes. I called one of our newspaper
cartoonists to come.
In roundtable fashion, we told signature
family stories that had been repeated over the years. As we reminisced, the
artist sketched. Later that day, I sat in bed with my dad. One by one, I retold
the stories depicted in the cartoons. We laughed. We cried. I can still feel
Daddy squeezing my hand.
On Tuesday, the last thing we
heard him say was a soft, raspy “I love you.” And the last thing that he heard
from his family was “We love you.”
Prostate cancer has a history of
finding NeSmith men.
Since I turned 50, I’ve been
seeing my urologist at least twice a year. And about a dozen years ago—after
one of those latex-glove DREs—I had a procedure that removed prostate tissue, revealing
a small amount of malignancy. The lingering question was, “Did that get it all?”
Continued urology visits and
tests have been encouraging. My PSA has remained low and unchanged. The Gleason
number, a key indicator, is good, too. Again, in my opinion, you can’t be too
vigilant.
That brings me to former
President Joe Biden. What happened to him might be what happened to my dad. The
metastatic-bone cancer appeared “out of nowhere.”
I am not a doctor, but I believe America’s 46th
president’s medical outlook is grim. Cancer doesn’t care whether you are a
Democrat, a Republican, or whatever political affiliation. And when prostate
cancer metastasizes into your bones—short of a miracle—the countdown is imminent.
Men, doctors say that it’s likely
most of us will die with prostate cancer.
But we shouldn’t have to die from
it.
Nonetheless, if possible, I
believe we should know what’s going on with our bodies.
So, get over the latex-glove
paranoia.
Go see a urologist.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
