Normally, from where I live in Los Angeles, it’s about an hour and a half to UCLA, where I was going to have my surgery. At 5am that drive was cut down to 22 minutes.

I asked my husband to let me drive his car there with him as a passenger. I’m an anxious passenger, and I wanted to be in full control of the morning and the entire hospital stay. This was a way to set that tone - I’m in the driver’s seat.

We arrived at UCLA Medical Center just before 5am and we immediately ran into our first issue - parking.

Parking has been the bane of my existence through a lot of these appointments; either it’s $37.95 a minute or non-existent.

I’d been to the medical center several times at this point, but never at “night” and never to the hospital portion of the campus.

As we arrived, there were absolutely no directions where to go, where to park, where to walk in for admissions, anything.

We found an empty valet stand, but we didn’t want to valet anyway. My husband wasn’t staying overnight, and there were some nice-to-have supplies like my favorite pillow in the trunk - just in case.

I circled the campus again and saw Garage 7, Garage 8, Public Parking Garage 9 - yet every entrance I went to was restricted access - card holders only.

It’s getting closer to my 5am check in time, and I’m getting nervous that I won’t find parking. My husband did the right thing (despite me hating it) and said to get in the passenger seat; he’ll drop me off at the entrance and go figure it out from there.

I walked into a grand hallway, seemingly recently refurbished. Marble and stone everywhere, but not a sign or directions to be found - great.

I wandered and saw a sign for Admissions to the right. I started walking to the right and realized it’s the end of the hallway with only locked doors.

A faint voice said, “Can I help you, sir?” I preferred “Young Man” from my first urologist, but OK - whatever.

Hiding behind a slab of rock is a security guard waiting to get off their shift in a few minutes. They flick their hand towards the same Admissions sign I’d seen 17 seconds earlier but with a little “it’s hiding in there” - what?

Oh, the sign that says go to the right should actually be saying “you’re here, come behind this wall to a hidden door for no reason”.

After months and months through various health systems, I was getting used to filling out the exact same forms 100 times. My first oncology appointment was a defining moment of frustration, but it’d gotten so routine by now I didn’t care.

For the first time in history, all those forms actually were saved in their system. Two simple signatures and I was done - head over to the waiting room for family and they find you and will bring you up to your floor.

When I walk into Maddie’s Room, it’s lit as my husband said. So many families and groups of people, not one or two sitting alone. Groups of 10 talking and chatting. All somber, but somber together. They were there not only to support their loved one about to go into surgery, but also support the others around them.

I’ve never had someone close to me with a type of cancer that requires serious treatment. I’d never sat in a hospital room wondering if a family member or friend was going to wake up from anesthesia.

My time there was quick and there was a woman yelling RICHAARRRDDDD. I always go by Rick and I know I’ve done something wrong when Richard gets brought out.

Here’s a form, here’s a bracelet, take it to the 3rd floor and go check in.

I head up and see there’s a line of around 10 people waiting to check in - oh great, I got here at 5 a.m. and now I’m going to have to sit around forever.

Well, that wasn’t the case - within a few minutes I’m being handed special sanitation wipes for my body and “anti-colonization” swabs for my nose.

Pretty straightforward things to do, but I realized very quickly that I’ve been shoved things, shoved towards a gurney with a curtain, and this was about to get very real very quickly.

My husband had to help me wipe my back, and then I re-read the instructions for the nose swab 8x. At the end of the day, not complicated, but I couldn’t imagine doing it by myself in that moment.

I threw on a gown and a lunch lady hair cap and sat down on the bed.

I looked at my husband, realizing that I’m going to have to depend on him for things over the next week, so I better be sweet - but also, this is something he’s going through too, and I want a final check-in for the “team”.

We hadn’t exactly had the smoothest ride leading up to surgery. We have wildly different ways of researching things and what type of information makes us feel grounded and sure.

Partway through the journey, we realized we had different preferred treatment options, and neither of us could completely understand how each got there.

All options on the table make choosing one for yourself very hard. Add a 3rd party to that, and you just have questions and doubts that seep in everywhere.

At some point along the ride, I had explained to him that my decision was more mental than anything, and my anxiety couldn’t deal with “leaving it in there” - despite many doctors telling me that’s not the best way to look at it.

He wanted the “easy” options with the least side effects. We actually romanticized the thoughts of a specific radiation treatment facility near San Diego near the ocean that would require us to move down there for a month. It turns the whole thing into a dream almost that you can forget afterwards –something both my husband and I did agree on.

But when I was able to articulate my personal mental health concerns about the anxiety, he was fully onboard.

Now, many months later on that gurney, I couldn’t have felt like I had someone supporting me and my choices more. I was previously worried that if we disagreed and I ended up on this gurney, I would see the doubt in his eyes and fear that he thought I was an idiot.

I’m looking at the “room” around me. I’m looking at my husband. The used antibacterial pads—where do they go? He takes them from me and just sets it down on the bed—he realizes it doesn’t matter—but I’m not there yet.

My anesthesiologist was the first person from the Prostate Pit Crew that came to speak with me. She was very nice, seemed smart, all of the things that should be reassuring. She laid out her plan. She noted on my chart that I have a certain gene mutation that makes my body hyper-metabolize things like pain killers so that she’d be monitoring my sedation closely. She re-asked all the same questions—no, I don’t have congestion—no, neither me nor my family members have had an adverse reaction to anesthesia that I know of.

I will say I’ve finally reached the age where everyone looks too young. She was a brilliant doctor, and I just saw “20 something” in her face.

Either way, she points towards the IV catheter on my hand and says we’ll give you a little something to relax you before we get back to the OR—great.

I honestly felt great in this moment, and my anxiety was relatively at bay. Despite this being the most terrifying thing I had ever walked into, I felt ready.

I’d done my research, I’d picked the best hospital system and doctor, I’d done my due diligence. Not only was I ready with information, but by this point, I’d trimmed off nearly 70 lbs. and gone from wholly inactive and sitting in front of a computer to being a gym rat on the elliptical 6 or 7 days a week and working with a trainer 2-3x on strength as well.

The months leading up to surgery, I practically lived in the gym, and for the first time in my life, I loved it. I felt like I was doing everything I could to make this surgery a success.

My doctor had given me as much time as I wanted to handle things, and I used that time to its fullest.

I’m from Middle Georgia and grew up on country music. Tim McGraw is “one of the good ones” (as of me typing this) and was only behind a few of the greats that I loved their music as much.

He has such a good catalog of music, but most people are familiar with Live Like You Were Dying.

I was in my early 40s,
With a lot of life before me,
When a moment came that stopped me on a dime.

