Don’t die in agony — get tested for prostate cancer

ABOUT two years ago, I saw an advertisement on the television. It was about prostate cancer. It said that prostate cancer was a killer but, if caught in time, it could be cured.

Knowing if you have prostate cancer is only a blood-test away. So I went to the doctor’s and asked for a blood test.

I had the blood test and waited for the results. Then the letter came from the hospital. Could I go down to see them? Thought to myself: doesn’t sound good.

When I met the doctor, he said I had to have a biopsy, so I had the biopsy there and then. It was a bit uncomfortable but not too bad. I waited for the results. The letter came. Go down to the hospital.

I met the doctor again. He said I had cancer. I thought I was going to die.

I started the treatment. Hormone pills to start off with, then on to hormone injections every three months. After about six months, I started on the radiotherapy. I was very pensive about this treatment.

On the first day of the treatment, I called in on my way home from work. I had a bit of an interview, then the treatment. It took about ten minutes. No pain. Just a warm, relaxing feeling.

I did this for seven-and-a-half weeks after work. It got a bit tiring but the people you meet there are very friendly and you all have a bit of a laugh.

I finished the treatment and after three months, I had another blood test. I then waited.

The appointment came to see the doctor. I was very nervous. This was the crunch.

I saw the doctor. She told me that my PSA had fallen to 0.4. Was this good, I asked. “Oh yes”, she said. “You can’t get any lower and we are discharging you.”

I was lucky. It was caught in time.

I still have to have the injections every three months and a blood test every six months for the next two years. But it’s a small price to pay.

So all you men out there who say it will never happen to them: are you going to take that chance?

If you start getting the symptoms, it may be too late. Get the blood test. Don’t die in agony, drugged up to the eyeballs with morphene.


Woodstock Street,