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 very different 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.
The journey continues,
–rp