Over the last few months before surgery, I lived like I was dying. To be clear, I never felt like this was a death sentence - for most, it’s not - but I definitely didn’t want to feel like I wasted my time or wallowed in my feelings. I wanted to actually feel something. So I did.

I went skydiving from 18,000 feet.
I went on a solo road trip to see the most stars I’ve ever seen.
I saw my mom right after she was diagnosed with dementia.
I met my best friend’s new baby (that’s my nephew, don’t say it ain’t - love you, Logan).
I started learning how to code iPhone apps.
I wrote an outline for a screenplay.
I did some fun drugs and some really fun drugs.
I saw friends for who they really are - and who they really aren’t.
I forgave mistakes big and small, even if the offenders don’t know they’re forgiven.

You can call it a distraction, which it definitely was, but it felt like what I wanted to do.

The Friday before surgery, I wanted to complete my Tim McGraw trifecta and ride a bull - mechanical at least. It wasn’t the first time for me in real or mechanical, but it’d been a long while and many sessions of physical therapy on my knees since then.

But - I’ve been getting so healthy - I’ve totally got this - and I did. It was a fun short ride. Probably not worth the 1:15 drive to Saddle Ranch Chop House, but I was surrounded by some of my dearest friends, eating fatty tourist trap food, getting thrown off a bull.

Two days off from surgery, and I’d completed my “bucket list”.

We try and go to another bar after dinner, but my heart really isn’t in it - we’ve done the fun stuff, now let’s get serious.

I spent the weekend before surgery getting our guest room ready with incontinence pads, laxatives, enough water to start a desert oasis. I’ve got Ensure, I’ve got Jell-O, I’ve got Apple Sauce - what else do I need?

I knew I’d be tossing and turning and wouldn’t be sleeping much, and the last thing I wanted to do was to make my sweet husband go through that too.

I’d been piling supplies up for months, cross-checking Reddit, UCLA, the Mayo Clinic, Substack. If someone gave me a list of things I need, I bought it. I had a pulse oximeter despite my always-worn Apple Watch having one built in. To say it was excessive was an understatement - but it made me feel prepared.

So as I’m sitting on this gurney watching as the anesthesiologist puts something to calm me in my veins, I almost said, “I’m fine actually - but when in Rome, get that injection.”

I say goodbye to my husband, and I can see the fear and anxiety in his face. I take a deep breath, and the nurses start pushing.

I’ve had procedures like colonoscopies before, and I always remember the countdown - this time just a gentle opening of my eyes, and I’m in a whole new world from where I came from.

Not in pain, but far from comfortable. I can see a tube coming out from under the sheets - I dare not look what that is. Beeps all around from all the leads and wires hooked up to me.

If this was my first rodeo, I probably would have been freaked out, but I realized in that moment that “the worst is behind me”. While not over, I knew this discomfort would transform to pain, but for now, in this moment - I did it. I didn’t back out, I didn’t reschedule 100 times. I prepared, I was ready, I did it, I was proud.

My husband is shortly brought into my “room” (more on the quotes later).

My team starts buzzing around the room.

“Hi, I’m Sue, I’ll be your primary nurse.”
“Hi, I’m Monica. I’m your care provider (such as a better name than orderly).”

As they leave, my husband tells me that he had talked to my surgeon - everything went great - I was a champ - nerves were spared - all good news. I was so relieved, thinking that this nightmare was done and that once I got home, I could turn this into a dream like our fantasy of easy treatment at the beach.

And that’s when the pain started.

A resident doctor pokes his head in to introduce himself, tell me that he works with my surgeon, and that he’ll be checking on me - again, that 20-year-old face - eek - but again, a brilliant person that you can’t judge by age or looks alone.

The first thing he says to me is that this is a recovery room - recovery comes with pain - don’t be a “big man” and not hit that call button - that’s what it’s there for.

I sat there for a moment after he said “recovery room” and realized that this room I thought was a stopover was actually my bed for the entire stay. There I had two solid, but movable walls and a screechy old curtain to keep me, my pain, my catheter, and my dignity in check.

We sit through the next few hours intermittently getting “refills” from Sue and the team. Medications that were supposed to last 4-6 hours were feeling closer to 45 minutes, and the frequency was making me nauseous.

Tylenol Pill > Dilaudid IV injection > Oxycodone pill > Lather, Rinse, Repeat

OK - I wasn’t exactly prepared for this, but they don’t know my body and my gene mutation, and I don’t want to go into a coma or overdose.

I start to self-moderate the pain meds, then the pain gets worse. I can’t really move that much without hurting. My back hurts - my shoulders (that weren’t cut) hurt. I can’t get comfortable. If my legs are too high, my back hurts; too low, and my knees hurt.

What I wasn’t completely aware of was that during laparoscopic surgery, they “inflate” your body with CO2 in order to make their work area a little easier to get around. They deflate you, but there will always be some residual gas that needs to work itself out one way or another.

I’d read about this in my research and even read that the gas can be painful - I didn’t realize how much of an understatement that was going to be in my case.

On one of her check-ins, Sue highly recommended walking immediately. Everyone had told me that in the lead-up. Walk. Walk immediately. Walk as much as you can. That’s what gets the gears moving.

I pressed on the bed, hoping to have the strength to sit up, let alone go for a short walk around the recovery wing.

Nope. No. Full stop. No. Not happening.

I’m 6’5”, currently 205 lbs, built my entire body up to the best state of my adult life, and I can’t push myself up enough to sit up.

I kindly informed her that it wasn’t happening, and we continued on.

Did I mention that tube coming out of me… that was a catheter that I needed to be careful with that I had finally lifted the sheet to see. I will say, the catheter is the least notable portion of the journey. Relatively painless, just annoying and gross.

All of this was too much thinking for the day I’d gone through, but finally, a good suggestion - Xanax, something I already had a prescription for and was used to. I knew my dose - perfect - at least I can calm down and maybe get some sleep.

My husband wasn’t planning on staying in the room overnight because we have two cats with medical conditions that require an injection twice a day and specialized prescriptions.

You go home - I’ll try and sleep - see you in the morning, Love you!

As he gets just out of earshot.

SHIFT CHANGE!

New nurse - new care providers - new everyone - who have to immediately chat and cackle and catch up.

The nurse’s desk is about 20 feet from my “room” - without a semblance of soundproofing. That desk seemed to be a central hub for the comings and goings - so the other 10 guys around me (it seemed we were all urology patients) had to listen to all of their conversations. This also meant I heard every whine and yelp, every request for food, every blood pressure check, every single word reverberated around me.

This couldn’t be forever, could it? Is this just what it’s like?

