Look, I’m not ignoring my own blog lately, but I have been prevented from doing much in the way of writing and posting. There have been some pain-in-the-ass (no pun intended) complications with my prostate cancer treatments, making it very difficult to concentrate on anything else. In fact, one of the complications is difficulty concentrating on anything.
The problem is the insidious shot of Lupron they stuck in my ass (where else?) in late April. That’s the bastard drug which shuts off my body’s testosterone switch, rendering me a menopausal lesbian. It’s in full force now, and making me sick and crazy. Okay, sicker and crazier.
The worst side-effect is these telluric hot flashes. Ladies of a certain age, you may have experienced these yourselves, or watched friends and relatives endure them. (As a married man, I sure have, up close and personal. And I have the scars to prove it.) This pharmaceutical from hell inspires the mother of all flashes, sometimes 2 an hour. But sometimes they last an hour – “flash” is wildly inappropriate – during which time my blood pressure spikes, I come close to passing out, and can’t catch my breath. And they fucking hurt – burning and tingling from my shoulders to finger tips.
I sulk, lash out, and blame men. 🙂
What brings them on? Coffee. Alcohol. Change in room temperature. Stress. Everything. Nothing. And best of all – the need to pee, which, when your prostate is weak, is every tick of the clock and commercial break.
Then there’s the mind-fuck factor. Take away my testosterone and I can’t think. I get scatter-brained, unfocused, forget words. Dazed and confused, I walk into a room and forget why, like a drooling Alzheimer’s patient. Part of this is the lack of sleep, too, because I’m up every 60-90 minutes having a drenching night sweat and running to the john to tap a kidney.
Bad shit. It’s like being a woman. And did I mention the weight gain? Ten pounds and growing. My weight hasn’t varied more than 5 pounds in 25 years – until these last 2 months. Hungry all the time, too.
This week I damn near stroked out at the oncologist’s clinic. Blood pressure up to 190/110, weak and shaky on my pins. He threatened me with banishment to the emergency room, I countered with a request to alter my meds. We came to an understanding. This radiation may be killing the cancer, I told him, But the Lupron is killing the patient.
So we may adjust the treatment. I’m due for the second shot next week, but we’ll probably skip it and take our chances.
I have another theory, too: lack of sex is driving me fucking Pluto. That’s the difference between male and female – when women go through this, they determine that Men are the Enemy, and sex is abuse or torture. I figure one good splooging would put me right for a week, a smile on my face. But until this lesbian-inducing fluid is purged from my system, I’m Mister Softee. Even those magic little pills, something else I never needed until this happened, don’t work any more. Waah!
Ultimately, it might be one of those quality of life questions: Want to die younger and happier or live a longer miserable life? To me it’s not a hard one. I’ll take the hard-on.
And leave the flashes for the ladies.