Before the Dance

©2017 by Lee Frederick Somerstein

(Author’s note: I hope you’ve noticed the changes – hard to miss. Yes, it’s aesthetic but it is so much more. The cancer diagnosis changes everything. My brain continues to download and digest my new facts of life. One of my major discoveries is that I’ve been hiding all my life, hiding behind booze and drugs, hiding behind nicknames like LeeZard, Lefty, Da Rev, Seaweed, Asshole and much worse. I’ve hid behind snappy patter, bad jokes, a wink and a nod, behind bravado and false confidence. Allow me to introduce the real me, Lee Frederick Somerstein. I hope you like the changes.)

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People often ask what I write about. Over the years the answer hasn’t changed. “Life.” I say. “It gives me a lot of LeeWay.” Writing about life also includes writing about death. That’s not what this blog is about. Nor is this blog about my cancer. Too depressing!

This blog is about what I see, think, feel, touch, hear or smell going forward. It’s about my views on life and it’s about my life. For the unforeseeable future, this is about my new journey and, when it comes, my new fight.

At times I will have to get graphic because it frames all of the above. It will not be gratuitous; I will try to minimize the gore. Unfortunately, this is one of those times. It’s been a very tough week and I haven’t even started the dance with Mr. C.

Because my prostate is the size of a basketball it is pressing hard against my bladder and the result is that I cannot fully empty said bladder. This can potentially lead to serious kidney damage. I already have enough problems and my urologist is very concerned. The solution is one of my most neurotic fears, catheterization. Arrrrggghhhhh.

I’m almost certain I know exactly when it started. In my impressionable early teens I was the voracious reader that I am today. In those days it was World War II novels, lots of them (If you’re squeamish, skip the next few paragraphs, you’ve been warned).

Somewhere in there I recall a Japanese torture used on prisoners of war. It was simple but quite effective. They’d take a glass tube, appropriately sized, and insert it far into the penis. Then they’d smash down on the penis. The image stuck with me until this week.

My doc was adamant, “You need to do the 'cath,' follow me.” His tone held no room for debate. Doing a quick series of slow, deep breaths, I meekly followed.

I’ll spare you the insertion of the (not glass) tube except for verrry uncomfortable. After a while it eased and I prematurely breathed a sigh of relief. They led a tube to a soft plastic bag secured to my leg by gentle elastic bands with my kneecap as the center point. A dark red flood quickly filled the bag. Holy shit!

The nurse sent me home with sketchy instructions regarding both my leg bag and a much larger night bag. I walked very slowly from the office, down to the car and home to two of the worst nights of my life. The Boss was with me every cautious step of the way. I took great strength from that. I had no idea how important and powerful that would be in the next 48+ hours.

The next two nights were as bad as any I can remember. No matter how or which way I moved, the catheter caused tremendous pain and discomfort.  I think I slept one or two hours each night. The days were only slightly better because I had the smaller bag strapped to my leg and the cath didn’t move around as much. Still, the pain and discomfort persisted. I was exhausted. The Boss fussed over me without suffocating me.

The nurse removed the cath on the third day. The Boss and I returned home with a bagful of self cath samples early last Friday afternoon. Despite my trepidation, it’s actually much less painful. When we got home, I went straight to bed, emotionally and physically spent. Of course, The Boss joined me, bringing her body so close to mine we were as one, and I started crying.

It started slowly and quietly but soon I unashamedly sobbed out loud. The Boss held me tightly, all the while gently stroking her fingers through my hair. I think we stayed that way for five minutes or more. I was home in her arms. I was safe.

Then, the sobs ended as suddenly as they arrived. She held me for a few more moments and, when I finally sat up, my mind was amazingly, refreshingly clear.

I realized the crying was not from sadness, defeat or self-pity. There was no “poor me, woe-is-me.” It was like my brain went on overload and needed to take a huge dump. I once again felt strong and ready for the fight.

Bring it!

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On the medical front, my bone scan was clean. That means the cancer hasn't metastasized and the doc says he's almost certain it is contained in my prostate. Still, it's at the high end of "medium aggressive" and the speed of treatment is paramount. The treatment is most likely removal of the prostate, as soon as I can schedule it.