Eventually, things did start settling down eventually in the middle of the night, but that lead-up was torture.

I got in my routine with the call button, and finally, the pain was relatively manageable. One more Xanax, and I finally get 2 hours of sleep.

6AM SHIFT CHANGE!!!!

All the commotion, all the patients start being woken up. People that were previously on clear liquid diets can now eat regular food, and they are all talking about how they can’t wait for 6:45 a.m. to roll around and the cafeteria to open up. All the commotion, all the frantic, all the anxiety, all the nerves start rolling back in, and just at that moment, I see the eyes of my husband, who has come to join me again.

I confess that not only is this moment the toughest of my life overall, that was literally the toughest night of my life. Between the drugs, the sounds, the anxiety - it was overwhelming.

For this first time in this process, tears started flowing, and they weren’t going to be controlled. There was no sucking it up and being a big man - this was an emotional breakdown caused by 2+ years of worry, months of planning, and now chaos surrounding me with no respite.

I tell my husband - as soon as Sue is back, I’m going to go for a walk - push through the pain - whatever I have to do.

Sue shows up, and I tell her I’m ready - she knows better than me, but plays along and suggests we get a fresh round of pain killers in me before attempting.

She was right…

She helps me up about 45 minutes later, and wooooohhhhhhhh. Damn. I have a very creative vocabulary, and some interesting words were said inside and outside my head.

But - I do it - I’ve got my rolling cart that all my cords are connected to - I’ve got my catheter and bag - let’s do this.

I get about 3 feet outside my curtain and rip a very nice fart.

Ooohhhhhh, that’s why they wanted me to walk, to get the excess gas from surgery out.

I make a lap around the nurses’ station with Sue by my side - victory - but I’m so tired at this point. The previous week I was running 9 miles on the elliptical without stopping and now I can barely go 40 feet without wanting to collapse.

I get back to my curtain, sit on the side of the bed (for the first time) and say to Sue - give me 45 minutes and let’s go again. She knows immediately that I’ve had enough of this place and I’m suited up and ready to GTFO of here.

I’m sitting on the side of the bed with my head in my hands, I’m trying to do some structured breathing. I’m thinking about all the things I want to do when I’m finished with recovery, I’m really trying to just make sense of what just happened and what my future looks like.

At this point I know the nerves were spared, but what about incontinence, what about erectile dysfunction? We were weeks or months (or possibly years) from knowing how well my functions sustained through surgery - what’s it going to be like.

No. None of that matters. Just get home to your well-prepared guest room.

As I’m waiting for Sue to make her next round I’m hearing a loud conversation across the curtained hallway. An older gentleman had come in the previous day about the same time I did and his whole family showed up - despite it being 2 people max with him in the room. You could tell he was tired so most of the conversation centered around getting him comfortable.

He was some type of VIP, most likely a doctor or other professional, and they were profusely apologizing about not having a room with a door for him - if he wasn’t getting a door, I definitely wasn’t getting a door.

He was obviously feeling better today because the conversation was non-stop. I’d already heard them talking all morning, but it was just getting more and more incessant and annoying.

On top of the general disruption of peace, it was also clear this was a “high-achieving” family. Multiple members were doctors or nurses - a family business of sorts.

Now, I love most doctors and appreciate their skills and what they bring to the world, but I’ve found in families like this it also comes with a heavy dose of entitlement. My redneck ass has never met someone better than me and you better not try. You are not entitled to me being nice to you if you’re being an asshat.

I’m breathing and trying to get ready for my next walk and the conversations are getting louder and louder.

ENOUGH!

I wanted to scream “Shut the Fuck Up”, but I chose a nice, understated (but audible) “shhhh”.

Not a single decibel was dropped. Not a single member of the family even broke their sentence let alone the syllables that they were speaking.

You have at least 10 men - in pain - within earshot - most without family or friends by their side - and you’re talking and chatting in your very annoying sing-song bad valley girl accent - LOUDLY.

OK, that’s it.

“If you heard that shhh and you’re talking, it was directed at you”

0.000124ms my curtain flings open and I see an early 30’s woman staring at me in my gown and catheter and bluntly asked “Can I help you?”.

I notice she’s in scrubs and it all clicks, that’s her dad - she’s the problem.

I am not a wallflower - anger is not an emotion I have a hard time finding. I’m a kind person, I’ll help you change a tire on the side of the road at 3am - but I’m not always the nicest.

In this moment, in this place, in this time, with the last 24 hours under my belt - I earned my entitlement - I earned my attitude - I earned my peace and quiet - and this obnoxious woman was not going to get in the middle of that.

“First off, lose the fucking attitude. Second, you’re being too loud, there are supposed to be 2 people in there and I hear 5 voices.”

“There’s only two people in there.”

Give these people a voice-over contract because they can sound various ages and genders on command - it’s so impressive.

She starts to reprimand me and inform me that this is a hospital - no shit, Sherlock. Are we in America too?

You’re in a recovery wing - shut the fuck up - now. Unless you’re a patient or helping a patient - fuck off. Now. Actually, 30 seconds ago is when you should have fucked off.

I don’t (yet) know who this woman was or what, if anything, she did at the hospital - but all the thoughts went through my head.

What if there’s a shift change and now she’s my nurse - fuck that - life finds a way.

She clearly sees that she is wildly under-matched for the level of vitriol and snark that is possible from my body in this moment with the pain killers and emotions running chaotically through it. There were no limits to my vocabularic creativity and manifestation in that moment. I was ready to make her cry in shame.

As she flees to the safety of her own curtain, I start hearing beeping. Sounds had been going off all night, but this was much closer - it was in my room - it was me.

My body was so off-kilter that I had gone into tachycardia, and my heart rate was over 180. Within milliseconds, I saw what was actually possible there.

The charge nurse manager rushes in, then the care provider shows up, then my primary nurse, then the resident. I hit all the alarms, I guess.

My first words were “I want her name”. I was ready to be full Karen and talk to her manager - but for some reason, this seemed like a pretty legit reason.

The lead nurse had a presence about her. I hadn’t met her in the visit, but I already trusted her more than anyone else around me.

I told her I have bad anxiety, and that woman just wouldn’t shut up. The woman and her excess family were quickly ushered away from the wing, and apologies for not taking care of them earlier started.

I looked at the lead nurse and I said “give me 5 minutes, and I’ll get the heart rate down” and I did. I sat there, I did my breathing exercises, I focused on the things that matter like seeing my cats and being in my house, and I did it. My heart rate dropped slowly, and then by the end of 5 minutes, the chaos was over, and the team was closing my curtain.

Sue came back in to apologize. I hate when people apologize for someone else’s behavior - this was not Sue’s fault - but she was going to be my way out.

