This past month has been all about gathering intel. I’ve been meeting with specialists to explore my options and get a range of expert perspectives before deciding on treatment.
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
