You'll never take me alive

This quarter’s test again had good news, an undetectable PSA.

I've had 26 PSA tests since the uptick five years ago that launched my treatment.1 I was never in suspense — early on I’d heard prostate cancer was a nothingburger, and when mine plainly had become a somethingburger my inner Eeyore assured me I'd die soon. So I always had firm expectations.

This new test, finally, rattled me. Eeyore grumbles that my winning streak won’t last, and he’s calling it right for once. On some unknown schedule — months or decades — hormone therapy runs out of steam, and doctors buy time with a handful of harsher treatments.

Then I had a thought.

People with cancer start acting like hunted animals, every moment tense, every sense attuned to the stalker.

Well, to hell with that. I'm not letting this spoil my retirement.

I'm not listening for footsteps. I'm not cracking open the door. I'm not tiptoeing down the hall. I'm staying where I am, among family and friends, with unlimited provisions of everything I love or need.

And I’m throwing the bolt. If cancer wants me, the fucker's going to have to bust in and get me.