OK Sue - let’s walk again. We did another walk, it’s actually getting easier. The gas is coming off a little and I have a little more energy.

My resident doctor walked by as I’m out and about and I looked him in the eye and said “I’m ready” - he got it and the paperwork started.

An hour or so later I’m wheeled out with a few oxycodone, a QR code with instructions on how to clean myself, and a hope and a prayer.

My husband and I made the now nearly two-hour ride home in traffic. He’s avoiding every bump in the road, every crack, every crevice - but it’s not exactly helping.

We made it home - uh oh - I’m way worse off than I expected, I can’t exactly take care of myself and the guest room seems miles away compared to our primary bedroom.

Plans changed quickly, my husband reorganized the supplies. I apologized knowing that he wasn’t getting sleep and tried to get comfortable.

Over the next few days it’s a dance between knocked out or in pain. The more I move the less the pain is, but it’s a cycle and I just want out.

We realized quickly that there wasn’t enough oxycodone to last me, Tylenol doesn’t work for me, and I’m just going to sit here miserable until I’m not.

The next morning, my husband tried to get a refill for me but had to wait on the surgeon to approve it. Spoiler alert: the approval came the following Monday.

But… as the days went by, the pain lessened. The gas did truly start to evaporate, and most (but not all) of my pain with it.

I could finally see the light, so to speak.

7 days post-surgery was my scheduled catheter removal. It’s wild how time dilates and expands when you’re going through a lot. It felt so fast while everything else crawled by.

Once again - the catheter was more annoying than painful, but it’s a very obvious visual sign that you just went through some serious shit.

Getting the catheter out, they fill your bladder with water, remove the catheter, and then make sure you can urinate normally - I did - yay.

Another long car ride back home, along with every bump and turn, this time noticeably easier.

Each day from there got better. There were many two-steps forward and one-step back, but I got there - I did it - I got through the toughest week of my life.

It had been just over two years since my physician’s assistant found a “bump,” and in that time, I’d transformed myself into a person who can handle this - and did.

I’ve always struggled with self-esteem and confidence, but there was something about this process that made me want to talk about it where other guys don’t - if I can be strong and get through this with my head above water, I can also pass that strength along.

I’ve discovered people past and present in my life that I didn’t know were diagnosed; it’s something people keep very secretive - men don’t want to talk about the potential of their dicks not working.

But I firmly decided that I didn’t want this on my mind and that the last thing I wanted was to die from cancer, let alone be sick with it… and I made sure that wasn’t the case.

Well, shit. Recovery ain’t going to be that fast.

More updates when I can, for now I’m home and making it through. Surgeon was happy with results. Next appointment Monday to remove the catheter.

the journey continues.

TO: Pernicious Prostate Cancer
RE: Illegal Squatting

This is your 45-day notice – you are hereby ORDERED to vacate the premises effective no later than December 8, 2025, at 7:30 AM.

Your lease violations include: unauthorized and unscheduled cell division in non-zoned areas; willful disruption of peace and tranquility (violation of the Anxiety-Free Living Act); blatant ageism (targeting a body that’s doing just fine, thank you very much); failure to remit rent or contribute to the overall wellness and maintenance of the premises; malicious, premeditated destruction of property with intent to cause harm, and other various homophobic behavior.

Dr. Reiter, the Director of the Prostate Cancer Program at UCLA will escort you out. Any attempt to return will be met with extreme prejudice.

Consider this your final warning: VACATE THE PREMISES.

Signed,
- Management

It’s been a while since I posted, but the time has come for an update. I’m about 45 days out from surgery to remove my prostate, and everything is getting very, very real.

The weight loss started after my diagnosis in March, but not intentionally. At first, it was just pure and utter anxiety—what was going to happen, what was the treatment, who were the doctors, when was everything happening, and who would I be when it was all over?

So every time a friend mentioned how good I looked or how much weight I’d lost, it was… complicated. One side of my brain was like 💅🏻. But the rest of my head was just screaming, “You’re losing weight because you’re completely and utterly overwhelmed!… FROM CANCER!”

The real turning point came in June when I met with my surgeon. Before leaving the room, he glanced at my belly and said, “You may want to lose some weight if you can.” For whatever reason, that was all the fuel I needed to turn this around.

Now, I’m down over 62 lbs since the beginning of the year. I’ve basically become a gym rat, hitting the elliptical 6 or 7 days a week and working on strength with a trainer. My blood pressure is good, my cholesterol is good, and my mood is good. It’s almost like all that advice about being healthy actually works. Crazy.

The other day, someone asked me what brand of Ozempic I’m on. I won’t lie, that felt amazing (despite them being a shady bitch for asking).

Let’s be clear: I’m not dying. But if you’re a redneck like me, you can’t help but have Tim McGraw’s “Live Like You Were Dying” stuck in your head on repeat. So, I went skyyyyyyy diving. I’m probably not going to make it to the Rocky Mountains or ride a bull, but I am making the most of the time I have before surgery.

I can’t wait to keep living like I was dying long after I recover.

The Journey Continues,

-rp

It’s been a little while since my last update — hope you’ve all been well. Justin and I took a much-needed trip to Provincetown, MA, for a full-on “Gay Ole’ Time.” It was the perfect break from the madness of 2025 — both the global chaos and the personal variety.

Since getting back, it’s been right back into the cycle: more visits, more tests, more people, more opinions. But enough is enough — time to make decisions. Here’s what I was looking at:

• Surgery — Open or Laparoscopic (robot-assisted preferred)

• Radiation — CyberKnife, SBRT, IMRT, or Proton Therapy

• Hormone Therapy — Typically for later-stage cases (ADT info)

• Focal Therapy — HIFU, Tulsa, Cryoablation, or NanoKnife

• Aqua Ablation — Trial phase, very limited patient history

Narrowing the List

Some choices were an easy “No.” My first urologist preferred open surgery, which instantly ruled him out. I already knew that if I went the surgery route, I wanted a RALP — Robot-Assisted Laparoscopic Prostatectomy.

Medical oncology (a.k.a. hormone therapy) is usually for much later stages, often as a last resort after surgery and radiation, unless other factors are at play — age, overall health, etc. I knew this, but still met with a medical oncologist. She was polite but clearly bored; there was nothing she could offer me.

That left about half a dozen serious options to research. Which meant: finding resources, booking appointments, meeting doctors in person, Zoom calls, FaceTimes, and paying what felt like $975 just for parking.

And the experiences? Mixed. The first surgeon I saw at City of Hope was aggressive and pushy, pressing me on an urgent timeline no one else had suggested. Not the vibe you want from the person who might be cutting into you.

