At the daily newspaper where I worked long ago, if a death were newsworthy one of us would have to call the widow. Most of us procrastinated till deadline, but when it was Frank’s turn we’d see him standing and hollering into the phone, “Stop crying!”
I visited Sloan Kettering again last week, and the lab results showed my PSA has gone from undetectable to detectable, which means my treatment has begun to falter.
This news was always waiting for me up the road. Some guys in the support calls have survived on hormone therapy for decades and are sources of awe. I’ve been on it 23 months, pretty good for my cancer subtype, and I’ve loved those months like crazy.
Once the PSA rises enough for a scan, we’ll be able to pick a new line of attack. Till then, there’s still some sting in the ammo and we’ll keep using it.
Meantime, the family has a summer rental planned at a lake in the Berkshires. I can’t wait to drop my bags and fling open those lakeside windows.
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