"I'm sorry, but the tests we have taken clearly indicate that you have cancer of the prostate."

Only those who have been on the receiving end of that dreadful statement can appreciate fully the torrent of feelings that follow after hearing it. I went totally numb. For minutes, I heard none of the conversation that followed. My stomach churned, I began to perspire and my heart began to thump to the extent that I wondered if I was in the advanced phases of a heart attack.

The doctor continued to talk and my wife joined in. I could not understand what they were saying although I was trying very hard. Finally, I gasped "Just give me a minute, please!"

Eventually, I composed myself sufficiently to hear the proposals for the next stage of my treatments. The options were set out in detail along with a recommendation as to when they would begin. Three choices: remove the damaged organ with surgery; Insert radiation seeds in the prostate, and; apply radiation externally. The preference of the urologist was to have radiation treatment over about eight weeks. However, in response to my pleas that I didn't want to spend my whole life in some hospital, he explained that a shorter treatment outside of surgery, which I said I definitely did not want, would be the "seeding".

I was told that as soon as I decided how I wanted to be treated, arrangements would be made at an external centre to have the treatment carried out. In the interim, I was given a prescription for pills that would reduce the size of my prostate - a step that I was told would improve the chances of successful treatment.

Luckily my wife was with me. Not luck, she had insisted that she attend the visits to the doctor as soon as she heard that I had an enlarged prostate that might be cancerous. Hence, when the worst was confirmed, I had a sober and calm person beside me who had my best interests at heart. If there was any luck involved, it was the fact that I had a life-mate who could take adversity on the chin and fight back as hard as she could. Besides, she had always had an avid interest in health issues and could rely also on the experience of an uncle and brother who had only recently undergone successful treatment for cancer of the prostate. I have no doubt that it was her knowledge and perseverance that eventually saved my life.

I was given instructions to return to the doctor in two months to see whether the pills were having the desired effect and to set a date for treatment. In two months, I made the return visit and was told that the prostate had shrunk. I asked whether that meant the cancer was in recession. I was told "not very likely" and again was asked whether I had made a decision about treatment. I answered "NO" and said I needed more time.

Looking back, I wonder if I was going crazy at this crucial stage of my diagnosis. Fortunately, my wife was now getting openly aggressive. She insisted, in front of the Doctor, that I make the decision "today". I refused, exclaiming with stupid male arrogance: "It's my body and I'll get it done when I'm good and ready." I continued later on with even more colossal stupidity, "In any event, if you don't shut up, I might not do it at all." Fortunately, the latter exchange took place outside of the doctors office while we were driving back home.

My wife said nothing more. In fact, for several weeks, the matter was not mentioned. However, although she was not discussing it with me, I learned later that she was having intense conversations by phone with the members of her vast and close-knit family, informing them of my affliction and my refusal to do anything about it. As a result, I received a call from her uncle, who was recovering from a successful treatment of a similar ailment. He urged me to get the thing attended to and advised on the kind of treatment he thought I should choose. It was now six months since I had been diagnosed with the dreaded BIG C.

Family to the rescue

Finally, I received a visit from my wife's nephew-in-law who is Director of Surgery at Brooklyn hospital and who just happened to be vacationing in Bermuda with his wife. The nephew-in-law immediately started to enquire about the cancer and said that I should have it attended to immediately. Of course, this led to a resumption of harangues by my very concerned life-mate who insisted that I get a diagnosis from one of the doctors who practised in the Department of Surgery of the Brooklyn hospital. She informed me also that her niece, the wife of the surgeon, had invited us to spend some time with them at Long Island and that during the visit, her husband could arrange for an examination in his Department of Surgery. Reluctantly, I agreed to make the visit (by this time I had ceased being in denial; after all, I was now a Bermudian who had been advised by a "furriner").

About three weeks later, I visited the niece and kept the appointment with the cancer specialist. As soon as I met the doctor, who was a woman, I knew that whatever she said I would have to follow. Why did I reach that conclusion? Simple! The specialist was an Indian from continental India. I knew that if she had been allowed to train as a doctor in India, a country dominated by "macho males", she had to be good. It turned out that my stereotype was "on the money". I learned that only the brightest of Indian women were allowed to enter the male dominated professions although, her path had been made somewhat easier because her father was a prominent surgeon. She than proceeded to tell me that based on the medical records that had been sent from Bermuda, I had a very aggressive cancer and that I should waste no more time putting of the date of treatment.

I had run out of excuses. When I returned to Bermuda, I visited my local Oncologist who happily arranged to have the treatment done at Lahey Clinic in Massachusetts beginning November 7, 2004.

The treatment was originally planned for five to ten days as per my request. However, when I saw the oncologist at Lahey, he informed me that he did not feel comfortable applying the treatment recommended and that he would prefer conducting radiation treatment for a period of eight weeks, the original recommendation of my Bermudian urologist. This meant that I would be spending Christmas and the New Year in Peabody, Massachusetts, the location of Lahey North.

The treatment ended on January 11, 2005 and based on the initial reports was successful.

So why am I sharing this very personal experience with the Bermuda public? I am doing so because Bermudian men need to be aware that the chance of recovery from prostate cancer is 100 percent, if it is detected in its early stages. Fortunately, In Bermuda, we have professionals who are skilled in the diagnosis of the ailment and who are connected with the most advanced centres of treatment in the United States.

However, if the advice of the local professionals is not taken, as I almost succeeded in doing, the chances of survival are greatly reduced. At least, I had the good sense to have the regular check-ups. Unfortunately, after successful diagnosis, I had refused to get the treatment done as quickly as possible given the early positive diagnosis. I seriously courted death as a result of that most idiotic decision.

I urge my fellow Bermudian men not to copy my ignorance. If you want to improve the chances of seeing your children and grandchildren graduate from University and raise a family, Get Your prostate checked regularly and if you are diagnosed positive, get the treatment immediately.

calvin@northrock.bm