The Good Kind of Consult

Next stop was a radiation oncologist at City of Hope, paired with a PA who was an absolute star — warm, sharp, and confident. For the first part of our visit, you’d never guess she hadn’t been doing this for 20 years. The oncologist herself was just as impressive, walking me through the radiation options: some take 5 days, others 28, and the longest 44 days.

As an aside — more women in medicine, please. I’ll say it again. On average, they’ve been sharper than many of their male counterparts, and they actually seem to care. They don’t fit the stereotype of the cold, detached doctor.

After that, I had genetic testing (all clear!) and a PET PSMA/CT scan. They injected a small amount of radioactive material, then tracked it through my body. It looks for Prostate-Specific Antigen and lights up wherever it finds some.

And there she was. First time anyone had actually seen the cancer — weirdly enough, it’s invisible on an MRI.

UCLA and Real Talk

Then came UCLA’s Dr. Reiter, who connected us with a research fellow studying prostate cancer in gay men. He gave us a ton of useful information, which led us to meet other patients who had already been through various treatments.

Those conversations started awkward — we’re talking incontinence, sexual side effects, and every “frank 🌭” topic you can imagine — with a full audience of a doctor, scribe, two students, a fellow, and a nurse. But after a while, you get used to the bluntness.

One treatment that we looked into was proton therapy, something Justin had already researched and championed. It uses a pencil-thin beam to hit only the tumor, sparing the surrounding tissue. In theory, that means fewer side effects and lower risks than traditional radiation.

Across all these appointments, a recurring comment stood out: “We don’t usually see men your age — they choose surgery.”

Young for This Game

One thing that’s been clear throughout this process: I’m young for this diagnosis — both to have prostate cancer at all and to have caught it with zero symptoms. It’s a blessing and a curse.

On one hand, finding it early gives me more options. On the other, it probably means it’s more aggressive, and the “wait and see” approach isn’t on the table. At my age — versus the average diagnosis age of 68 — doctors aren’t playing around.

My final consult was last week with a surgeon a friend recommended. The vibe wasn’t great, but he did introduce something I hadn’t heard before: Aqua Ablation. Think of it as pressure-washing the prostate — removing the inside while leaving the shell. The catch? It’s still in FDA trial phase, with only a few dozen patients worldwide.

I’m a risk-taker, but that’s a big one.

Cold Doc, Cute Student

During the appointment, the doctor was openly dismissive of my anxiety, my questions, and my uncertainty — as if this isn’t the biggest decision of my life. Everyone I talk to assures me their method will work, but also plants doubt that I should be choosing something else. Now my anxiety is “too much” and I should just… not worry? Sure.

And all of this while five (very nice, very smart) early-20-somethings stood around as we discussed bladder leakage and other topics best left to the imagination. Shout-out to the one student guy who was clearly practicing his bedside manner and trying to calm me down. I appreciated the effort to make up for the doctor’s coldness, but honestly… it came off as kind of “cute.”

I left with a bad taste in my mouth — but also with curiosity about an option no one else had mentioned. In theory, Aqua Ablation could mean fewer side effects than other treatments. While using it for Prostate Cancer is new, the technology has been around several years… maybe it’s safe? Before I left, the doctor gave me his personal cell and told me to text him my thoughts.

I’d been so overwhelmed in the room that I wanted something in writing. I texted him asking for more trial info. I’d already looked up the study and learned he’s one of the lead contributors. That could be good — he’s an expert — or bad if his incentives don’t align with my best care.

Back to Reiter

After texting about the trial, I also reached out to my UCLA surgeon, Dr. Reiter, for his opinion. From the start, he’s been the warmest and kindest of the bunch. His team — especially his Black, female fellow — treated me and Justin like actual people, not just a case file, and kept the tone and temperature exactly where it needed to be - while wearing a UCLA Pride Lanyard.

A day later, Dr. Reiter replied with clear, science-based reasons not to join the trial. He wasn’t pushy. He knows I have anxiety and frames things in a way that manages it instead of mocking it.

Meanwhile, the trial doctor? Still hasn’t replied to my text from over a week ago.

That pretty much sealed the deal.

Look, I’ve spent maybe 30 minutes total with Dr. Reiter over two visits, but I’m excellent at reading people. Justin says I can spot devils long before everyone else. (Shout-out to me clocking in 2014 what the rest of the world didn’t figure out for six years — and also shout out to me that one from 2018 that only came out three months ago. Called both. I’ll stop now, but know there’s a list and I’m ready to tell someone I told you so the moment you slip.)

So, I choo-choo-choose him. Dr. Reiter is my guy. It’s terrifying, but I’ve found my surgeon.

The Decision and the Risks

Sometime between early November and just after New Year’s, I’ll be scheduling Pernicious’ eviction. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.

None of these choices are great:

• Active surveillance → More MRIs, more biopsies, constant watch.

• Surgery → Possible lifelong side effects.

• Radiation → Also possible lifelong side effects, risk of secondary cancers decades later, plus surgery becomes nearly impossible if it returns.

• Focal therapies → Not right for my tumor’s location.

• Hormones → Not needed now.

But these are my options — I have to choose.

With Generalized Anxiety Disorder, I can stress about things most people wouldn’t even think of. Strangely, this whole process has been… calming. It’s forced me to accept that I don’t control the future — I just have to ride the ride.

So I’ve chosen my sucky option: surgery. Between now and then, I’m getting as fit and healthy as possible, doing my kegels (yes, men do them too), and prepping for the day.

No more consults. No more “maybes.” Just a goal, a direction, and the plan to get there.

I’ll keep the updates coming.

The Journey Continues,

-rp

Before the update, I want to give a huge thank you to everyone who donated to my fundraiser for the Prostate Cancer Foundation. Not only did we hit the original $4,300 goal, but we blew past the $5,000 stretch goal! I'm so grateful for your generosity and feel incredibly supported.

On to the update…

I had a great consultation with another urology oncologist at UCLA. While he confirmed I'll still need treatment, he definitely lowered the temperature and made things feel less urgent.

Fantastic news from my PET scan: the cancer is contained to my prostate. This makes treatment much simpler and lowers the risk of complications.

We also spoke with a research fellow at UCLA who is studying prostate cancer in gay men. I loved having a conversation that felt more personal and covered issues my other appointments have not addressed. While nothing groundbreaking came up, it was so valuable to hear about some of the issues and stigmas unique to gay men. It made me wish that more gay men had access to the kind of healthcare and resources I'm so privileged to have. It's incredibly empowering to feel seen.

