will you need me there?

Yesterday felt like the first real day of spring.  It was genuinely warm and sunny.

Lots of folks were out in shorts.  I had to wear sunglasses to lessen the glare from

all the pallid, suddenly-liberated Canadian legs.    

And what better way to celebrate the vernal glory than with a trip to a urologist?

My recent PSA’s have been of some concern, and my father required surgery for

prostate cancer.  A friend my age went under the knife for it not too long ago.  He

urged me to play it safe, so I went to a specialist.  Jude was kind enough to go, too.

The doctor asked me a lot a questions about my urination patterns, something I

don’t generally give much consideration.  Then he fondled my packet as I thought

about the Canucks’ success in the playoffs.  Then he gave me a digital rectal exam,

known on the streets as a finger wave.  Whenever I get one, I always flash on “Young

Frankenstein” and want to sing “Oh, Sweet Mystery of Life, at Last I’ve Found You!” 

When he was done, I pulled up my jeans and said, “So now do I send you flowers?” 

He replied, “yes, with a bottle of wine.”

Long story short, the doc wants to do a biopsy.  He explained the procedure, which

is called a transrectal ultrasound, or TRUS.  I love medical humour.  A probe about

the size of a pencil will be stuck up my one and only bunghole.  It will emit high-

energy sound waves off my prostate, guiding a spring-loaded device that will jab

it in 8 – 10 places to gather tissue.   A pathologist will check the samples for cancer.

“It shouldn’t hurt, but you’ll feel it,” he said.

“I see,” I said.  “Will you need me there during the procedure?”

He didn’t get it.  Jude explained my nervous humour to him.  He smiled.  We parted

on good terms.

The test will happen in the next few weeks.  I will regale you with updates.  I’m fine

with the situation.  It’s actually a good sign to me, because I knew if I lived long

enough, it would happen.  All I ask is this: if you are a penised person (there’s a

simple test to determine this) of a certain age (50+), or know of such a person, get

checked out or urge them to get checked out.

Guys, c’mon, it’s a sterling chance to sing “Oh, Sweet Mystery of Life” in a doctor’s

office.

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UPDATE: The doc was right.  It didn’t really hurt, but it’s not something I’d seek

out for a hobby.  The results were negative.  I’m cancer-free down there.