Next steps are:

• Waiting on genetic testing that will take another few weeks

• Another round of bloodwork and testing this week and next

• Virtual Consultation with a Proton Therapy center in San Diego on July 1

• Talking with a fellow patient who went through treatment to learn about his experience

• Follow-ups with the doctors are set for late July.

After these next few appointments, I should have a few weeks off to take a break from thinking about all this. Justin and I plan to unplug, relax at home, and enjoy some quality nesting time with our cats.

24 appointments down
7 scheduled
? to go

The journey continues,

-rp

So far, I’ve consulted with a urologic surgeon, a radiation oncologist, and a medical oncologist—all at City of Hope. Next up, I’m heading to UCLA on June 4 to meet with the Director of their Prostate Cancer Program. His credentials are top-tier, and I’m genuinely looking forward to hearing what he has to say.

Meanwhile, one of the pathologists reassessing my case upgraded my Gleason score from 3+3=6 to 3+4=7. That means some cancer cells are showing a more aggressive pattern, but Gleason 3+4 still falls under the category of favorable intermediate risk. It’s not the news I was hoping for, but it’s far from worst-case.

Next month brings more data: a PSMA PET/CT scan, full genetic testing, and what feels like a small laboratory’s worth of bloodwork. I’m doing all I can to understand every angle of this thing before making decisions.

Anyone who knows me knows that quiet patience is… not my default setting. I’m more of a bulldog—generally friendly, but don’t poke me. (Though given my husband’s recent actual dog bite, maybe time to retire the analogy.)

Lately, though, I’ve been noticing a shift. One friend said I seem “lighter.” My therapists—yes, plural—have all commented on how I’m holding up. And they’re right. For all the dread and disruption, I’m proud of how I’m navigating this. I’m not numb. I’m not pretending. I cry, I rant, I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all—but I keep showing up. That counts for something.

Last week, I flew to Georgia to see my mom (Happy belated Mother’s Day to all the moms.) and attend my best friend’s baby shower. Just as I sat down on the plane, before I even buckled, the stranger next to me dumped my entire Starbucks coffee directly into my lap.

In a past life, I might have lost it. But instead, I heard myself say: “Worse things have happened.” Not could happen as I would normally say. Have happened. Past. Done. And honestly, that’s the truth. Sure, my light jean shorts were ruined and I smelled like a barista for the next five hours, but it turns out I do have some inner calm after all. (Special thanks to the backup shorts I miraculously packed—one pair away from a verydifferent story.)

I tried to clean up the mess, rubbing my shorts in public I had a brief moment of concern that Juan Valdez and I were about to join the Mile High Club. But hey—my shorts survived. My dignity and my patience? Mostly intact.

In the weirdest way possible, I realized I’m learning something through all this: resilience, grace under pressure, and maybe even how to let go.

The road ahead still has a lot of question marks. But I’m moving forward—grateful for brilliant doctors, supportive friends, and an amazing husband.

Here’s to your next cup of coffee. Maybe throw in the current cost of a cup ($240) to my fundraiser for the Prostate Cancer Foundation.

The journey continues,

–rp

Justin turned 42 on May 7th, and we celebrated with pit tickets to Beyoncé that same night.

(Please send a belated Happy Birthday if you haven’t!)

Not to brag (okay, maybe a little), but I once met the Queen in person in a casual setting. She was genuinely the sweetest human being. For those fleeting moments, she made us feel like friends. No airs, no ego—just a down-to-earth Houston girl.

So, standing 20 feet from her again, in a crowd of thousands, it hit me: she’s not just a person. She’s a moment. She becomes something larger than life when she’s on that stage. You can feel it in your bones.

Although it was not the same, it also made me certain that I could become the person I needed to be to handle this extraordinary journey.

I left SoFi Stadium feeling overwhelmed with gratitude—grateful for my life, this wild city, the incredible people around me I get to share these moments with. Grateful that I get to experience moments at all like standing in the Buckin’ Honey Pit, something I wouldn’t have imagined for myself not long ago.

We took a long walk back to the car, and I couldn’t help but gaze at the moon most of the way. It wasn’t a full moon, but it was getting close. I could see it from inside SoFi, and it was radiating when we stepped outside. We were walking as a group, and I was completely distracted by it the entire time.

Justin told me when we got home that it was his best birthday, and I genuinely felt it in that moment — not just empty words. I felt his happiness, and it filled me with so much joy. I truly enjoy making others smile; it fills me with purpose.

Then came the morning after…

I woke up to another email with test results. That familiar, cold jolt. I hadn’t had any new bloodwork, so it was odd.

I was seeing a specialist at City of Hope in Duarte the following Tuesday (5/13). Apparently, he’d reviewed my lab results and has upgraded one of the samples from Gleason 3+3 to Gleason 3+4.

A Gleason score is a grading system used to assess the aggressiveness of prostate cancer based on the appearance of cancer cells under a microscope. It comprises two numbers, each ranging from 1 to 5, and operates as follows:

The initial number represents the primary pattern & the second signifies the second most common pattern of cancer cells.

Both numbers indicate the extent to which the cancer tissue resembles normal prostate tissue:

1-2: Almost normal (rarely used in modern times)
3: Moderately abnormal
4: More abnormal, starting to lose structure
5: Very abnormal, aggressive, and lacking in structure

So:

3+3 = 6 → Grade Group 1 (low risk)
3+4 = 7 → Grade Group 2 (more concerning) ← This is me… now, J. Lo.
4+3 = 7 → Grade Group 3 (even more aggressive)
Anything 8–10 = Grade Groups 4 and 5 (high risk)

It’s a lot to take in. Especially with my (separate) genetic high-risk markers in the mix.

I had my first consult with the surgical oncologist at City of Hope. Not surprisingly, he recommends surgery—surgeons gonna surgeon.

Next up: I’ll be meeting with both a radiation oncologist and a medical oncologist (they handle hormone therapies). I’m also getting more in-depth genetic testing done.

After these appointments, we’ll begin the process again at UCLA to determine which team of doctors I’m most comfortable with.

23 appointments down, and the journey continues.

It’s a mind fuck, honestly.

One minute, you’re living your normal life, feeling totally fine. The next, an emailed test result casually drops the words “prostatic adenocarcinoma” into your inbox. No call. No warning. Just a cold, clinical phrase you have to WebMD yourself. Spoiler: It means prostate cancer.

At 42. With no symptoms. I still don’t quite believe it.

“Just because I feel fine doesn’t mean this isn’t real.”

The mental toll is real. The appointments are real. The PSA labs, MRIs, and “hey, can we schedule a quick follow-up?” voicemails are very, very real. Living in that weird disconnect — where your body says “I’m good!” but your test results say “lol, just wait” — is something I never expected to experience.

People say things like, “Well, at least you caught it early, so it’s not really cancer, right?”

Uhh… no. It is cancer. Low-grade or not, it’s still a collection of cells doing shady shit behind the scenes. And the fear that their little operation is expanding territory and starting a turf war? Constant.

“Low-grade or not, it’s still a collection of cells doing shady shit behind the scenes.”

Who Gets to Know?

Early on, I wrestled with how much to share — should I spare everyone’s feelings at the expense of my own? I even tried to joke my way through it. I’ve done stand-up here and there, and I rehearsed this line:

“I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is: it’s not the bad kind of cancer.”

Yeah. Hindsight: not the line. Most people assumed I meant benign. Spoiler: it is not benign.

Feeling fine becomes its own weird form of pressure. Shame. Guilt.

You don’t want to seem dramatic. You don’t want to explain it over and over to people who look at you and say, “But you seem totally normal.”

Yeah, exactly — that’s why it’s a mind fuck.

I went back and forth about who to tell. Of course I told my husband — that’s a given. Then my brother, because this makes him high risk. Then my best friend, because I tell them everything, even when I sneeze. And if I tell that friend, well now I have to tell the other best friend because otherwise that’s rude… and suddenly I’ve told a dozen people just by doing the emotional math of guilt, closeness, and assumed second-hand disclosure.

It’s exhausting!

I’m a natural over-sharer. Ask me literally anything and I’ll give you a TED Talk. I’ve learned in therapy that this is also a handy way to hide — because when you flood people with everything, they rarely notice what you’re not saying.

But I couldn’t just keep this to myself. The friends I see regularly? They’d figure it out. They’d see something was off. I love these people fiercely — I’d drive 100 miles at 3am to change a tire for any of them — and yet, I was tempted to hide the biggest thing I’ve ever gone through.

And I tried. I really did. I kept it small, kept it light…

Plot Twist

…Until I got the genetic test results — the ones that said my not-so-bad cancer might have some very bad potential. That’s when my brain cracked.

“I had just told everyone, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not the scary kind.’

And now it… might be?”

But I still didn’t want to scare anyone. I don’t want sympathy. I’m not dying. I’m still here. Still strong. Still sarcastic as hell. And yet — I’m scared. Deeply. Constantly.

I cry in parking lots after tests, then pull myself together and go meet friends for game nights.

In the rural South where I grew up, a diagnosis of any kind meant a casserole by 5pm and a prayer circle by 6. I don’t need either, but I remember how seen that felt.

I’m not looking for casseroles (though I won’t say no to home-cooked food). I don’t need a GoFundMe — I’ve got great insurance. What I need is connection. Distraction. Support that doesn’t feel like pity. I don’t want to drown my husband in my fear — he’s swimming in his own.

So, fuck it. I told everyone. All of it. No shame, no filter.

And with that came a realization — if I’m going to go full transparency, I might as well help people along the way.

Early-onset prostate cancer is rare — but not impossible. If you’re under 45 and haven’t had a physical, now’s a good time. Just ask for the damn finger. It might save your life.

Early-onset prostate cancer is rare, but it’s real. If me being loud gets someone to book a physical they’ve been putting off? That’s worth it. If someone sees a bit of their own mental chaos in mine? Even better.

I made an Instagram post — a kind of “coming out” — and used it to raise money for the Prostate Cancer Foundation. The response? A mixed bag. Mostly positive & caring, but the silence from a few people? That stung. I don’t need a like, or a share, — donating $20 would be nice — but the absence of acknowledgement from specific people I thought would show up… that hurt in a way I didn’t expect.. your Instagram views are public, y’all.

I think people are just scared of the word cancer. They don’t know what to say. They don’t want to think about their own mortality. I get it.

That’s why I started writing this. It’s choose-your-own-adventure:

• Want TMI? You got it!

• Want to avoid the word cancer? You can’t. It’s here. So am I. —
  …But you don’t have to see it in your Instagram feed constantly either…

I’m going to let myself be a little dramatic for a little while. Because honestly? This is dramatic. It’s scary as hell to be 42 and told your body’s trying to sabotage you quietly with things that shouldn’t happen for 30 more years.

But if I can turn that drama into awareness, connection, or a moment of truth for someone else — then I’m doing more than surviving.

I’m actually living through it.

Donate to the Prostate Cancer Foundation

I’ve always been a rule follower.

I stick to the right side of the sidewalk, hold doors open, and generally try not to be a jerk—unless it’s to stand up for what’s right.

(Okay, okay, my kindness and rule-following may not extend to my driving, but we’ll move on…)

Every fall—October or November, like clockwork—I get my physical. Whatever tests they suggest, I’m game.

I’ve been in a totally monogamous relationship for over 11 years, but I still get routinely tested for STDs/STIs. If one ever came back positive? Well, prostate cancer wouldn’t be the headline.

I started seeing my current doctor in 2017, at 35. Almost every year since, he’s done an “Anal Pap” and a prostate exam. Turns out, that’s not common practice for most men my age—but more on that in a bit.

They’re not fun. They’re awkward. But painful? Not at all.

Doctors deal with way worse stuff daily. A finger or swab up someone? Literally the least difficult or gross part of their day.

For five years, these exams came and went with relatively no surprises. There was a suspicious lab result a couple of years ago that could have been a precursor to this, but nothing definitive, and a repeat exam came back clean.

Then in November 2023, things changed. My (very adorable) doctor was mid-exam, knuckle deep, chatting away—as he does—and then stopped mid-sentence: “Oh…”

I never knew what kind of feelings and “Oh…” can elicit.

He’d found a “bump”—his word, not mine—and referred me to a urologist.

That set off the first chain: urologist visit, blood work, MRI, biopsy, and… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“Atypical small acinar proliferation,” or ASAP. It’s not cancer—just not not cancer either. It’s suspicious, and it means—you guessed it—another biopsy at some point.

According to the American Cancer Society, about 40-50% of men with an ASAP diagnosis may be found to have prostate cancer upon a repeat biopsy. ​

The first biopsy wasn’t unbearable, but it was far from pleasant. Turns out some folks get sedated—I was fully awake—I will be asking for the MJ Juice, Propofol, next time. You’re numbed locally, but you still feel the pressure. Sounds like an airsoft gun firing inside you. Over and over. About a dozen times.

The next four weeks? Pretty gross. I’ll spare you. Unless you’re curious. Then I’m happy to overshare.

In July 2024, we followed up with more blood work. Everything looked fine, so the plan was to wait until early 2025 to reassess.

Naturally, the reassessment in January/February 2025 led to… another biopsy. More blood work, another MRI, more tests. Then the biopsy. This one hurt less—and the aftermath was much less gross.

But this time, they found something: Prostatic Adenocarcinoma, Prostate Cancer. Honestly, I might’ve taken a bit more pain over that particular outcome.

It still shocks me that most doctors don’t screen men until they’re 45 or older. The average age of diagnosis is 68. But I know men in their 20s and 30s who caught it too late—and they’re in way worse shape than I am. Early detection changes everything.

If you’re a man, ask your doctor for a prostate exam—regardless of your age. No needles, no blood work. Just a finger. 13 seconds. Get over it.

My doctor being gay—and treating mostly gay men—probably saved my life. He does more anal exams than most, for obvious reasons. And since I’m monogamous and don’t tick some “high-risk” boxes, most doctors wouldn’t have even checked. But he did. If we’d waited, I hate to think how bad it could’ve gotten—like for the new friends I’m making along the way.

Prostate cancer doesn’t care who you are—or who you’re into. Every man should ask for a test. Every year.

Donate to the Prostate Cancer Foundation

• Samples: (2) Gleason 3+3 Biopsy Cores (of 12)

• Decipher Score: 0.68 / 1.0 which is High Risk for future changes.

• MRI: Negative / Unremarkable

• PSA: 0.77 ng/mL

For those interested, here’s where things stand so far.

My biopsy sampled 12 cores in total. Cancer showed up in only 2 of them — one had 6% involvement, the other had 35%. So not widespread, but definitely present.

Both of those samples came back with a Gleason Score of 3+3, which totals 6. That’s the lowest score you can get and still be diagnosed with prostate cancer. It basically means the cancer cells look fairly similar to normal prostate cells, and they’re growing slowly. This puts me at Stage 2A — early-stage and low-risk in terms of growth and spread. Some folks even call this “not-really-cancer” cancer. That’s… misleading. It is cancer. It’s just not the kind you drop everything and hit the red button for — at least not yet.

Now, here’s where things get more interesting.

I also had a Decipher test, which looks at the genetic makeup of the tumor and predicts the odds it’ll become more aggressive. My score was 0.68 out of 1.0 — which puts me in the High Risk category. In other words, while the Gleason Score is saying “slow and chill,” the Decipher score is saying “keep your eye on this guy — he’s got potential for trouble.”

My MRI came back clean — no visible signs of anything suspicious. And my PSA is low, just 0.77 ng/mL, which is frankly a weird twist in all this. You’d expect it to be higher with confirmed cancer, but sometimes prostate cancer just doesn’t follow the rules.

Now, here’s the part that makes doctors squint a little harder: I’m 42. That’s extremely young for a prostate cancer diagnosis. 1 in 8 men are diagnosed in their lifetime, it appears as 0.3% or less of those men are under 45.

Because the usual markers — PSA, MRI, biopsy grade — are all technically “low risk,” it could be harder to track if things start to shift. The Decipher score might be the early warning, but with normal test results across the board, there’s less signal to catch if something starts to evolve.

So: low-grade, low-volume, low PSA — but a high-risk genetic profile. It’s a bit of a mixed bag. Not panic-worthy, but definitely not a “see you in a year” situation either. Next appointment in 2 weeks and then another opinion in early June.

The Journey Continues,

-rp

I’m damn lucky.

I’ve got great insurance, a rock-solid husband, an incredible circle of friends, and access to some of the best hospitals and doctors on the planet. Every single day lately, I’m reminded just how fortunate I am.

There I was, sitting in the first oncologist’s waiting room — the first real appointment of this journey — nervous doesn’t begin to cover it.

Before this appointment, I’d already had three separate calls with nurses and admin staff. The first call alone was 26 relentless minutes of answering questions.

Then came the emails requesting more forms — OK. Next, a text message with even more forms — OK, sure. But when I walked into the oncologist’s office and they handed me yet another stack of paper forms — OH HELL NO.

All those previous hours spent painstakingly answering questions felt utterly wasted.

I was livid. I fantasized about being petty and writing, “check your website” across every line.

But just then, my eyes caught an elderly couple nearby, probably in their late 70s or early 80s, visibly struggling with the paperwork, insurance cards, and gathering doctor contacts.

At that exact moment, I felt a wave of pure gratitude wash over me. I can handle this!

As I continued filling out the forms, I got to a financial stability questionnaire — standard in California to gauge whether you’ll need financial assistance during treatment. Box by box, I checked…

NO… I’ve never been unable to pay my electric bill.

NO… I won’t struggle to get to my appointments.

NO… I’m not facing food insecurity.

YES… I have an incredible support group ready to step up whenever I need them.

Suddenly, the frustration of filling out these forms multiple times disappeared. In its place, genuine gratitude — something that’s been pretty vacant in my life.

I’m not naturally an optimist. I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. The glass isn’t half empty — it’s shattered on the floor. The world often seems like a dark place.

A lot of that mindset comes from my childhood. Sure, I always had a roof and food, but “stable” isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe it.

Divorces, moving around constantly — it always felt like just when things seemed good, something awful was lurking around the corner.

That anxiety crept into my adult life, causing depression, loneliness, and an ever—present sense of being an outsider.

Growing up gay in the ’80s and ’90s amplified that feeling tenfold. Trying to figure yourself out while the world around you labels you as different or broken — it’s exhausting.

But right there in that waiting room, all that faded. Maybe not forever, but for that moment, I felt a happiness so genuine that even cancer couldn’t touch it.

In that instant, I knew — I’ll be fine. I’ll beat this. 100%.

I’m (mostly) sound in mind and body, and I’ve got every resource I need to tackle this. These forms? I’ve got them. Appointments? Bring them on. Facing my fears? Watch me.

I’ve heard cancer or serious illness changes you, but nobody mentioned how fast it happens.

Well, well. It’s been a weird year or two.

It’s really tough for a lot of people to process disease, mortality, all of the things that come up when you hear the word “cancer”. There’s a lot of stigma with the word, let alone it being Prostate Cancer.

I am only 42, most men do not start getting checked till 45+ if not 50+. There’s a good chance I could be in a much worse prognosis if it wasn’t caught early. It’s still cancer, it’s still going to suck, but no one is mentioning death. That’s a win.

I welcome questions, recommendations, good vibes – you are not prying – I am in no pain and have no symptoms yet. It was found during a routine annual physical, and everyone was incredibly surprised to have found it this early.

My prognosis is great long-term, but it will be a journey. I’ll be keeping my journal along the way.

Encourage the men in your life to get their Prostate Check and Annual Physical every year. It could have been the difference between manageable and life threatening.

Hope you follow along.